Ghosts of the Erlyn (Catalyst Book 3) C.J. Aaron (mobi reader .txt) 📖

councilor’s face, the dust and dirt collecting in the damp residue. He whimpered quietly to himself as he worked to free the blade to no avail. A sickly half-sob, half unhinged laugh poured from the councilor’s throat.

Ryl turned away from the maniacally cackling noble, redirecting his full attention on the statuesque form of Captain Le’Dral who remained a few meters away. The captain was motionless as Ryl approached within a few steps.

“The time to make your choice is upon you, Captain,” Ryl whispered loud enough for only Le’Dral to hear. He pointed to Faya then Maklan in turn.

“Tribute or Jailer?” Ryl questioned. His voice raised for all to hear. “An innocent life or the corrupted—who happily slaughters the family, fleeing to save their child?

Le’Dral’s eyes bulged, and his mouth opened involuntarily as he recognized the voice speaking from under the impenetrable shadow of the black hood.

Ryl took a step back. To his left, the writhing form of Maklan still spewed incoherent venom through his maniacal cackling. Only a step from the councilor’s side, Faya stood still, her brilliant, wide, blue eyes seeming to glow, overpowering the light of the early morning.

The call from his blood was overwhelming. The alexen tore through his veins with an excited anticipation that made his skin tingle. Ryl closed his eyes, focusing momentarily, before unleashing a wave of sensation over those arranged throughout the square.

Le’Dral took a step back as the force of the emotion crashed over him.

The collective stare from the gathered tributes centered on him.

From his rear, the black cloaked phrenics and Vigil prepared themselves for what was to come.

It was time.

Time for the world to see the truth that had been hidden from them for generations.

Ryl slowly reached his hand to his chest, undoing the simple clasp that held the black cloak secure. His hands moved to his face, collecting both hoods, pulling them back from his head. The sun felt warm on his skin as the covering fell away. The brands underneath either ear burned with a self-conscious fire.

For how many cycles had he been defined by the raised scars of the number and insignia on his neck?

That was the past.

His freedom was now.

There was a collective gasp from all those who bore witness to the spectacle before them. None louder than from the tributes who had a full view of the face that was exposed from under the shadow of the hoods.

As his arms dropped to his sides the black cloak fell silently to the earthen ground at his feet. A gust of wind swelled from his right arm, curling around his body. The tainted, constricting black cloak, though unquestionably unsettling to wear, had served its purpose well. The garment was carried off to his side, the last tendrils of wind blowing an errant strand of hair across his face, jostling the end of his grey phrenic cloak.

The warning cry resounded like a wave that rippled through the nobles and spectators alike that lined the wall behind him. Without turning, he knew the cause. Six black cloaks had fallen to the ground.

His eyes raged with an uncontrollable, defiant fire as they met with the captain’s.

Chapter 24

“Ryl!”

The startled yet excited cry screamed from a single, shrill voice from inside the mass of tributes. Ryl quickly scanned the crowd. Shock was written across the awestruck faces of all assembled in and around the square. His eyes hesitated for an instant as they focused on Sarial. She held a single hand to her mouth, yet it failed to hide her astonishment. The tears were already streaming down her face.

A commotion began near the middle of the group, just to her left. Bodies were jostled to the side as the unseen body pushed its way though. The lumbering frame of Zed gave chase to whoever was the focus of the furor, and he hastened toward the edge of the line.

Aelin exploded through the front row of tributes, nearly toppling several unprepared bodies as he burst free from the group. A pair of guards moved quickly to intercept the young boy.

The first of the two met Aelin before he reached the line of tributes due for Harvest standing before Ryl. In the man’s eyes, the young boy approaching him was just a child, yet Ryl knew differently. The guard’s arms opened to wrap the charging boy, expecting to give little ground as he easily overpowered the errant child. At the last moment, Aelin dropped his lead shoulder, colliding with him at full speed.

The overconfident guard was ill prepared for the force of the impact. In his defense, none were prepared for such dramatic results. The strength of the unsuspecting young man and the power behind his motions were transferred into the helpless guard—sending him careening across the square. His body flailed uncontrollably before he slammed into the back of a pair of guards standing to the side, throwing all to the hard earth.

That brief pause was all the second guard needed to catch up. Coming from the side of Aelin, his intent was different from the first. Whereas the initial guard had sought merely to collect the rampant tribute, the second was far less kind. His baton was already free from its holster, his arm cocked back to his side, swinging to deliver a blow to the young man’s legs.

The rage in Ryl’s veins boiled over. He tapped into the speed that flowed within his body. The impending attack from the guard. The erratic movement of his counterparts as they struggled to regain their feet. All came to a standstill as Ryl catapulted forward.

His movement was a blur as he slipped through the line of nervously waiting tributes, moving beyond their escorts. He covered the distance between himself and the guard in an instant. The right arm of the attacker was pulled back, parallel to the ground, just reaching its apex as he primed for a strike at the lower body of the disobedient tribute.

The strike would never find its mark.

Ryl