Snow spent the next three days in bed, but not because someone had chained him, or drugged him. In fact, besides the collar around his neck, no one had even tried to touch him, much less restrain him.

The only visit he got was the nice man that always carefully tended to his wounds, changing his bandages and applying all sorts of smelly ointments on his shoulders and arms. He would also bring him food, which always filled the room with a delicious, mouthwatering scent. Because he’d spent so long eating only once a day, the food the man brought him was always light, mainly soups and broths the likes he had never tasted before. Above all they were always amazingly warm, and he couldn’t help the tears that filled his eyes the first time the delicious liquid filled his mouth. It had been a long, long time since he’d had a hot meal.

On the third day, once he was left alone after his midday meal, Snow finally dared try to get up. His arms, although still bruised and blackened, were mostly functional again. Only his fingers felt slightly numb. And his scrapped feet didn’t hurt anymore. Only his back and the burn on his thigh still made him wince every time he moved, but the pain was nothing compared to what he’d been through in so many other occasions, certainly nothing that would prevent him from getting up now that he was apparently allowed to do so.

A sharp pain coursed through his joints the moment he placed his feet on the ground, forcing his scrawny legs to support his weight. He tried to walk and immediately fell on his knees. Gasping for air and holding onto the bed for support, he pulled himself up and tried again. Legs shaking, threatening to fail him, he finally managed to make his way to the window that gifted that bedroom with precious light. It was thanks to that window that, for a change, he could tell exactly how long it had been since he’d been brought to that place. Neither the previous small, dark room, nor the bedroom where he’d spent so many days, had had any windows or offered him any way to accurately count the time.

Blinking, his eyes burning from the bright light, he tried to look at the world outside, but all he could see were white spots that left him mostly blind. With a disinherited sigh he turned his back to the window and forced himself to walk all the way to the other side of the bedroom.

There had been a time when he’d been able to run and jump, he recalled. A time when he’d been able to play under the sun and look up at the sky. It wasn’t as if he’d been born with a weak, sick-stricken body. His present state was, without a doubt, the result of the many years he’d been locked in that room, mostly tied to a bed. And so there was only one thing to do - make up for lost time. If he walked enough he was sure he’d eventually regain his lost strength. Even his eyes, they would surely grow accustomed to daylight if he stopped cowering from it.

Still Snow made sure to be obediently lying in bed, by the time the nice man brought him dinner. Besides the delicious vegetable soup he carried there was also a soft loaf of bread.

“It’s been three days. I believe we can try and feed you something solid,” he informed, placing the tray he’d been carrying over his legs, and the boy couldn’t help smile, anxiously grabbing the bread and biting a big chunk out of it. “Don’t rush it! Slow down. Take the time to chew it or you won’t be able to swallow it,” the man kept on fretting but the boy ignored him completely, wolfing down the loaf of bread in three large bites. Sighing, the man sat down on the chair placed by the bed to patiently wait until he was done with his meal. “If you get sick again the Calzai is going to kill me …” he muttered and was once more ignored.

The following day Snow went back to his walking practice the moment the nice man left his room in the morning. His legs ached. In fact, everything ached. It was only that his legs ached more. But, compared to all the other pains he’d endured during his life he could almost say that this ones actually felt good.

Maybe because, when compared to the day before, his steps had become much more firm, his ankles less shaky. Walking from the door to the window and back again, he would force himself to look outside at every turn. Of course, every time he did so, his eyes would fill with tears to the brim, his sight blurring, but he didn’t care. After repeating the same routine a few dozen times he was finally able to distinguish the pale, yellow road from the green color of the hills that it crossed, as well as see that there were specks of red and yellow ornamenting the endless greenery.

When midday approached he quickly slid into bed again, to wait for the nice man. After eating his meal, that today had included two loafs of bread, and after having his wounds checked, Snow immediately went back to his practice, the moment the man closed the door on his way out.

