Ze sheathes his sword, turning his gaze to us. He steps carefully over the circle of black dust.

"The Collectors will be here any moment," Ze mentions.

"That demon... I've never seen anything like that," Cer says, his expression still one of awe. "How did you know it hadn't consumed the souls yet?"

"I didn't," Ze replies blankly.

Cer frowns.

"Why didn't you kill it directly then? You attacked it as if you knew the souls were still inside of it."

"Did I?" Ze muses, his gaze dipping to me. There's an odd gleam in his eyes that makes me question my previous impression of him. If he didn't know about the souls, then...

I give him a tentative smile. Maybe he's not such a bad guy after all. Sure, he might be a little gauche, socially inept, and overall rude, but he fought until the end without even knowing if it was worth it. And going by Cer's words, he could have killed the demon at any point.

But he didn't.

He seems puzzled by my smile, a frown pulling at his brows as he stares at me for a good moment.

My smile wavers under his intense perusal. What is it with him and staring—all without saying one word?

"You were really good in that fight," I add, just to fill the silence.

He's still watching me intently, a low sound erupting from his throat in what I think is meant to be a grunt of acknowledgment. But he doesn't open his mouth to say anything. He just...stares.

"Uhm," I stammer, looking at Cer and Thea for help. But they seem just as puzzled by Ze. Maybe he's just that odd. "Will I be able to see the Collectors when they come?" I decide to ask, once more to divert the attention from me.

"Probably not—" Thea starts speaking. But she doesn't get to finish as Ze interrupts her, taking a step forward and barking a low command.

"Give me your hand."

For a moment, I'm not sure what he means, but he doesn't await my answer as he grabs both of my hands in his big ones. My God, he really is a giant.

"What are you—" The words die on my tongue as he bends down, spitting on the back of my right hand before repeating the process on the other.

My mouth is hanging open in shock—for the thousandth time today? He spat on me not once, but twice now.

And on top of that, now he's smearing his spit on my arms.

Yet I can't find it in me to argue with him—not when the pain from the blistered skin is already receding. The red skin slowly heals, healthy tissue swallowing up the damaged one.

"Wow," I whisper.

I'd felt the healing effects before, but this is the first time I'm seeing his saliva in action.

"Thanks. I guess?"