Micheal turned away from the lazy cat and grumpy snake. His eyes slowly roamed surveying his surroundings, watching as his guards quickly dispatched any beast that was still flailing to reach flesh even in their death throes. A quick stab into the heart or through the back of the head gave them a swift and painless death. Though the rams' constant struggle made for a great mess.

As some continued to struggle with the overly ambitious rams, others had begun cleaning themselves from the blood and gore of the battle or were tending to their injuries by taking off the armor of the afflicted area. That left Micheal a bit confused as a thought popped into his head.

He had never seen any of them without armor. Not during or after a battle. Not even when there was no threat to speak of. Always on guard without any moment of rest. Do they even eat? He couldn't be too sure about that, Micheal had yet to see them do anything other than guarding him. For all he knew, they could be zombies shambling around him.

"Young Master," Bialo called, breaking him out of his musing.

Michael looked back, he found Bialo, Jax, and Agata standing over two heavily injured rams. Both struggling against earthen bonds to escape their prison. Jax and Bialo carried determined faces, though that was Jax's automatic default. Agata, on the other hand, had a conflicted expression as she continuously stared at the rams unwilling to look him in the eyes. If he didn't know better, he would have thought her empathetic towards their plight.

"Come, Young Master, we have…something that must be done," Bialo said, his expression hardening a bit.

Walking towards them, he felt a sense of unease inside of him. Every step was an increase in the feeling of premonition and unease. Reaching them felt unrealistically straining.

"Yes," he said hesitantly.

"We were all there to witness your trial of death and mercy," Bialo said in an oddly deep tone, waving at the others there.

"And though you have been demanded of to repeat this very trial many times--an insult to your greatness--we are forced to do this here, again,"

Bialo's words echoed in his head as a memory hit him like a runaway truck. His breath caught, limbs locked into place as emotions rather than an image assaulted his senses. It started slowly, an uncomfort similar to a cold below his skin. Then it grew considerably, a foreign existence attacking his very being. It was uncaring, unwilling to feel, apathetic towards death in any form. It wanted to devour his feelings, to make him nothing more than a hollow vessel of who he was.

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The emotion felt out of place, like a stranger in his body. Someone else's feelings on the matter at hand. He wasn't apathetic, he had emotions for crying out loud, not an empty slate of black. For a while longer, he battled this creeping sensation--it attempting to corrupt him, that was how he saw it, a corruption--for a time until it slowly weakened then faded away. A much-needed rest from this internal struggle.

This was unlike others before it, it was not his. Even when his own body moved on its own will, it was for things he probably would have done either way, but this was completely opposite of what he felt. It was a frightening prospect, to know that something so foreign was waiting, biding its time until the perfect moment.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Michael tried to smile it off, but couldn't help except see their looks of concern. Opening his mouth to break the tension, he found himself unable to speak. The apathy still lingering a bit had him to stricken to speak.

"My liege?" Jax exclaimed with his monotone voice. His odd one toned voice helped Michael to anchor himself in reality as darkness started to creep at the peripherals of his sight.

"I-I am fine, Jax. Just a headache, nothing more," Michael said, trying to ease the situation. "What do you want me to do, Bialo?"

He was determined to finish this, to get through it with his emotions intact.

"Nothing beyond your capability, Young Master. In front of us are two suffering beasts, end their struggle,"

Bialo waved at the two rams before him, his eyes intensely studying Michael's every move. They had noticed the sudden shift in his attitude from what he had been before. Though he was a great young master before his father's death, he was still a young master. He was bred to be arrogant and entitled. To not understand the struggles of those lesser than himself. To only recognize power as a pure state of being.

It took such a character to face the darkness that was power, then grapple with it most effectively. Restraining it, taming it to work for their purpose. Those who have seen great struggle will sip from the heavenly wines of its succulent vases and will forever be unable to deny themselves. Addicted to its sweet, sweet lingering taste. Yet, those who have lived through it from birth will not find its taste anything special, its make an ordinary drink they use to further their own goals and nothing more.

Yet, ever since they saved him, Michael had felt different. His entitlement--something Michael had not seen in himself--seemed to have faded to a remnant of what it used to be. He didn't expect the most excellent comforts when they traveled, never complained of the hard ground and beds they had slept on. Nor had Michael spoken once about the taste of the rations they've been eating. Just accepted it as it was, whatever came, he welcomed. And whatever did not, he showed no loss towards it.

"Is that it?" Michael asked, his forehead crinkled from his internal struggle.

"Yes," Jax said in response.

Jax walked towards the rams. Stood next to Michael with a sword in his hand--his shoulders looked tense. He held out the sharpened blade for him to take. The weapon itself looked incredibly small in Jax's monstrously size palms but was the size of an arming sword in Michael's. He led his liege towards the first of the two. Holding it down, he pointed towards the side of the beast.

"Pierce its flesh diagonally, my liege. You will find its heart,"

Taking a deep breath, Michael felt his body move, though his mind interpreted everything a second late. One second he stood with the sword limp beside him, the next it was held up coated red. The next second, the scene played out again in full detail. Michael watched his own body push the sword swiftly without thought into the ram.

Though it gave a single bleat of surprise and pain, it died the next couple of seconds without a struggle. Its soul free to roam with a physical body.

Again, Michael did the same to the second ram. The exact sequence of events took place once more, a limp sword--coated with drying blood this time--then one with red flowing down its silver surface.

He felt the bile rise to his throat as time speed up to its normal pace, but it was pushed down by a sense of apathy. A balance if there ever was one between the two polar opposite emotions.