It was his ninth time coming and going from the door to the window when the sound of voices coming from outside captured his attention. Looking down and blinking his tears away in an attempt to focus his vision, he saw a small mass of black shadows being admitted into the Fortress. More dark shadows came out to meet them, their voices echoing in the usual silence, and then they were all gone.

That’s right, he thought, looking at the door. No matter how well fed he was, or how well the nice man treated him, even giving him the soft clothes he now wore, he was still a prisoner. And he was more than certain that none of those good things would last for long. Sure, it had been four days since he’d last seen the huge black monster and the man with the cold smile, but he was sure they were still around, somewhere. Right now they were probably too busy to pay him any attention but, when whatever they were doing was done, he was sure they’d turn their attentions to him again. He had to get out of that place before that, as soon as possible. And maybe the commotion downstairs would help him go unnoticed.

Having decided what had to be done, he made his way to the door and turned the doorknob, guessing that it would be locked. His heart jumped when the door actually opened. The corridor outside was wide, the big, square stones paving the floor white. Blue flames burned silently in their burners, lighting the place but not so much that his eyes would tear up. And big, heavy-looking paintings ornamented the walls, depicting landscapes that left him standing there, head tilted back, gaping at them more than once.

Walking down the corridor, he eventually came upon a large stairway that curved gently towards the lower floor. Now, walking was one thing. Stairs an entire different matter.

Looking down and anticipating the pain that would surely result from falling and rolling all the way to the ground-floor, he focused his strength on his legs and hands, grabbing the handrail with numb fingers as if his life depended on it. It took him way too long to climb down all those stairs, during which time his heart kept on beating faster, since he was sure that there was no way that someone wouldn’t suddenly appear and catch him right in the middle of his escape attempt. And so he couldn’t believe his luck when he finally reached the ground-floor unnoticed.

Now things got a bit more tricky, he thought, looking left, then right and then left again. He knew nothing about the layout of the Fortress and he’d been unconscious when they’d brought him in.

With a sigh he turned left, his legs shaking more than before from the effort of climbing down all those steps, but he refused to be defeated by something so small and unimportant as that. He was going to get out of that place! He was going to get his freedom back! And then, and then … Then he would … he would …

The sound of voices broke his scattered thoughts and he immediately hid behind one of two tall, porcelain jars flanking a large, open door.

“We finally caught them, Calzai,” one voice was saying. “They were trying to board a boat and escape down the river, south of here.”

“Was the Lord of the Fortress amongst them?” asked another voice and Snow couldn’t help shiver, recognizing it immediately. That was the dark voice of the monster.

“He was. But after ordering his men to delay us he jumped into the river and was mauled to death by a huge crocodile. We only managed to recover part of his torso,” the same man promptly informed. “We were able to capture his right-hand man alive, though.”

“I see. So, you’re this right-hand man, then,” the monster spoke again, his voice growing darker and colder with each word.

“My Lord, please have mercy!” someone begged and a loud thud followed by a even louder groan cut the man’s pleading words.

“You’ll address the Calzai by his title!” the man from before instructed severely but was only answered by more pained groans.

“That will be enough, LaoTar. Take the others below and then make sure you and your men get some rest. We can deal with this piece of trash.”

“Yes, Calzai!” came the immediate reply and the sound of movement and footsteps, mixed with curt orders to get up and move, filled the room. Snow leaned as much as he could against the wall, praying that no one would notice him, wishing he could become as thin as a sheet of paper. And then a group of men exited the room. He didn’t recognize any of them, but he could easily tell by their clothes who were the men under the monster’s orders and who were the recently captured prisoners.

He silently released a sigh of relief when the last man walked by him and didn’t see him, hiding behind the huge jar. White, painted with large red flowers, it towered over him by at least one head.

“Well, now,” the voice of the monster filled the room again, dripping with malice, making a shiver run down his spine. “Since you were the Lordling’s right-hand man I am sure you know all about his deals with the slave traders, right?”

“Yes, my Lord …. I mean, Calzai,” the man quickly corrected, his voice full of fear.

“And I am sure your dying to tell us all about that.”

“Yes, Calzai! I am humbly at your service.”

