The knife was glowing red-hot. Amanita telekinetically plucked it from the fire. She looked at it. She turned it over. She pressed it to the wound on her shoulder. And the howl of agony she released sounded like it belonged to an animal, not a pony. After a few seconds, she tossed the knife aside. She collapsed to the ground, clutching at her wound, and Bitterroot could barely make out her whimpering in pain.