Bastien's arm pauses in the midst of the extension that would have pushed his blood-streaked knife—which is only a knife, one no one would look at him askance for using at dinner—against, or into, the barely-exposed side of a neck. The crossbow from the felled Templar is in his other hand, unloaded and held incorrectly. He might have smashed it into a head, given the opportunity.

He is not disappointed to be robbed of that opportunity. When the dust and adrenaline have settled better, he'll think about the fellow on the ground with Edgard's arrow protruding from the mask. Avoidable, if a show of intimidating force was all they needed. A shame.

But neither have settled yet, so he keeps the knife up, unwilling to fall for a feint. He looks to the Commander for orders or an example to follow. And he fills the sudden tense silence, for himself, with a cocky little knife-twirl.