Something cold slides down the length of Dorian's spine. Bull doesn't say everything, but he says enough that Dorian can easily fill in the gaps. It's a good tactic. Everyone will think that Bull is simply using him--as, presumably, this world's version of the Iron Bull actually had. Dorian can't help but think of it; what it must have been like to fall in love with Bull, to hand over his closely-guarded heart as he has, and then have that trust betrayed. To learn that he'd been played the whole time, a sad, desperate fool.

Quite suddenly, Dorian isn't hungry after all. In fact, he's feeling rather sick again.

He considers, for the first time, the scars (new to him) spanning the Bull's torso. Pinched and uneven skin in some places, clearly the result of a burn, while on his arm there is the distinct branching shape of a strike of lightning, as though someone had grasped his arm and shot it straight through him. There are other alarming ones as well--crudely knit together skin where it seems as though he was stabbed through with something.

Dorian curls his fingers into the sheets over his legs, loose fists.

"Then clearly they mustn't have me for much longer," he says, clipped and certain, stepping into the role he occupies in this world so easily that he hardly even considers an alternative. Of course he would do everything in his power to resist. That he and Vivienne might broker such an alliance together seems so deeply unlikely that it must certainly be true. And of course he must do what he can now, while he can. "Vivienne or Maevaris no doubt possess the best resources available for me to reconstruct some sort of foci, and work out a way to get us out of here and back where we belong."