Gideon nods, but doesn't trust herself to speak, only leans forward to press her head against Harrow's bony knee and huff out a heavy, somewhat depressed breath.

She hates this. All of it. Everything except Harrow's hands in hers and Harrow's still-breathing body sitting there on the bed. She hates not having enough information; she doesn't even know what kind of information she needs. "None of it makes sense," she mutters, rebellious. Her heart is hurting keenly and her head isn't far behind.

"Prophecies are stupid. Why don't they ever foresee something good? Where's the prophecy that says you become an awesome Lyctor and I go down in history as the hottest cavalier of all time? Has anyone ever even heard of a useful prophecy? They should at least rhyme."