"Ooooh, those are the worst," Camilla says, with a scrunch of her nose. Weaving a little on her feet in the crowd, she feels so oddly— floaty. Unconcerned with any of the morbid and traumatic details of what she's about to share, and detached from all of her usual stewing paranoia and tight-lipped reserve. Where normally she's in such tight rein over herself, her low voice comes light and unworried instead:

"We also had an immortal necromantic mastermind trying to kill us! It was fucking terrible." A beat, then she adds, "Nothing to do with concerts, though. Was your immortal pretending to be someone they weren't, too?"