As if wholly unaffected by the sight of that scorching rage, Benedict's embittered stare is only met by the eyeless hollows of Gabranth's emotionless helm. If it bothers him, if he is wounded to be snapped at so, there's no glimpse to be found in his own steady posture: weight shifted loosely to the heel of his right foot, wrist resting across the edge of his longsword's pommel.

"It is already done."

In other words: yes, he can.

"You are a child no longer, Lord Artemaeus. When a man is honor-bound to an obligation, he sees it through without treating it as if it were a game."