Fulcrum of Light (Catalyst Book 2) by C.J. Aaron (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📕

the village a short distance away. Elias’ body had been bound securely and loaded into the final wagon with the tributes. Andr and the Vigil would accompany them back to Serrate.

Before the arrival of the phrenics early that morning, the village had already been teetering on the verge of revolt. The animosity toward the Lei Guard and soldiers camped nearby had reached a crisis point. With the addition of the true knowledge of the horrifying fates of the tributes, this attitude had been pushed over the edge.

One of their own families had been butchered as a result of the ancient policy.

One of their own now waited his turn to suffer a fate like those their mender now cared for.

Ryl shook his head as he stalked back into the main facility. Kaep, Ramm and Vox waited for him at the entrance to the dreaded chamber.

“Ryl, you need to see the Mender too,” Kaep remarked, pointing to the bloody bandage on his left side. He'd forgotten about the wounds on his hand and side, so occupied had his mind been with the horrors of the present.

“We're almost done here, Kaep,” Ryl said. “Let's see what other secrets they have hidden away. I'll see the mender when we’re through.” The large room had been cleared of the bodies, yet the sickening stench remained. A careful search of the three remaining closed rooms began in earnest. The first, closest to the door was a barracks, two sets of bunks lining each wall. Two chests accompanied each set, their contents amounting to nothing more than neatly folded spare clothing.

The next door contained the apartments of the menders. Each had a narrow bed and a small chest against the right-hand wall, separated by a tall, cloth partition. Their personal effects were trivial; a paltry accumulation of clothing and robes. The desk along the opposite side of the wall contained little of value save a single ledger, scrawled with messages written in a clearly encrypted shorthand. Ryl added the hand bound tome to the contents of his pack, before closing the door, moving to the last room.

The final door was locked. Ryl felt the hint of tingling growing from his left arm. Focusing the woodskin on his right leg, he took a step back before lunging forward, planting his foot in the center of the door. The force of his kick splintered the wood as the door exploded inward.

The room inside was empty, save for the shelves lining the right and left walls. To their right, the shelves were divided in an orderly mass of unlabeled bottles and vials. There were an assortment of different colored powders and a myriad of varied liquids.

To the left, the shelves were separated into equal portions. Nearly all were full; each contained hundreds of small vials. Each vial was roughly the width and length of a finger. Ryl carefully retrieved one from the closest partition. He swirled the contents inside gently. The red liquid inside was thick, coating the sides of the glass. Each divided section and bottle were clearly labeled with a matching number. Ryl looked at the vial in his hand.

H1346.

He carefully set the bottle down as the realization set in. In front of him stood a wall of the most coveted product in all the kingdom—the Blessing of the King.

The lifeblood of the tributes.

His stomach turned. He closed his eyes, pivoting away from the revered elixirs. How many tributes had perished to produce that supply?

As his eyes opened, he noted a single jar he'd missed on his earlier inspection of the opposite shelf. In the shadow of the far wall, well separated from the rest of the unnamed components was a large, clear glass bottle. A thick cork carefully stoppered its top. Unlike the others this bottle was labeled with a single word.

Nexela.

Ryl leaned closer to get a better look at the liquid within the bottle. The thick, black fluid seemed to move with a life of its own, almost curiously probing the edge of the jar as he approached. The tingling feeling grew rapidly in his left arm, reaching a throbbing crescendo. In response, the fluid inside seethed with frantic activity, climbing up the rear walls of the container. As he leaned in close to the vessel, a miniscule hint of the scent of the jar’s contents escaped the porous stopper.

His nose involuntarily scrunched as the putrid smell of rot, decay and of death assailed him.

A hint was more than enough for Ryl’s mind to make the connection.

The scent was that of the blackened evil that roamed the land to the southwest.

The scent was of the Outland Horde.

The realization dawned as he stood staring into the writhing liquid. The connection never before considered was reached. Phrenic and the Horde; the two were connected, just as light is to darkness.

His mind sparked the recollection of theories from phrenics long since passed from this world. Throughout the ages, the two had existed in a balance that ebbed and flowed in gentle waves. Nexela was the antithesis to the alexen that coursed inside his veins. Inside the veins of the phrenics. The two were by nature predisposed to balance each other out.

Something had thrown the balance of power out of line. The scales had tipped dramatically in the favor of the nexela; in the favor of the darkness.

In the favor of the Outland Horde.

The nexela in front of him acted not like a confident survivor, empowered by its combined strength. It swarmed over itself, desperate to flee. There was only fear.

It was afraid.

It was afraid of him.

The room around Ryl lit with the light of the sun. The glowing orb of light and energy raced down his forearm, condensing into a ball in his palm. He paused for a moment.

He could hear the calling from his blood urging him onward, at the same time he could feel the fear from the nexela on the shelf pleading for restraint.

Ryl closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The putrid scent no longer fazed