The cleaver was still in his hand, and the Ancient Oak's rage was no longer something he could push down. The memories had teeth now, sinking into his thoughts the way Owain's fists had sunk into Ashlynn's body, and the fury that coursed through him had grown past the point where he could tell the difference between his own anger and the Blood Acorn's borrowed hatred.
He could turn away from the men who had thrown down their weapons, though he had to fight to ignore such tempting, easy targets. The men who clung to their weapons still, however, including the sergeant who led the group of men, received no mercy from him.
