Page 13 of Warlord’s Plaything
13
HIRA
H eat pulses through the night, the scent of sweat and damp stone curling through the tunnels beneath the arena.
I can feel the pit above us, the ghosts of old blood soaking into the sand, the muffled roars of the crowd still echoing from earlier fights.
They don’t know we’re down here.
They don’t know what’s coming.
But they will.
Soon.
"This doesn’t feel right." Dagen’s voice is low, wary.
He shifts beside me, his knife catching the torchlight as he scans the cavernous storage chamber where the stolen weapons are stashed.
Wooden crates stacked high, dark elf steel hidden inside like a secret waiting to be spilled.
Our first real victory.
And yet, the air feels wrong.
Too still.
Too quiet.
"We should move," Sella mutters, her fingers brushing the hilt of her blade. "Now."
I nod once.
The plan was simple—strike, steal, slip away before they even knew we were here.
But my skin is prickling.
Like something inside me already knows the shape of the blood that’s about to be spilled.
And then?—
The shadows shift.
And all hell breaks loose.
The first blade whistles through the air.
Dagen curses, knocking me aside just as a dark elf warrior lunges from the shadows, his sword slicing through the space where I’d been standing.
Fuck.
The council set us up.
I hit the ground hard, rolling fast, yanking my dagger free as I come up into a crouch.
More of them appear—dark silhouettes cutting through the torchlight, elite warriors moving like wolves.
The ambush is perfect.
Too perfect.
They were waiting.
"Move!" I snarl, spinning low, slashing a warrior’s Achilles tendon as he swings for Dagen.
He screams, crumpling, but another takes his place before his body even hits the ground.
Sella is already moving, ducking, slashing, but there are too many.
Steel clashes.
Boots scrape over stone.
The air fills with the stench of blood.
And I?—
I feel it happening.
I’m suddenly faster.
Too fast.
I dodge before I even see the next strike coming.
I feel it.
I know it.
Like my body is moving before my mind can catch up.
Like I’ve done this before.
In another life.
In another war.
Fuck.
One of the warriors swings high, aiming for my head.
I twist, grabbing his wrist—but my grip is too strong.
Too strong.
Something sharpens in my blood.
Heat coils under my skin.
His bones snap under my fingers.
He screams.
And something inside me likes it.
"Hira!"
Dagen’s voice cuts through the haze, snapping me back just as another blade swings for my ribs.
I block, but my chest is heaving.
I’m buzzing.
Not just from the fight.
Not just from the blood.
But from whatever this is.
The heat. The instincts that shouldn’t be mine.
And they know.
The dark elf warriors see it.
They hesitate, just for a second, their eyes flicking between me and the bodies at my feet.
They’ve fought humans before.
They’ve killed countless slaves in the sand.
But they’ve never seen one fight like this.
And I can feel their fear.
Like I can taste it.
It makes my pulse spike.
Makes something hungry coil in my stomach.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I don’t have time to think.
We’re losing.
More of us are falling.
And I have two choices.
Run.
Or burn.
"We need to move!"
Sella’s voice barely reaches me.
I blink, shaking off the fog, the hunger, the thing in my blood that doesn’t belong.
We can’t win this fight.
Not here.
Not yet.
"Fall back!" I snarl, grabbing Dagen’s arm and shoving him toward the tunnel.
Sella is already moving, leading the others, her blade slick with blood.
I spin, slashing one last time before breaking for the exit.
The warriors chase us, but not all of them.
Some of them just watch.
And I know.
I fucking know.
We’ve lost. There is no escape tonight with half of us just staring at me. Because whatever I just did—whatever just moved through me—wasn’t human.