Page 38 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

And I ride.

The wind cuts like razors through the canyon. Sharp turns, broken stone, dead things rotting in the crevices. The ground’s littered with old bones and fresh ones—some cracked open like shellfish, marrow sucked out clean.

I follow the tracks, heart pounding a rhythm that ain’t war. It’s worse.

Because war’s tactical.

This?

This ispersonal.

I hit the ambush point five clicks out.

The rocks are too clean. Too symmetrical. Crows circle, lazy and low, and there’s no wind here, just the breath of something waiting tokill.

They think I’m stupid.

They think I’m slow.

They thinkRed Eyewalks into a trap blind.

I laugh. Loud. Ugly. A sound with teeth.

Then Idismount.

I draw both axes from the sling across my back—twin slabs of forged steel and Reaper bone, heavy enough to crack tanks, sharp enough to peel flesh off the soul.

And Iwalk in.

The first one lunges out of the rockface—mutant, half-shriveled, mouth full of wire. He swings a cleaver the size of my thigh.

I bury my left axe in his gut.

The blade hums as it shreds meat and metal, vibrating down to my elbow. He gurgles. Collapses. I don’t watch him die.

Because the next bastard is already flying at me—jumpsuit smeared with dried viscera, cyber-eye blinking like a drunk beacon. He gets a blade through the throat before he lands.

I twist.

Something snaps.

The others hesitate.

I smell fear now. Real. Wet.Desperate.

They know who I am.

But they still come.

Six more.

I tear into them like hunger incarnate.

One loses an arm. Another loses both legs. One gets smart and tries to run—I split him mid-stride, spine to crotch.

My blades sing.

My blood roars.