Page 15 of Warlord’s Plaything

15

HIRA

T he pits are too quiet.

The usual din of metal clashing, voices snarling, the ever-present hum of barely contained violence—gone.

Instead, there’s only what we lost.

The air smells of blood.

Not the distant kind, not the familiar stench of the arena sands soaked with old violence.

No.

This is our blood.

Blood that was spilled for nothing.

For a war that hasn’t even started.

And it’s all my fucking fault.

Dagen stands near the edge of the training ring, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Sella crouches beside what’s left of the fallen.

Four bodies.

Four faces I won’t see again.

Four fighters who believed in me.

And now they’re rotting under torchlight.

A fucking waste.

"Say something, Hira." Dagen’s voice cuts through the silence, rough as gravel.

I stare at the bodies.

My fingers twitch at my sides.

"What do you want me to say?" I murmur.

Dagen exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.

"I want to know you feel it." His voice is thick with something dark, something angry. "That you ? —"

His words choke off.

Like he’s fighting himself. He wants to blame me but can’t.

Not yet.

But I already blame myself.

"We weren’t ready," Sella mutters from the ground, her fingers brushing the cooling skin of one of the dead.

"They knew we were coming," Dagen adds, his voice low, clipped. "They set a trap, and we fucking walked into it like idiots."

I press my teeth together.

Feel the sharp edge of failure cutting into me like a dull knife.

"We move forward," I say, voice flat, cold with something I can’t name.

"Forward?" Dagen lets out a bitter laugh, stepping toward me. "Are you even listening? Four of us died, Hira. They were your fighters, and they’re fucking gone."

"And?" I lift my chin.

Dagen stills.

The tension between us snaps tight like a wire.

"And," he grits out, stepping even closer, towering over me now, "how many more are you willing to lose before you figure out that this isn’t a fucking game?"

"It’s not a game."

I don’t yell.

I don’t snap.

But my voice—it’s low, sharp, coiled with something dangerous.

I know what he wants.

He wants me to break.

To admit I fucked up.

To grieve.

I don’t have that luxury.

So instead, I step into his space, let my voice drop even lower.

"But you already knew that, didn’t you?"

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t fucking blink.

"Because you’re still here."

The silence between us is thick.

Dagen’s breath is ragged, his hands fist at his sides.

Sella watches from the ground, her gaze heavy.

Like she’s waiting to see if we tear each other apart.

And maybe we should.

But instead, Dagen exhales roughly and turns away, hands braced on his hips.

"I just don’t want to see you end up like them, Hira," he mutters.

"I don’t have that fucking choice."

My skin is too tight.

Everything is too much.

The implications what happened, the way Xyron looked at me earlier, the way I knew the fight before it even started?—

I shove off, turning away, walking fast, heading to the edge of the pits, to the underground tunnels.

I don’t stop until I hit cold stone.

Until my hands slam into the wall.

Breathing heavy.

Heart pounding.

Too much.

Too fucking much.

"Losing control?"

The voice is too familiar.

Too fucking close.

I whirl, pulse spiking, muscles coiling?—

And there he is.

Xyron.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, that unreadable, dark amusement curling at the edges of his mouth.

His eyes gleam under the torchlight, drinking me in like he knows.

Like he felt it.

Like he knew I would run.

I grit my teeth.

"What do you want?"

"I warned you," he murmurs.

He pushes off the wall, steps closer.

"And you did exactly what I said you would."

My breath shudders.

Not from fear.

Not from anger.

But from something worse.

From the fact that I hate how fucking right he is.

"So what?" I snarl, voice sharp. "You came here to say I told you so?"

His gaze rakes over me.

Slow.

Too slow.

"No," he murmurs.

Another step.

"I came here to see if you would finally admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That you like this."

I still.

Everything inside me locks up.

"Go fuck yourself."

He laughs.

Low, deep, infuriating.

"I would, but you look like you need it more than me."

Motherfucker.

Before I can stop myself, I lunge.

Fists curling in his tunic, slamming him back against the wall.

He lets me.

Doesn’t fight it.

Doesn’t stop me.

He wants to see what I’ll do next.

And I fucking hate that.

He just watches.

His breath even.

His pupils blown wide.

And fuck—this is dangerous.

This shouldn’t feel like this.

"You think I like this?" I whisper, voice shaking.

"I think you were born for it," he breathes.

I freeze.

Because that?—

That felt too close to the truth.

I release him and step back, turning away before he can see whatever the fuck just flickered in my eyes.

"Get out of my fucking sight, Xyron."

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t say a word.

But I feel his smile.

He sees me.

And I don’t even know who I am anymore.