A part of Sol recoils on a basic, visceral level from the idea of being without magic - it's more than the idea of limb-loss, akin to having a part of his identity torn out - and he exhales it out without changing his expression, his hands clasped loose between his knees where he's crouching. It isn't something that helps Sebastian any, and he controls it; this is not the place or the time, and it's not the only part of this story that turns his stomach.

(Ambrose's memories are never so very far away, and it is a dying father's rage that echoes hatred of the church to the idea of Sebastian given to such people as he imagines lie behind those words without detail.)

"It isn't gone, though," he says, probing.