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

forearm as well as up over his bicep. There were large tracts of unmarked skin inside the burning ball of flame. Lines of radiating fire appeared to shift as if the sun burned away on his arm. Above and below the fiery orb, his skin was tattooed solid black. The darkness stretched down to his left wrist and upward, curling over the top of his shoulder. Whether by design or not, it looked as if it was glowing

“Was there no hint as to the purpose?” Paasek asked curiously.

Ryl shook his head as Paasek placed his hand on the side of his elbow. The elder phrenic’s face took on a puzzled expression as he slid his hand down to Ryl’s forearm.

“The skin is noticeably warmer,” he announced.

Ryl flinched in discomfort as the phrenics that now surrounded him took turns touching his skin, gauging the difference in temperature, inspecting every minute detail. Kaep remained apart from the group, contented in her amusement at the groping attention.

“Unsettling as this may be, the secrecy as to its purpose isn’t all together unsurprising," Paasek announced. "While you have been granted access to the knowledge and powers inherent in your blood, the alexen still function with their own will of sorts. They still covet their secrets, through rest assured, they will impart the wisdom when the time is right.”

Ryl found a small degree of comfort in the reassurance, though his uncertainty lingered. He vowed to focus on learning what he could as time allowed.

Thankfully soon after the impromptu examination ceased, the phrenics began excusing themselves from the hall. Eager for rest and time to recharge, Ryl was quick to follow.

Heavy from exhaustion, his eyes closed the moment he collapsed into his bed. Once asleep, the night terrors again ravaged his riddled mind.

Chapter 42

Ryl walked alone, his sluggish pace taking him across a narrow stone bridge spanning the river that flowed underneath. A low parapet guarded each side of the roadway, while stone foundations supported arches some ten meters above the water. To his front, a small town spread along the banks of the river.

Stretching out into the water on the far side of the river were a row of narrow wooden piers. Small fishing vessels and sailing boats thumped carelessly in their berths. The street bordering the dock featured a row of stalls where vendors would sell their catch or various wares. A tavern and inn were mixed in among four moderately sized warehouses. Across the main avenue stretching into the heart of the town, shops and various multi-story residences were arranged in a neat row.

Clothing swayed quietly from balconies. The wooden signs detailing the varied shop’s insignias squeaked as they swayed in the morning breeze. The village was devoid of any signs of life. Ryl paused as he reached the center of the bridge. Something was amiss. The oppressive, choking feeling of hatred started to creep into his senses.

He reached for the Leaves, alarmed to discover that they, along with their custom holster were gone. From around the corner of the first row of buildings glided the shadowed figures of seven warriors. Ryl pivoted his head looking for an avenue of escape. From the trees bordering the road at the opposite side of the bridge, a similar party of seven blocked his path. Each held a vicious looking longsword in one hand, a circular shield in the other.

Their shields were stained black, matching the darkness that emanated from their bodies. Each shield was ringed with an uneven arrangement of pointed spikes dyed blood red. A crude design of a face was painted by hand on each. The designs were all similar yet expressed a uniqueness all their own. All shields had two white streaks for eyes, a white splotch for a nose and a slightly curved line of crimson dots for a mouth. The hint of a smile was lost with the animosity that poured from the holders.

The two parties began slowly closing in on him. Every step left a stain of black on the surrounding ground. The darkness spread, choking off the road. From upstream, the darkness, like a spill of black on the water, flowed silently toward the bridge. From downstream, the inky coating crawled up the river, pulling itself over the lazy rapids.

A fight on the bridge pinned in between two foes, unarmed as he was, would be suicide. Ryl charged forward, striking the black cloaked figures with a focused blast of wind. Their approach slowed as their shields took the brunt of the gale, yet all remained afoot. Again he tried—the gout of wind dissipated against their shields, their cloaks flapping angrily in its wake.

Ryl retreated a step as the parties closed on both sides. He was unarmed. He was defenseless. His head swiveled back and forth as their agonizing approach ground to a halt several meters from where he remained. Their solid mass formed a wall spanning between both edges of the bridge.

Their movement had ceased, yet the black stain spreading out around them continued inching toward Ryl. The blackness surrounded him, forcing him to the center of the bridge. The circle of clarity squeezed tighter. He struck at the blackness with the soulborne wind, a futile effort that sent ripples across its surface.

Onward it crept.

Ryl spun frantically around. The cloaked warriors remained where they stood. Their projected emotions slammed into him with an overpowering force that send his body reeling backward. The feelings were potent, disorienting and confusing. He felt the overwhelming, unadulterated hatred and the frantic anxiety. There was pain. There was fear.

Was it his fear, or theirs?

The sensations were strong, yet under it he sensed there was something more. Something he was missing, a feeling he couldn’t pinpoint.

His body never struck ground. The blackness closed around him.

Ryl sat panting in his bed. The nightmares had been plaguing his sleep relentlessly for moons. Rarely was he able to string together successive nights of uninterrupted sleep. Ever since his awakening, the dream had