Miquel hovers just outside the circle again, mainly because it allows him to see clearer, strangely. Not the haze of aether or ripples of air like the heat rising, which clouded his vision like spar, but distinct outlines, and he doesn't like what he sees.
"I am tired," he agrees. "I did not lie when I told you I was a simple soldier, not a philosopher. Things that come to you as easy as breathing do weary me. But," he crawls closer and squints, "I think it's imperative that you banish whatever you conjured. Now. It is doing you harm."
Cesare's eyes are round and wide and just a little panicked. He remembers what Xellos told him of Rezo. Of jugs and such. "Stop it," he says. "It's not all right. You're flaying yourself."