The plea cuts him to the quick — he’s never actually had to see Benedict like this before — but the sorcerer’s faced begging teenagers with very effective puppy-dog eyes. So his expression isn’t callous, just: grimly bitterly resigned. A little sympathetic, but stubborn and digging in his heels nonetheless.

“The truth can be ugly, Benedict,” Stephen says,

and as if in sync, there’s an awful throb in his hands and lancing through his palms, a remembrance of the nerve damage which hadn’t been noticeable until now. It had been a nice party. He’d genuinely liked the party. His hands hadn’t been hurting him and the magic had come easily and there had been nothing to worry about. It would be so much easier to lie down and accept the illusion. But—

“But in the end it is, still, the truth. We ought to face it.”