“It seems your leverage has abandoned you, councilor,” Ryl hissed. His eyes remained on the forces that surrounded them. Though they seemed to itch with nervous anticipation, none moved to assist their commanding officer. “It seems your army has abandoned you as well.”
For a moment Maklan’s eyes held his gaze. Fear was written across his countenance, though the expression was dwarfed by the emotion contained within his eyes. Ryl stifled an uncomfortable feeling of inferiority. He felt swallowed alive by the volume of hate contained in the councilor’s glare. The small orbs teemed with an unnatural wrath and fury that was wholly incompatible with human emotions.
“The tributes are out of your reach. Out of the kingdom’s reach,” Ryl growled. “You’ll find nothing but the mist from the fall within the boundaries of Tabenville. Be warned, death will plague you at every step should you pursue.”
He let the threat float for a moment, hanging over Maklan like a cloud. The gravity of the occasion only seemed to hold true for a moment. Maklan’s blackened rage overwhelmed his sense of self-preservation as he foamed at the mouth.
“Fool,” he rampaged. “This army is nothing compared to the true power of the king. Your puny insurrection will have no safety when his full might comes to bear. Your time is short. Your friend will be the first to die. The king comes. His mercy will be savage.”
The councilor broke into a racking fit of deranged laughter and maniacal ranting. Ryl’s eyebrows wrinkled as the sudden blackness pressed on his senses. His mindsight captured a wisp of black that blossomed in the councilor’s core.
The sounds that issued from Maklan’s snarling mouth strayed further from human. His vocalizations devolved from wild gibberish to a cacophony of feral grunts and growls. The expressions on his face contorted. His lips curled, showing his teeth. He gnashed them together as he struggled to rise, snapping at Ryl with vicious intent.
Ryl wrapped his hands in the folds of Maklan’s opulent black tunic, balling his fists as he hoisted the man to his feet. He hardened the woodskin on his arms as the councilor slapped and clawed at him like a deranged animal. It was only a matter of steps before he reached the black carriage.
He slammed Maklan’s back into the side of the wagon high enough that his feet flailed a hand’s width from the ground. The impact again robbed Maklan of his breath, for a moment stalling his attempts to kick and claw his way to freedom. The wood groaned. Several large splinters sprouted from the side, revealing stripes of unvarnished wood hidden beneath.
The councilor’s body covered the white symbol painted along the carriage’s side. The white gate with a solitary door standing ajar, though small, elicited a virulent response that Ryl could feel course through his body. A carriage similar to this had sealed his fate, and the fates of countless others throughout the cycles. From his fateful last moment with his biological family, the family who chose gold over their son, to now, the image still haunted him. Though only smears of white paint on a black surface, it stood for so much more.
Hatred. Persecution. Torture.
He snarled at the thought, increasing the pressure he forced against Maklan’s body. For a moment, the hatred whispering from the deepest recesses of his mind swelled into a scream. It was all encompassing. Ryl felt himself give in to the emotion. The wood of the carriage buckled inward as he pinned the councilor against the wall.
“Where did he take her?” Ryl growled. The tone of his voice shocked him as it cursed from his mouth. It was colored in the venom of hatred, dripping with malevolence. A board to the councilor’s side snapped as it buckled under the force. Tiny shards of wood splintered, stinging as they sprayed across Ryl’s face.
Maklan’s convulsions, his feral attacks had subsided. The wild, savage look on his face had reverted to a more humanlike emotion. His eyes bulged as the pressure crushed him. The ever-widening orbs swelled with fear and with pain.
Ryl knew he was killing him. He had lost control of his body. He could feel the churning of the alexen in his blood. It was agitated. It was afraid. It pleaded for his attention, begging him to stop.
His mind was singularly focused. Maklan would die. He was prepared to tear the councilor’s cursed body apart. Rend his limbs and flesh using his own hands.
The voice at his side was nothing more than a whisper in his ear. An unintelligible word in a voice that was familiar, yet one he could not place. The emotion behind it, though faint, was genuine. It was immediately recognizable.
The untrained raw feeling swept over him, snapping the bloodlust that had overtaken his control.
“Ryl,” Aelin shouted this time.
Ryl could see the boy out of the corner of his eye. His clothing was torn and spattered with blood. His face was bruised and red, covered with a mix of scratches, dirt and blood.
The look on his face was pained, though not from the discomfort of the beating he’d taken. It was awash with horror at what Ryl was doing. At what he’d become.
Ryl felt a shudder of chill rush through his body at the realization. He felt the familiar sensation of the alexen coursing through his veins, leaving only calm in its wake. He released the overpowering tension on the councilor’s body. The wagon rocked back toward them as the weight applied to its side reduced.
As his senses cleared, the revulsion of the action he had been about to undertake threatened to turn his stomach. Ryl turned his head toward Aelin, offering a forced smile as he nodded his head.
The creaking of bows and the twang of the strings releasing their burden echoed over the hush that had settled atop the pacified army. Ryl let the speed flow through him as he released the suspended councilor. A flight of a
