Page 19 of Warlord’s Plaything

19

XYRON

T he aroma of incense lingers in the air, thick and cloying. It curls through the dimly lit corridors of the Herox estate, wrapping around me like a whisper of old power.

Xiva’s chambers are different from the rest of the fortress.

Where the council halls are cold, merciless, carved from black stone that seems to drink in the light, his private rooms are warm.

The torches burn lower here, golden and steady. The air is heavy with spice and aged parchment, with the musk of old leather and ancient tomes.

It smells like history. Like bloodlines. Like a kingdom resting on one man’s shoulders.

And that man?

He is the only one I have ever bowed to.

My father.

My patriarch.

"Sit, my son."

Xiva’s voice is smooth as aged steel, deep and commanding. It carries through the room like a blade in velvet.

I obey.

Because you don’t argue with a warlord like Xiva.

Because you don’t deny a father when he speaks to his heir.

Xiva studies me from across the heavy onyx table, his eyes sharp as a predator’s. He lifts his goblet, the deep red wine swirling like blood against the black crystal.

"Your report," he orders, as if he doesn’t already know.

As if he hasn’t been three steps ahead of me this whole time.

"The rebellion is broken," I say, voice even. Measured.

Xiva’s lips twitch.

Not quite a smile.

Not quite approval.

But something close.

"And the girl?" he asks, eyes gleaming as he takes a slow sip.

I hesitate.

And Xiva notices.

He notices everything.

"Ah," he exhales, leaning back, a knowing hum in his throat. "So it’s like that."

I don’t move.

Don’t react.

But he knows.

Of course, he fucking knows.

Because Xiva Herox has ruled for too long, has played too many games, has seen too many men fall because of their desires. He knows what happens when power tangles with hunger.

"Do you believe you control her?" he asks smoothly, watching me over the rim of his goblet.

I meet his gaze. "She is mine."

Then—a quiet laugh.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just amused.

"That," Xiva murmurs, "is what men always say before they lose everything."

I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay loose. "You think she will break me?"

"I think you do not yet understand what she is," my father corrects, swirling his wine.

His gaze is piercing. Unforgiving.

"You let her into your bed."

Not a question.

A statement.

I don’t answer.

I don’t need to.

He already knows.

"She fights like something untamed," Xiva muses, voice thoughtful. "Like something that does not know its own chains."

He raises his head, gaze narrowing.

"Tell me, son. What happens when you finally leash her? When she stops fighting? When there is nothing left for you to chase?"

My jaw tightens.

I don’t have an answer.

I don’t fucking know.

And Xiva grins.

"Do you remember what I told you when you were a boy?"

His voice is lower now.

Softer.

It pulls at something inside me.

A memory—of me, much younger, standing before him in the training rings, my hands bloodied, my lip split from the last round of combat.

"Strength is not just in the body, Xyron. It is in the mind."

"In the patience to hold the knife without using it. In the wisdom to know when to strike." He leans forward now, hands steepled. "So tell me, my son—do you still hold the knife? Or have you already cut too deep?"

The question settles like a stone in my chest.

I don’t understand.

Hira is under my skin. In my blood. In my fucking bones.

I am not certain who is hunting who.

Xiva watches me, eyes unreadable.

Then, finally—he smiles.

"Good."

I arch a brow. "Good?"

He leans back, stretching like a satisfied beast.

"You should always be uncertain, my son." His voice is silk and steel, warmth and warning. "It keeps you from becoming weak."

I stand, my chest tight, my mind turning.

Xiva lifts his goblet in silent dismissal.

"Be wise, Xyron. Be ruthless. And remember ? —"

His eyes glint, sharp and golden.

"Love is the deadliest weapon of all."