Page 11 of Warlord’s Plaything
11
HIRA
T he air in the pits is different tonight.
Thicker. Heavier.
Like the stench of blood and sweat has sunk into the walls, into the stone, into the very marrow of this place. Like it knows something is coming.
Or maybe—I do.
I roll my shoulders, keeping my breath steady as I watch the gladiators circle in the dim torchlight.
They’re waiting.
Not for a fight.
For me.
Dagen leans against the stone wall, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Sella crouches on the ground beside him, sharpening a stolen blade, her fingers sure and practiced.
The others shift, restless, hungry for something they can’t name yet.
The rebellion is more than just whispers now.
It’s a heartbeat, a pulse, a fucking war drum waiting to be struck.
And I’m the one holding the stick.
"It has to be tonight."
Sella’s voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is solid.
She doesn’t look at me when she speaks, just keeps dragging the whetstone along the blade. Sshhkk. Sshhkk.
I exhale through my nose, nodding once.
"We hit the supply lines. Take what we need. Disrupt what we can." My voice is low, measured. "No killing unless absolutely necessary. We make them bleed, but we don’t let them drown us in our own fucking mess."
Dagen scoffs, pushing off the wall. "And if it goes sideways? If we get caught?"
I look at him. Dead on. No flinch. No fear.
"Then we fight like we always have."
A sharp snort. He rubs the back of his neck, frustration rolling off him in waves.
"Damn it, Hira."
I don’t answer him. I don’t need to.
We all know what’s at stake.
We all know what we stand to lose.
And none of it fucking matters.
Not anymore.
The only way out of this is through it.
Something shifts. A presence at the edge of my awareness, a prickle at my nape.
I turn before I even register the motion.
Sparring rings are scattered across the pits, dimly lit by guttering torches, their flames flickering like dying gods.
The sharp clang of steel against steel echoes, bodies moving in sweat-slicked precision.
I step forward, drawn by something I can’t name—something that makes the blood hum in my veins.
Two fighters are circling, feet kicking up dirt, their muscles coiled, ready to strike.
I feel it before it happens.
A shift in weight.
A tightening in the shoulders.
The intention, the violence, a heartbeat before it snaps.
The man on the right moves—too soon, too desperate.
And I know.
Before his opponent even lifts his weapon—I know exactly how the fight will end.
"Stop."
The word leaves my lips before I think about it.
Everything freezes.
The fighters pause mid-motion, hesitation rippling through the watching crowd.
Even Dagen stiffens, watching me like I just spoke in tongues.
My stomach twists. Too late now.
I lift my chin, keep my stance steady.
"He’s baiting you," I tell the first man, never breaking eye contact. "If you lunge now, you’ll leave your ribs open."
A slow, wary beat.
Then, the second man shifts, weight rolling to the side—just like I fucking knew he would.
A moment later, he grins.
"She’s right."
A murmur ripples through the pits.
A slow, spreading uncertainty.
They don’t know what to make of it.
Neither do I.
Because how the fuck did I know that?
Dagen is watching me too carefully.
So is Sella.
They don’t say anything, but I can feel the question between them.
What the fuck is she?
I swallow the knot in my throat. Shake it off.
"Back to work," I snap, turning away before they can press further. "We move at sundown."
The crowd disperses.
But the feeling lingers.
The way my skin prickled before the fight happened.
The way my body knew something before my mind did.
Something is wrong.
And I don’t have a clue as to what it is.
It feels like something is waking up inside me.