"Obligation dictates that I rise in defense against any slander towards my sister Lyctor," says Harrow, her tone implying something entirely the opposite. When Palamedes offers the pad, she takes it, sitting up a little straighter as her eyes meet his. Something that could be a smile flickers, too briefly, at the corner of her mouth before she looks down at the scribbled equations and dashed-off notes.

Messy though it is, the math is clear, his conclusions sound. "Pen," she says after a moment, holding up one hand. When one is placed in her hand, she clicks it on, making a minor adjustment to a formula, adding her own notes below some of his where they're crammed into the margins. "You're right," she says, and while it stings a little to admit like always, it's no less true. "This hemorrhages thanergy. Choices were made in...haste, Tern's slaughter chief among them, but..." Harrow lets that thought trail off. "It can be done better."