Watching Vlast flex the shard, Benedict has a distant, worried look in his eyes, the tension around which betraying that he likely thinks about this more than he'll admit.

He shakes his head to Vlast's question, his mouth trying to form something reassuring and eventually stilling instead, and he cups his hands in front of his face to consider.

"That's the hope," he muses, "the Eld-- Corypheus really cocked it up, with the anchors. The only reason he hasn't already won is because so many of us have them."