There’s a soft little sound from inside that helmet, something akin to an exhale in the wake of Benedict’s quick correction: diffused tension, perhaps— or fond approval. If he notices (or even cares) about the amused whispers of laughter echoing elsewhere at his back, it doesn’t show; the whole of his attention is on Benedict, and for that he rises to stand at last, ignoring the stiffness of a night spent keeping careful watch.

“Come.” Helm shifting in dim morning light, angling itself towards the entryway. “I wish to talk.”