“You were only supposed to kill me if I got caught in the Hunt and was trying to attack the Carnival! Not try to kill me when we all get captured by the damn Mother of Invention!” Lambert protests. “You’re the magician, aren’t you?! You’re supposed to think of the magic things!”

He twists out of the way of a spike of earth, but not quickly enough — it rips along his side and sends him rolling sideways along the dirt, cursing. He shoves himself up on one arm, coughing, still clutching the contract. If they’re going to write another contract, they’ll need its damn paper, considering Lambert doesn’t see any more readily available around.

He pushes himself up, flinging his hand up again. He can only do so much magic at a time, but he can at at least try to work on the solution Strange is suggesting while he’s trying to dodge his shit. “Give me that blood quill.”