Page 3 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

His jaw works. His breath comes fast, raw. He’s processing. Not just the situation, butme. And I can feel it—that weight, the full force of his attention.

“I should crush you,” he growls.

“Give it a few weeks. We’ll start with sitting up.”

He freezes.

It’s not the threat that gets him—it’s the challenge. The insult to his pride.

I tilt my head. “Go on then. Sit.”

He glares like he wants to set me on fire with his brain.

“Your core’s still got muscle. The implant ports are integrated with an auto-stabilizing prosthetic matrix. It’s painful. It’s humiliating. And you’re gonna do it anyway because I said so.”

His breathing slows. Fury crackles off him like static. But beneath it, I see it—just a flicker.

Shame.

The kind that cuts deeper than shrapnel. The kind that saysI was strong onceand now I don’t know who the hell I am.

“Fine,” he spits.

I take a step back, arms crossed. “Show me.”

He grunts. Growls. His abs flex, scales catching the dim light. The motion is jerky at first—like someone trying to remember how to move in a dream—but then the prosthetic leg anchors, and he starts to lift.

His jaw clenches. Sweat beads on his temple. The neural nodes behind his ear flash red, signaling a feedback surge. He doesn’t stop.

I don’t speak. I don’t help.

I just watch.

He sits. Fully upright.

The bed creaks under the shift of weight. His breaths are ragged, his hands—what’s left of them—tremble.

And then he looks at me.

Like he’s etching my face into his memory, one slow line at a time.

I raise a brow. “Congratulations. You didn’t explode.”

“Yet,” he rasps.

I smirk. “Get used to my face, Kyldak. You’re stuck with it.”

CHAPTER 2

KYLDAK

The light in this room is too clean. Too cold. It flickers in a rhythm that doesn’t match my pulse, which just pisses me off more. Every breath tastes like sterilizer and defeat.

I stare at the ceiling and count the grooves in the paneling just to keep from screaming. My own skin crawls. Or what’s left of it.

There’s a whine in the back of my skull. The neural port. Interface syncing to the room’s medical system, probably. I let it connect. I don’t like relying on tech—I’ve lost too much flesh to it—but it’s that or keep feeling helpless. I pick helpless like I’d pick death: reluctantly, with blood under my nails.

The HUD opens in the corner of my vision. Clinical. Blue. Too neat.