[While he may have found amusement in the way Geralt frames the title -- his proper title -- like a gentle needling. Now his grip tightens, and his smile that forms is only a polite one, as he looks past Geralt's shoulder as if to keep a watch.

There is nothing in Geralt's mannerisms he would mistake for one of Terence's. They are hardly alike, even in body. It is the scenario, a man on his knees caring to the prince's wounds. Your Highness. My prince.]

I know not which to expect from a Witcher quite yet. [But there is an addendum there: yet I am learning. A surprising amount of care for such a taciturn soldier. He is not gentle, yet is firm the amount the wound calls for. Dion is quiet, only wincing with a snarl to his nose.

He asks not which gave him away -- Your Highness -- because it matters little. The title has no meaning, and he knows his mannerisms to one with experience may be enough to suffice. He does not bother to dissuade Geralt thinking otherwise; he only takes the Witcher's hand to stand, testing his weight on the leg now the wound does not bleed freely. Painful, but manageable. As all wounds must be on the field.]

We have plenty of lights to guide our way. [Here a small note of humour returns.] Though I have learned you need such things little.