Page 16 of Warlord’s Plaything

16

HIRA

T he space is thick with scorching heat, the kind that sticks to your skin and coils into your lungs like something alive, something hungry.

I stand at the corner of the pits, my fingers curled into tight fists, watching as the others move like shadows through the tunnels, preparing for the raid.

The underground air smells of sweat, steel, and quiet desperation.

No one speaks.

Not yet.

What we’re about to do presses against us all like a fucking storm waiting to break.

I should be afraid.

I should be thinking about the ones we lost.

But all I feel is the burn.

The anger.

The need to strike back—to make them bleed for every drop of blood they’ve taken from us.

And I don’t give a damn if I burn with it.

"This is reckless."

Dagen’s voice is low, tense.

I don’t look at him. I don’t need to.

I already know the look he’s giving me—the one he always does when he thinks I’m pushing too far.

"You knew what this was." I keep my voice composed, my focus sharp. "This doesn’t stop. Not now."

He exhales, sharp and frustrated. "It’s different now. We’ve already lost too much. If this goes wrong ? —"

"Then we adapt." I turn to him, finally, meeting his gaze head-on. "Or you walk away."

Something flickers across his face—anger, maybe even hurt.

But he doesn’t move.

He won’t walk.

Not really.

Not when we’ve come this fucking far.

It’s been happening more often.

The fury.

The restlessness.

The way my blood hums too loud in my veins, screaming for more.

This isn’t just about survival anymore.

It’s about domination.

Destruction.

And I don’t know why.

I clench my jaw, pushing the thought away.

Now isn’t the time to fall into my own fucking head.

"The plan stays the same," I say, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the edge creeping into my voice.

Dagen crosses his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You’re not listening."

"I’m listening just fine."

"No, you’re not."

His voice is too calm, too fucking measured, and it makes my skin prickle with irritation.

"You’re letting this turn into something else, Hira."

I bristle.

"Something else?" I snarl.

"You don’t just want to fight anymore."

He steps closer, too fucking close, his voice dropping lower.

"You want war."

The words slam into me like a punch to the ribs.

He's not wrong.

I can feel it.

The way my body craves the next battle, the next kill, the next fucking strike against the people who took everything from me.

It isn’t enough to hurt them.

I want to burn them down.

And that’s not normal.

It’s not who I used to be.

But it’s becoming who I am.

I tear my gaze away, breathing sharp, shoving the thoughts into a dark corner of my mind.

This is a distraction I can’t afford.

Not now.

"Let’s get moving, watch out for my signal."

Dagen doesn’t push further.

But the look he gives me before turning away sits heavy on my skin.

Like he sees something in me that I don’t want to acknowledge.

The plan is simple.

Burn the supplies.

Hit House Herox where it hurts.

Not just an attack—a message.

A fucking war cry.

The nobles think they can trap us in the sand, break us, make us fight for their amusement.

They think they can keep us caged.

Tonight, we remind them why cages don’t last forever.

I run my fingers over the handle of my dagger, feeling the cool metal bite into my palm.

Dagen sighs. "You’re not going to wait?"

"No. Watch out for my signal."

He gives me a long, measured look.

"And if he’s watching?"

My stomach tightens.

I know exactly who he means.

I don’t need to ask.

I can feel him.

Even now.

Xyron.

The warlord who hunts me with his eyes, his words, his fucking presence.

He’s too close, always too close.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like he’s already decided how this ends.

"Then let him watch,” I say the words before I can think better of them.

Before I can acknowledge the implications.

I realize want him to.

The torches flicker, casting long shadows against the stone.

The rebels are ready.

The place is alive with tension.

Then—the signal comes.

A sharp burst of flame from the far tunnel.

The first fire.

"Go," I order, my voice a sharp edge.

And then we move.

Into the dark.

Into war.