On the fifth day, Zelith once again paid him a visit.

The way the healers carried themselves at that time made them seem like they were dealing with the Devil himself. Their nervousness was obvious as Zelith passed, heads down and the opposite way.

Zelith had ordered all the other patients to be evacuated. That made them anxious. That, somehow, was an admittance of the possible danger a semi-conscious, half-blind zombie could cause if he really wanted. Eichelberbog allowed a brief amusement with this.

"Good morning, my soldier."

The silk in the sound was the first thing to be noticed. Even Zelith's clothing reflected his suave manners; there was nothing to help tone down the refined beauty of that man. No rough leather or sharp armor to challenge the lilting grace of his motions—with another paradigm, he was carefree enough to come without armor, but he evacuated the rest of the patients in the ward anyway. He wore the flowing robes of a rich diplomat, a robe woven by golden threads and jeweled chains, so white, so pale... and, contrasting with everything else, the shimmer of the sword in his hem, shining its cold steel at his side. Armed, at least.

"You look well," he said, and carefully, but without hesitation, lowered himself onto Eichelberbog's stretcher. His thin, gloved fingers went to the restraints holding Eichelberbog's wrists to the bedpost, and began unlocking one. Then another. And another. The fourth, finally, would free his arms.

Eichelberbog watched him. "Are you crazy?"

"It was never my intention to keep you a prisoner."

Zelith was the expression of sheer purity. Beautiful face, without a wrinkle. Hair combed.

Before he could move to remove the restraints from his ankles, Eichelberbog gathered the strength to break them himself. A little out of pride, a little to startle, to prove that he could have escaped if he had wanted to.

Zelith didn't jump, but his movements paused.

He remained composed.

"You're healing quickly—I see your strength has returned. I'm glad." Zelith remained still. Unmoved. "Now, get up. You look pathetic in that bed."

Eichelberbog uncaringly slumped aside. His weakness made him dizzy the moment his pressure dropped after lying down for days, but Zelith's demeanor allowed him the luxury not to seem bothered by that.

"Join me," he invited as he walked towards the door, waving, then proceeding down the corridor as if nothing was happening, his hair blowing gently behind him. His garments swung fluidly along each step.

Eichelberbog stalked behind.

Outside, he wasn't surprised to see guards everywhere. They followed the emperor as soon as they left Eichelberbog's room, the group gaining a good distance before he could manage to put himself together and trail behind. The floors, walls, ceilings... the ward's structure was pristine, decorated with all kinds of stones and elaborate tiles, the glass windows framed with ornaments and the marble floor reflecting their shadows. Definitely not an infirmary for mere soldiers.

"Stay beside me."

And Eichelberbog stood next to him.

The surrounding soldiers watched them cautiously, hands always resting on the hilt of their weapons, but didn't stop the two from leaving the medical area, climbing a staircase of marble steps and then heading to one of the large halls.

No one spoke.

Despite having fought dozens of battles in Codia's strongholds, Eichelberbog had rarely been truly inside. Everything had a fresh appearance. Unlike Krazar, the colors seemed warm, crimson but crystalline, and the architecture followed a kind of arcane geometrical composition. 

They stopped at the end of a large, circular atrium.

There, sitting on a carved stone seat and wearing thick black armor that cascaded from his shoulders like leaves, a dark haired elf stood next to a woman wearing shell pink robes and round glasses, their eyes fixed upon Eichelberbog at Zelith's arrival.

Eichelberbog strengthened over, intrigued and somewhat unsettled by their expressions. The man seemed curious, while the woman looked alarmed, but both bowed in respect as they waited for permission to stand straight.

"Your Majesty."

Zelith gestured towards them. "General Kyrenic and our Royal Mage Saria. Stand still here, please."

Eichelberbog cood solemnly at the strange sight, trying to avoid a scowl. They both stared at him silently as if he were the prey being sized up for some monstrous hunt, or the idiot who had managed to stumble on the lion's den. "Why?"

The question drew a soft smile on Zelith's features. "You'll see."

He hesitated.

"I could easily kill you three. Three big names from the Codia Kingdom."

Although it wasn't exactly a threat—a comment, a fact, perhaps—Saria and Kyrenic were alarmed. Their postures tensed and they suddenly looked prepared to counterattack. 

Not Zelith. Again.

