It's only because there'd been no one present in person Myr could maintain his calm. A handy thing, the crystals--he only needed to focus on how still he held, what his voice sounded like, without worrying what his face might give away or what someone might read in how tensely he held himself.

Whatever thin composure he'd been able to muster for that fled once the conversation was over; he sits hunched over the table he'd been seated at, face buried in his crossed arms and the remains of spellwork scattered around him. He's slow to lift his head as Nari arrives, slower to respond: "I can't say that I have."

He hasn't tears to shed any longer, but it doesn't quite keep the sound of them from his voice. Maker, why this. Why now.