The man is right in front of him, holding a rod of some kind to Kell's wrist. Fearing some sort of trap, Kell tries to pull away, but his body won't obey him, and through his sudden panic he realizes that his wrist has begun to heal.

Some of the cotton clears from between his ears, and Kell listens to the words spoken over his knitting flesh. It's a spell, but none he's ever heard before. Kings, where is he? Kell looks up from his wrist, blinking into the drizzle as it falls between him and this stranger.

"Blood magic," he says. "It's never failed me. Please." Kell's voice is smaller this time, entreating. "Where am I?"