"We've had this conversation before," said the Emperor. "Now, if you please," he gestured toward.

Reluctantly, Eichelberbog stepped forward and stood.

With Kelith's nod as permission, Saria's eyes lit up blue, the stones decorating her robes shining with magic. In an instant, the zombie felt a tingling throughout his body and an immediate tightness in his chest, like being electrocuted or punched hard by magic.

"Are you trying to spell me?" Eichelberbog confronted in a hoarse voice, eyeing his wrists, where Saria was probably intending to bind his magic. His chest hurt terribly, and he began to feel a burning in his stomach. Something hot inside was stirring.

"No," Zelith declared and reached a hand toward Saria, stopping her.

Saria didn't talk directly to Eichelberbog. Instead, she said to the Emperor, "There is a magical seal. Strong. I can't work in him under it. It's..." Her frown seemed a mixture of frustration and confusion. She scanned him suspiciously. "He was only given life through necromantic magic. He's not being controlled like a puppet, at least, but a connection with his creator is still active. Probably a safety measure, like a shock collar."

Zelith shook his head and asked, "Can you remove that?"

The answer came not in words but through another rush of mana and cold energy. It sent the sensation of millions of needles into Eichelberbog, prickling at his flesh. Something burned around his throat, an energy contracting his breath. He looked down, but there was nothing, not even marks. The sensation intensified.

Strange. Magic has never caused him such weakness. A spell, or whatever the fuck she was doing, wasn't supposed to hurt him like that.

His shoulders shook involuntarily with pain and dizziness, as he fell to his knees. He could feel the contact, he could feel his hands clutching his head, but his mind was nowhere.

Zelith touched Saria's shoulder. "That's enough."

The pressure disappeared abruptly.

Eichelberbog winced down and knocked his forehead onto the floor.

His head hurt. The headache was excruciating, throbbing against his temples and threatening to split his head open.

"I don't think I can undo it. The connection," Saria said. "But at least we know it's not a trigger; he doesn't become uncontrollably furious when he feels pain."

She watched him grunt on the floor.

"Maybe if I..."

A silly mistake, really. In a single instant, things happened fast—by instinct, by some kind of survival response to that earlier pain, when Saria brushed against Eichelberbog's shoulder, he immediately grabbed her neck. He advanced, and Kyrenic drew his sword, moving much faster than any logical sense would.

A metallic noise. Eichelberbog blocked the blade of his sword with one hand. It cut his palm, the putrid blood flowing freely down his outstretched arm, but he broke it in half all the same.

Saria held onto Eichelberbog. Tears cascaded down her round cheeks as she squeezed his hands, trying to draw his fingers away from her neck.

And all the guards around would have advanced and buried their swords in Eichelberbog's thick skin if Kelith hadn't simply raised a hand, calm as if nothing was happening, and said:

"Don't."

Kyrenic still had the stump of his shattered sword, half the blade sticking from it. He blinked at the blood dripping down Eichelberbog's forearm, astonished more than anything else.

As in an impulse to obey, Eichelberbog's thumbs relaxed. He let go of Saria, letting her fall to the ground and crawl backwards, out of his reach. The stench of death flooded her lungs, her chest fluttering in short breaths.

She didn't scream. Instead, she held on to the Emperor's robes, trying to stop him from approaching the monster.

He did it anyway.

He removed his cloak. Took off the metal ornament that held it to the vest's collars and simply reached out his hand.

"Your hand."

Eichelberbog stared at him. His attention changed to the blood trickling from his wounded hand in a second, following the Emperor's gaze.

With a hesitant gesture, Eichelberbog also extended his injured hand towards Zelith.

Zelith swiftly wrapped his cloak around Eichelberbog's massive hand, the fabric elegantly crafted and delicately sewn, applying pressure to staunch the bleeding.

Eichelberbog expected to be condemned after that. It had been an impulsive move, driven purely by instinct, a futile attempt to challenge the kingdom's mage. Would it not be justifiable for Codian swords to pierce him now? For arrows to plunge into his flesh? To destroy him for daring to lay a hand on a mage's neck, their so-called Royal?

But Zelith held his hand and stopped the bleeding. No sword touched Eichelberbog and nobody approached to drag the beast to its cell. No one questioned why the monster had done what it did. They remained on alert and ready for their Emperor's command, but they simply stood around and kept quiet.

