At those mere six words, your brain revolted. You felt a hot, thick sensation in the back of your top sinuses that you had not felt in a very long time, never approaching your limits enough for it to occur: a nosebleed. “So tell me why,” you said evenly.

      “Can’t,” she snapped. “You ensorcelled my jaw, you f**king psycho shadow vestal! Yes, I worked that one out! So unless I want to do homebrew mandible surgery, I can’t squeal to anyone. And I have thought about homebrew mandible surgery, but I have no idea how far back your curse extends, because I’m not a blackened, tedious little bone witch. Now sheathe your sword; you don’t want to go toe to toe with me.”

Harrow the Ninth - Act Three, Chapter Twenty-Three