The Minotaur watches them, silent except for the snort of his breathing. His eyes are dark, large, but made small by the broad hairy expanse of his bovine face, gleaming liquid in the torchlight that scatters more dully off the shaggy fur. Enjolras returns the look in waiting silence.

"Go," the Minotaur rumbles at last.

Enjolras bows slightly, the polite farewell of one equal to another. Then, quite deliberately, he turns his back on the creature -- the person -- and begins to walk away, down the musty shadowed corridor.

His awareness prickles, his nerves on edge for any hint of motion behind, no matter how easy his stride is. But he trusts, here and now. That trust is a weapon in his hand, aimed and loosed just as every word was -- for all that it, like every word, is also genuine and honestly meant.