Despite his lethargy, Alastor sat himself up, snapping his fingers to summon a replacement shirt. He shed his torn clothes and replaced them with the unshorn cloth, even if the cloth bloodied - what mattered is that the bleeding wounds weren't the wound left behind by Adam, but were the wounds that Alastor had instigated, ones that he was not at all ashamed of having.

"A lesson in what, exactly?" Alastor scoffed, rubbing at his neck where flesh still worked to knit together, "I know well my king's madness and pride. I'm not shaken, sha. Make your calls to reschedule our date."

Reschedule, not cancel.