Light doesn't miss a thing, not even when he's lugubriously examining himself - and others - for failure modes. Arrivals make the tiniest of sounds, as they displace the air in the corridor, as their feet touch the mansion's ugly carpets for the first time. It's not quite audible, but still his head snaps up, as he silently rests one hand on the back of his chair, and turns sideways to face the doorway. Someone's out there.

He's listening as hard as he can, so the little click, when it comes, only serves to confirm what he already suspected. There's more than enough room for him to stand without moving his chair; he arranges himself that way without even thinking about it, just in case. One finger slides under the sword scabbard to prevent it clinking, as he moves as slowly as he can, as he crosses the room to listen beside the doorway, out of sight.

Usually, it serves him better to be audible, to be seen. But when he wants to have, he has all the concentrated silence of someone praying for their life, and he's using it now. It doesn't hurt, he thinks, to have the edge over new arrivals; not when too many of them think they know him.