General Kyrenic cleared his throat. His glance kept changing between the sword pieces at the floor and the wounded hand in Zelith's care, and Eichelberbog couldn't tell which made him more confused, angry, or embarrassed, although he clearly saw anger glimmering in his eyes.

"Your Majesty—"

"Have some ambrosia fetched for the General," Zelith ordered the guards. "He dropped his weapon." He didn't seem intimidated. Not for the first time, Eichelberbog was baffled by his aloofness in the face of such a violent act. Did Zelith not consider him dangerous, after all? His indifferent and arrogant stance implied so, that there was nothing to be afraid of. "Is Saria unhurt?"

"She is," said Kyrenic. He sounded concerned.

Zelith shrugged. His gloved hand, the slender fingers stained with Eichelberbog's oozed blood, stopped pressing the cloth after securing it with a well-made knot.

He eyed Kyrenic, finally nodding towards Eichelberbog before him again. "Then nothing happened." He turned back to the creature, adding so slowly, "Don't do that again."

The firm resolution with which Zelith stated these words, and how calmly he delivered them left Eichelberbog unable to properly respond. His jaw clamped shut with the impulse to say something—not a word, not an apology, but something. A complaint, perhaps. A lament. Words were still a strange thing to him, often missing their meanings when he tried to speak.

And so the Emperor turned around and Eichelberbog uttered, "I won't."

Eichelborbog knew little to nothing about emotions or feelings, having not experienced much in his life aside from the occasional satisfaction when he tasted something tasty, or the curiosity of seeing a pretty flower for the first time.

Therefore, it was different and confusing. This tingling feeling he couldn't pinpoint, this strange warmth in his chest and heat in his stomach. Maybe this was anger, he thought at first, for that man's arrogance, but he knew it wasn't.

Maybe it was excitement. Maybe his rotten guts and lifeless soul weren't as indifferent to life as he initially thought, after all.

All that Eichelberbog registered, over and over again in his memory, was his blood on the snow-white gloves; that grip, those fingers, that porcelain skin.

Saria picked up the metal shards of the broken sword, sniffling and shaking her head. She healed her throat's black bruise, despite there being a terrible mark. Zelith apologized as he leaned to help her, and the general avoided his gaze.

Eichelberbog neither helped nor fought. He didn't participate, his gaze following them silently.

"Damn that hulking brute," she murmured, placing the metal in Zelith's extended hands.

Zelith hesitated to answer her. He looked at his right hand, stained with Eichelberbog's black blood.

"Do you know who created you, Eichelberbog?" Kelith finally inquired, holding the remains of the broken sword and carrying them elegantly behind his body. "This you haven't told me."

"I never knew his name."

Saria sighed. There were no tears in her eyes now, only exhaustion. Her pale face was a marked expression of displeasure and confusion. "We don't know what this seal between them does," she said quietly, reserved to Zelith and wary towards Eichelberbog. "Only that I can't lift it. And that means he probably still doesn't have complete control over himself."

Kyrenic appeared slightly unsettled, studying Eichelberbog apprehensively. Perhaps not because of the incident. Something changed, the air vibrating in his perception.

"Are you fine?" said Zelith.

It took Eichelberbog one, two, three seconds of mental lag, staring blankly and utterly confused. The question didn't compute. Why would he worry? Was Zelith aware of this feeling in his chest?

He only nodded. 

"Good. We'd like to see you in action, Eichelberbog—without messing things up this time."

General Kyrenic shook his head in silent disapproval.

Zelith pulled a grimace. "Make it interesting, at least. Do that, and there may be something worthwhile coming your way soon enough. It could mean the difference between living in chains and living the rest of your days at ease. Keep that in mind, if anything."

Eichelberbog mused upon everything the young Emperor seemed to offer. Whatever his words meant was beyond the knowledge of a savage like him—in a way, he didn't mind being used (or it was simply all he knew) as a tool, not entirely. In fact, he wasn't even sure about what that "magic seal" meant. But the possibility of being treated differently from an unfeeling monster, which he perceived he had been until then, felt good. And intrusive, almost like Zelith's touch on his wounded palm.

(Even now, he still didn't quite understand the meaning of being touched so gently—having his hand wrapped in the smooth silk of a royal cloak, in an act of aid that no one would ever waste on the likes of a machine.)

So, he said, "Okay."