As he scrambled to loot the corpses, carefully stepping around the pools of blood, I noticed the scent of his fear had changed. It was still there, acrid and sharp, but it was now laced with a sliver of respect, like a drop of oil in water.
That evening, huddled around the fire, I tossed him a knife. He fumbled it, nearly dropping it with a clatter on the stone floor.
"My lord?"
"You're learning to fight."
"But... this one is just a cook's son. I chop vegetables."
"Good," I said. "Then you're familiar with the concept of separating things from their original form. Stand up."
He obeyed, his stance awkward, his body a bundle of nervous energy.
"Why?" he blurted out. "Why are you doing this? For... for me?"
"Don't be sentimental," I scoffed. "I'm curious. I want to see if a human can be taught anything useful with no knowledge, or if you're all just born stupid."
