The training grounds smelled of fresh grass and dried hay. Sparring weapons of various shapes and sizes were propped against the racks, while some lay across the beaten dirt floor. Some soldiers passed through, taking the time to clean a dusty hammer before tossing it in a wooden crate, but it looked like it was an emptied area—that Zelith didn't trust Eichelberbog with his common soldiers, or, at least, that he didn't want him to be seen.

Patches of light pooled into the center of the arena and it was sinful how Zelith bathed in those rays.

That sight made Eichelberbog freeze by the arena's threshold. In the midst of all that brightness, Zelith stood as a moonlit specter.

General Kyrenic and Saria remained at the sides and watched from the sidelines, but Eichelberbog, absorbed completely, did not perceive their presence.

Zelith pushed the sleeves of his white mantle up to his elbows and gripped a sword. This time, it was not his ceremonial one—not a sharp-looking thing designed to intimidate. It was the one a noble would wear during a duel. Simple, plain, elegant.

"I want you to fight me," said Zelith.

"What?"

"I want to know what happened in the battlefields that killed so many. How did you do it?"

Eichelberbog frowned. "You're asking me to kill you."

"Indulge me."

"This won't end well for you," Eichelberbog murmured, lifting a sizable iron hammer from the ground. It was blunt, weighted. No swordsman could use such a clumsy weapon, but in Eichelberbog's hand, it looked as small and light as a wooden club. "Your men won't like seeing their emperor bleed. Or worse."

"Won't they?" A snort.

Kyrenic growled low behind his gritted teeth and let his broad hand curl into a fist. For an instant, it seemed he was about to pick up a sword and take matters in his own hands.

A look from Saria dissuaded him. It was full of concern. She feared, and wisely, that such an intervention would put the already agitated situation even further out of control. It seemed like they didn't agree about a lot of things, that group, but the clear disdain of all of them regarding Eichelberbog rooted down stronger. That at least was mutual, a common sense.

He indulged the Emperor.

The speed with which his huge body moved was unnatural, too much. His muscles seemed to snap beneath the surface. Even not fully recovered from his almost-death experience, his monstrous physique was like an impossible nightmare. The mass and strength he possessed made the ground under their feet tremble.

Zelith managed to dodge Eichelberbog right, swiftly falling into a defensive stance. He was dexterous and adept, dodging every impact, not once unsheathing the sword he held. It wasn't surprising; someone like Zelith trained from a young age had an agility that was superior to the others.

His elegance in a duel was similar to a dancer's. Almost sensuous, albeit mechanical and rehearsed.

It was an intoxicating vision.

Yet whenever Eichelberbog fought, he blocked from his mind any kind of thought. It was a fundamental necessity to survival, this emotional suppression.

So, like the deadly machine that he was, his attacks became more aggressive. Faster, louder; a sporadic, senseless thing, and Zelith's stance trembled. Attack after attack, sweat dampened the Emperor's forehead, his braids sticking to the flushed skin, his steps increasingly light and uncertain. His movements grew erratic, sloppy; and he barely dodged Eichelberbog's thrusts, a few locks of his blonde hair scattering across the field, when one particularly brutal impact brushed against his face.

His elegance came undone as he was thrown to the floor with a single movement. The weapon in his hand fell clanking along, and Eichelberbog lifted his hammer.

It'd be easy. So easy to just turn that pretty head into an unrecognizable stain, into a pool of splattered brains and flesh. That slim, beautiful body could be crushed like a mere butterfly's, ripped and broken to a pulpy, unidentifiable heap.

A terrifying fantasy. A distant desire.

General Kyrenic jumped and raced between the two, a dangerous glint in his eye, in the same moment Eichelberbog froze.

With the hammer lifted ready to crush that porcelain skin, he stopped. He saw the Emperor's almost scared hand instinctively being raised towards his face, anticipating pain. He saw Kyrenic's defensive reaction, the body posed to take the hit at any cost. To take an attack at any price for his Emperor.

He lowered his weapon.

Slow. Silent.

His mouth curved in a bitter grimace.

"You're weak," Eichelberbog uttered roughly. There was no amusement on his face—that dead, stiff expression of a killer.

Zelith breathed. He looked down at his feet, unable to reply. The impact had left him dizzy and numb, but not hurt. Kyrenic grabbed his arm to pull him up, defensively pulling him away from the monster's reach, asking in a whisper if Zelith was well.

Zelith adjusted his hair. He stared at Eichelberbog under its shadow of thick, white lashes, feeling the other's gaze on him like a sharp prickle. His voice broke from its elegance, but still held its authority. He still talked like a king. "Would a monster bother in holding back?"

Eichelberbog dropped his hammer but said nothing.

Zelith grimaced. "I'm curious. You've fought for Krazar; you are not unknown for your violence. Did you not want to kill me as well?"

"I didn't have to," he simply said.

"You killed because you had to instead of for your kingdom's sake? You aren't a loyal dog to Krazar?"

Eichelberbog inclined his shoulders. A bone cracked somewhere.

"They told me to kill," he said. "I just do as I am told."

"Why?"

"I don't matter," was the blunt answer, "if not for this."

Zelith looked at his mutilated skin. The vast web of scars. No second thoughts. No questions whether he was doing the right thing or not, or whether he should humanize those people on the battlefield or not, he only saw Eichelberbog for what he believed himself to be at his core: nothing.

Zelith wondered how had that turned into such a pitiful sight. Such a disturbing figure; a killing machine that felt no pride in its victories, or pleasure in its accomplishments, for it knew nothing more. Only to be commanded.

Still, the way in which Eichelberbog vocalized it got him. "I don't matter if not for this," he said. Those words echoed inside Zelith's head as if they were his own thoughts.

The need to matter was such a bitter sensation. Inescapable for all beings. It was the concept of existence in itself; to leave a trace, a footprint.

Eichelberbog reduced himself to nothing to matter.

"Do you hate them?" asked Zelith.

This time, Eichelberbog gave no verbal answer. He shrugged. Hate was a strong word.

"They made you a war machine, Eichelberbog, bound only in absolute obedience to commands. Do you owe anything to people who betrayed your humanity? Who made your name something shameful to hear? Did you consent to being turned into what you are?"

"I did as I was told."

"Was any of your accomplishments your own wish?"

"No."

"Would you still protect such people?"

Eichelberbog stood absolutely still. Not a movement, not a tremble. His silence was all the answer he could provide.

"If I told you to do things, would you comply? Like you did to them?"

"To kill for you?"

"If needed. Yes."

He watched Kyrenic's stance. He wasn't an intellectual, but that was clear to read, like writing on the wall: "You'll execute me if I say no."

Not a question. A fact.

They stared at each other.

"Yes," said Zelith. Equally not trying to hide it, not like they did back in Krazar, nor was he pretending kindness and empathy. He just calmly stated what he believed Eichelberbog to know from the start.

Zelith might as well not pretend that there was kindness in Codia's soldiers; he couldn't pretend to be soft.

Not for this. Not after that display of violence.

Eichelberbog, even briefly, admired that in Zelith. How blunt.

He didn't mind death. But didn't mind Krazar either—he had no reasons to, when Krazar never gave him a reason to bind his loyalty and care other than orders. 

"If you tell me. If you want me to."

Zelith nodded. He said, "I'll use you."

Eichelberbog agreed. That was the only use for someone like him.

"Of course you'll do."