Through a fleeting gap in the throng, Ruban caught a glimpse of silver.
The relentless push and pull of the crowd had driven Ashwin to his knees. Once or twice, his wings flapped in a desperate attempt at flight. But with dozens of hands yanking and clawing at the feathers, flight was all but impossible to achieve.
Ruban was painfully aware of the fact that Ashwin could’ve obliterated this entire intersection, along with everyone on it, with a single energy-shell. His heart raced in his chest, the beats erratic with panic. Still, he inched forward, straining against the belligerent crowd, his shoulders squared and muscles taut. He had to reach Ashwin before one of the sifblade-wielding thugs could get within striking distance.
Just as he’d begun to make some progress, his attention was captured by an aborted, otherworldly cry.
From Ashwin.
His eyes shot up in astonishment. After everything they’d been through, Ruban had never heard the Aeriel make a sound so desperate. Almost frightened.
A stylishly-attired, middle-aged woman stood petrified over Ashwin. The people around her appeared equally disconcerted, some of them trying (with little success) to slowly inch away.
Despite his considerable height, Ruban had to rise on tiptoes to see what had gotten the crowd so flustered.
The middle-aged woman – in her fashionable, rust-colored tunic – shifted subtly sideways. Revealing a scrap of gleaming silver in her hand. In her righteous fury, she’d ripped off a patch of Ashwin’s cloak. The section covering the brand on his left shoulder, to be specific.
Inadvertently exposing the deep, harrowing scars – spelling out Janak Nath’s name – for all to see.
Ruban stiffened, a chill sweeping through his body despite the bright afternoon sunlight. Time seemed to stretch as his thoughts spiraled, a chaotic symphony of turmoil.
The existence of those scars – that brand – was old news. The entire nation had watched Ashwin make that revelation to Viman Rai on his show, Sunset News at Six. The brand itself had been displayed for all to see, on TV screens across Vandram.
It wasn’t the sight of the brand that’d unsettled the crowd. Or Ruban himself.
It was the sight of Ashwin on his knees, surrounded and trapped, silver eyes glazed with some unspoken terror.
Ruban stood transfixed, wanting to turn away but somehow unable to do so. Whatever nightmare Ashwin was reliving, his expression sent icy tendrils up Ruban’s spine. There’d been a time, not so long ago, when he’d have happily driven a sifblade through Ashwin’s gut. But even during the times he’d wanted the Aeriel dead, he’d never wanted this.
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Ever since that fateful day at Zikyang forest, when he’d discovered Ashwin’s true identity, Ruban had perceived the Aeriel prince as powerful. Almost invulnerable. He knew, intellectually, that Ashwin could be injured. Even killed. They’d both had more than their fair share of close calls, these last few years.
But nothing had ever seemed to faze Ashwin. Not even the most grievous injury could shatter his equanimity – that mask of amused indifference he wore so well it’d become a second skin.
And Ruban hadn’t realized, until this moment, how much he’d come to rely on that unwavering, unbreakable composure. How jarring it was to see Ashwin like this – scared, desperate. Human.
And apparently, he wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
The mob dithered, visibly torn. The pedestrians closest to Ashwin shuffled and wavered, a few of them backing away one step at a time.
Whatever they saw in his eyes, it seemed not to fit the image of a menacing alien conqueror that they were being sold.
Ashwin hadn’t made a single move to defend himself. To fight back.
The Aeriel prince – who’d effortlessly incapacitated several armed thugs, only minutes ago – surrendered wordlessly to their onslaught. After a point, even the most oblivious and prejudiced of the spectators couldn’t help but take notice of that fact.
Seizing the opportunity, Ruban pushed forward, his path no longer blocked by the crowd.
Before he could reach Ashwin, however, two of the sifblade-wielding thugs appeared behind the Aeriel. For his part, Ashwin remained kneeling on the sun-blasted asphalt, oblivious to his surroundings.
Amidst the crowd, Ruban spied two more black-clad figures. They inched slowly towards the Aeriel, even as the other onlookers were backing away.
Ruban raised his pistol, pointing it between the two thugs who stood behind Ashwin. “The first man to make a move towards him will have his brains blown out.” His words rang sharp and clear. “There’s four of you. And one of me. I know I won’t win this. So, let’s make it quick. Which one of you would like to die for the cause, today?”
All four of the black-clad men froze in place.
Ruban held his position, waiting.
A palpable tension had gripped the crowd. Sooner or later, something would have to give. But it sure as hell wouldn’t be him.
“You’re making a mistake, Kinoh.” It was the bald thug, who’d moments ago been trying to blend in with the civilians. “You’ve picked the wrong side in this war. Our treacherous leaders may’ve sold us out to Vaan for a pocketful of feathers.” As he spoke, he crept forward with measured, deliberate steps. “But the voice of the common man can never be silenced for—”
“Oh, shut up!” The middle-aged lady in her rust-colored tunic whirled around, squaring up against the bald man, who was at least a head taller than her. “If you’re a common man, then I’m the queen of Zaini.” Each word was laced with searing sarcasm. “I don’t know who’s bribing whom. Or if the politicians are on the take. Maybe they are. Who isn’t, these days?
“But I do know that this is a civilized country. If you have a problem with Mr. Kinoh…” She shot a quick glance at Ruban. “You can file an official complaint with the IAW. The same goes for Prince Shwaan. He’s stood one trial; he can stand another. That’s what the courts are for. Brawling on the streets is not the way to resolve political disputes.” She scoffed. “We’re not savages, here.”