I want you to learn how to defend your damned self, Artemaeus. If you're insistent on staying on the front lines, then you cannot limit your skills to ineffectually waving a stick around.
[ And Byerly feels the annoyance curdle further inside of him. Nothing he loves more than feeling like a cruel monster. But he bites his tongue and says: ]
[Immediately filled with far too many ideas for what he could snap back in response, Benedict opts for none of them, forcing himself to think about it and, grudgingly, realize that Byerly has a point.
[Rather than answer, Benedict holds his hands out on either side in a frustrated, shrug-like gesture. What can he even say that won't launch this circular conversation back from its beginning?]
All right, [he finally concedes, at a loss otherwise, and turns back to his writing. Please, Maker, let him just finish the day's work and get out of here.]
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