Harrow's eyebrows rise in a dubious way when he hears Felix's description of the ritual to come. In his world's history, inviting strange entities in for a chat has been disastrous. The only things that keep him from voicing his dissent are the facts that he knows his blades -- he thinks -- and the inevitability of it all. If he wants a remotely normal life and a chance at being welcomed by his friends on other worlds, where there are no anti-violence fields, he's got to go through with this.

He gives Felix a dutiful nod before he places his blades on the table one at a time. Hopefully that's what he ought to do. It's been a long, long while since he's been the subject of a ritual like this, if he can say he ever has.

His eyes remain on the blades' suddenly unresponsive and runes as he says, "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. You're in charge here, Felix. I'm just followin' your lead."