“Good, good. And what about the one inside that box?”

Snow’s heart skipped a painful beat. The one inside the box … was him, right?”

“Tha … tha … that I wouldn’t know …. Calzai …” the man stammered and everything around him seemed to grow a shade darker, as if the bright blue flames that brightened the corridor had lost part of their natural glow.

“Oh really? And here I thought I’d seen you before, at the top of that wall, shouting in a panic, ordering them to kill him.”

“I was only following orders, Calzai! Please show mercy!”

“Where did he come from?”

“I couldn’t say, Calzai! The Lord appeared with him one day, saying that he had found a rare treasure! He told us he was from the Demon Clan! That’s all I know, I swear!”

“You really think he’s from the Demon Clan?”

“Wha-wha-what else could he be? He has their hair color, has he not?” the man quickly argued, stumbling over his own tongue.

“Then why kill him, when all the other prisoners were spared?”

“Tha-tha-that … I couldn’t … tell …”

For a moment the room went completely silent except for the ragged, panicking breathing of the prisoner.

“Your Lordling wouldn’t have ventured outside his Fortress on his own. I’m sure you went with him, did you not? On this trip to hunt for profitable treasures,” the monster added, sarcasm dripping from his every word, and the other man stammered again.

“I … I … did, Calzai …” he practically whispered.

“What’s the last city he visited before returning to the Fortress?”

“Weiin …”

Another moment of silence. So Wei was a city after all, Snow thought, trying to remember anything else from his time locked in that room, but nothing came back to him except for thick, white mist.

“Last question,” the monster announced. “How did you all managed to survive the array that killed my men? You were all up there, much closer to him, and yet none of you dropped dead.”

“Ca-cal-zai, I beg of you …”

“Answer me!” the monster growled, making Snow cringe, waves of darkness pouring out the open door and into the corridor.

“ … blood …” came the whispered answer and his heart almost stop.

“Blood? What do you mean?”

Panicking Snow looked around, quickly searching for a door, a window, something that would allow him to leave that place. Now that they knew, now that that word had been spoken, they would never let him go! He’d be a prisoner again, made to bleed until he fainted, over and over again, unable to live and unable to die.

Before he had thought that lying on that bed was all he would do for the rest of his life. Then, when they’d finally taken him from that bed, things had gotten even worse. But not now! Now things were actually better! He was finally able to walk on his own! And he hadn’t been poked, cut or tortured at all in last few days! They had even given him normal food to eat and normal clothes to wear! Before, lying on that bed, he had been able to force himself to conform with his fate. But now … now he wanted to be free! He wanted to get out of that place, run away from all of them! And where was the damned door leading outside? Maybe he should run, he considered, his mind spiraling. Make a run for it! But his shaky legs immediately told him that that was impossible. Not yet! Maybe in a couple of days ... Days he didn’t have! Not anymore! Not after that accursed word had been spoken!

“Zen …”

“I know,” came the soft reply, followed by a long silence.

“Snow?” The soft sound of his name coming from right beside him made him jump back and lose his balance. Trying not to fall, he held onto the only thing his hands could reach. The tall jar tilted forward and fell, shattering in hundreds of shiny pieces of porcelain. The thunderous sound alone was enough to leave him half-deaf. Staggering back he couldn’t avert his gaze from all those tiny pieces.

“Snow?” came the voice again but, when he turned to look at him, all he could see was a large hand reaching out for him, trying to grab him.

ZenTar stopped moving, his hand midair, when he saw the boy take a shaky step back. More than his obvious desire to avoid him, what held him back was the look on his face. His pale, icy eyes stared threateningly, straight at him. A look he’d seen all too often. A mix of fierceness and utter desperation. The temperature of the air around him dropped considerably, becoming as cold as a winter evening, turning his breath into white mist. And the pressure that surrounded him made his daitai burn as his entire body unconsciously readied itself for battle. Still the boy in front of him kept his mouth firmly shut, biting down on his lower lip to the point of drawing blood. And no markings appeared on the floor or walls, like before.