Page 25 of Warlord’s Plaything

25

XYRON

T he message arrives before the blood on my hands has even dried.

A folded piece of black parchment, placed neatly on my war table like an invitation. Sealed with dark wax, stamped with the insignia of the Council.

I don’t open it immediately.

I already fucking know.

I can feel it, thick in the air, crawling over my skin like a slow, sinking weight.

The Council is moving.

And they aren’t playing anymore.

The firelight flickers against the walls, casting twisting shadows that stretch and coil. The stench of charred wood and blood clings to my skin.

Valis is predictable.

Kaelith is not.

He’s a man who watches from the edges, waits until the perfect moment before sliding the knife between ribs.

And this—**this message, this carefully timed declaration—**this is the first real cut.

The first fucking warning shot.

I rip the wax seal off, unfolding the parchment with slow precision.

The writing is neat. Too neat.

A carefully scripted threat, dressed in formal pleasantries.

"The Council requests your presence at the High Chamber at dawn. Your decisions have raised concerns. We would hate to misunderstand your… intentions."

It’s not a request.

It’s a summons.

A trap.

And they think I’ll walk into it.

They think they have it in the bag.

"Bad news?"

Her voice cuts through the silence, rough and edged with something unreadable.

I don’t turn.

But I know exactly where she is.

Standing near the stone archway, watching.

Her presence is a weight in the room, a gravity I can’t fucking ignore.

Even now.

Even when the world is starting to crack open beneath my feet.

"You tell me," I murmur, folding the parchment between my fingers. "You’re always good at causing trouble."

She huffs, stepping forward. "And you were always good at making sure I paid for it."

I glance at her then.

She’s still wearing the dress from the gathering, but it’s rumpled now, the fabric creased, her hair slightly disheveled.

Like she’s been pacing. Restless.

Like she’s still feeling the aftermath of what I did to that noble.

Of what we almost did on that balcony.

"What does the letter say?" she asks, crossing her arms.

I don’t answer right away.

Instead, I let my gaze drag over her, slow, deliberate, letting the silence stretch.

I want to see it.

That flicker in her eyes.

That awareness.

That fucking hunger she refuses to name.

"The Council is moving against me."

Her brows knit together, just slightly. "Because of me?"

I smirk. "You think too highly of yourself, little warrior."

She scowls, bristling like an untamed thing.

But I see the moment of hesitation, the flash of something deeper beneath the fire.

A question she doesn’t want to ask.

A fear she doesn’t want to name.

That maybe she is the reason.

That maybe, without realizing it, she’s already become the crack in my armor.

"So?" she presses, sharpening the edge in her voice.

"So," I echo, stepping closer, crowding into her space just enough to make her breath hitch. "They want me to answer for my actions."

"And what actions would those be?"

"Keeping you alive."

She stills.

For just a moment.

I stare at the way her throat moves, the way her fingers twitch like she wants to reach for something?—

A blade. A weapon. A way out.

But there’s no way out of this.

Not for her.

Not for me.

And fuck me, I don’t know if I even want one anymore.

"What happens if they decide you’ve made the wrong choice?" she asks, voice lower now.

Less sharp.

More dangerous.

Because she already knows.

She’s smart enough to read between the lines.

The Council doesn’t waste time with trials.

They don’t offer second chances.

If they see me as a threat, if they decide I am no longer fit to rule…

They’ll try to end me.

"Then I kill them first."

Her eyes flicker.

Not in surprise.

Not even fucking close.

She expected that answer.

But something shifts in her expression.

Something I don’t quite understand.

Yet.

"Then why the fuck are you still here?" she demands. "You should be planning, making moves, doing something ? —"

"I am."

I reach for her.

Not roughly.

Not like a warlord claiming his prize.

But like a man choosing his fucking weakness.

Her breath stutters.

And she hates it.

I see it in her eyes, in the way she clenches her fists like she wants to strike me just as much as she wants me to keep touching her.

And I could.

Right now.

I could pin her against the wall, tear that fucking dress from her body, remind her exactly why she keeps coming back to me.

But I don’t.

Because for once, I want to hear her say it.

I want to hear her admit it.

That this is more than hate.

That this is so much fucking worse.

"You’re a selfish bastard," she murmurs, her voice unsteady.

I grin, low, dark. "And you like it."

She glares.

No denial spills from her lips.

She can’t deny it or else it will be an outright lie.

We both know that whatever this is between us, it’s already ruined us both.

I don’t even fucking care.