"Vurok," he spat the name into the humid air.
He visualized the bully's face with high-definition clarity.
He saw the bully's face. He saw the glob of spit landing near his face. He saw Vurok's rough hand grabbing Lyra. He saw the leering, hungry faces of the lackeys as they laughed about dragging Nia and Lira into the dark woods.
It wasn't the hot, frantic fear of the prey. It wasn't the red-hot anger of a tantrum. It was something older. It was the chilling, absolute desire for dominance. The desire to crush the thing that threatened him. The desire to reach out and wrap his hand around the throat of the world and force it to stop.
He opened his eyes. The world seemed sharper, drained of color, viewed through a filter of grey ash.
He looked at the snake, and extended his hand, palm facing the reptile. He grabbed that eruption of emotion and channeled it through the ash-grey thread, screaming a silent, violent command into the creature's primitive mind.
"SUBMIT!" Sol roared.
