A pity, then, that serenity never lasts. Beside him in the dark soon kneels that ever-grim set of armor, gauntleted hand pressed fast to Benedict’s shoulder— a bid at forcing dull senses to draw back out of dreams and into the waking world once more.

“Lord Artemaeus.”

That his helmet remains in place owing to lack of privacy might make for a terrible awakening, if Benedict can find it in himself to open his eyes.