The tide of Venatori and Red Templar has slowed, finally. Brigham judges, then, that he might use the last of his mana, and have time enough for a draught of lyrium should his spells be needed again urgently.

His grip on the Herald is gentle, strong just enough to support him. Hazel eyes flicker to find Daithi's, momentarily searching them for something— only to look away again. Magic, surely familiar by now, warms the hand that comes to settle against his cheek; a heal and a reassuring touch besides. Brigham lifts his gaze once more. "I am sorry, Your Worship," he murmurs soft, and sincere.