The flash of brilliant, lyrium-blue snags Atticus' attention, and he cuts his eyes toward the ragged holes in the Fade.

"I'll make no deals. There is nothing you can give me."

"All I require," he replies, approaching one of the wounds with almost cat-like interest, "is an explanation." He reaches out one gloved hand, but stops short of actually touching the hole; he knows better than that.

Instead, he turns his attention back to Anders. "What created this?"