It would be difficult to miss, the sounds of irritation emanating from somewhere over his plated shoulder— his own focus set on tending to the edge of his blade, as once they return to the gathered assembly on the cliffs above, he doubts he’ll have time left to devote to anything else.

And he hears it, just there. The sound of a temper sparked, overtaking guilt or solemnity, or whatever it was that Benedict had held in his stare when he’d met Gabranth’s own for the briefest of seconds. Before Gabranth left him as he was.

This time, he does not.

“Lord Artemaeus.”

That tone. Ever that tone.