Reverence, no. They are equals.

...Were. And not with him, exactly.

Grimm feels the snag of sharp dark claw and braces himself for the pull - which is painless, and swift. Deft. Careful.

And the White Lady's bindings are gone. Grimm lets his limbs fall slack out of the tight pin of their wrappings, and then gingerly eases them out in a round, upward sweep of stretching arms disguised as a particularly theatrical motion to move upright. He wastes no time and doesn't even touch the floor with his hands, legs already manoeuvring beneath him to lever him up in one fluid move.

He, of course, takes a bow.

"You have my gratitude."

Out of the corner of his eye: there is a door behind him, open, less crushingly dark through there. ... He does not make a break for it. Grimm suspects there are moving parts at play. He can feel them shifting under his shell.

Grimm straightens up slowly, and his gaze finds the Shadelord.

"So, I am given." A declaration.

Now what might they wish to do with him? They must have been quite eager. None would dare to trap him for any less.