Page 26 of Warlord’s Plaything
26
HIRA
T he air crackles around me, heavy with the stench of steel and sweat, the faint sting of charred incense still clinging to the training grounds.
Xyron stands across from me, eyes unreadable, his posture deceptively relaxed. A predator waiting for the kill.
He’s always fucking watching.
Waiting for me to slip.
Waiting for me to show momentary weakness.
I tighten my grip around the hilt of the sword, trying to ignore the heat crawling under my skin, the slow, insidious fire burning in my veins.
Something’s wrong with me.
I feel it.
I’ve felt it since the moment I woke up in his bed, since the moment I let him drag me under.
And now, it’s getting worse.
"Focus, little warrior."
His voice is low, taunting. A deliberate pull.
A challenge.
I don’t take the bait.
Not this time.
Instead, I roll my shoulders, stretching the tension, pushing against the feeling clawing inside me.
"Are we going to fight or are you just going to talk?"
His lips curve into a slow, knowing smirk.
"Impatient?"
"Bored."
A lie.
A fucking lie.
Because right now, standing here with him—I feel anything but bored.
The moment shifts.
A whisper of air, a flicker of movement—and then he’s on me.
Fast. Hard. Merciless.
I barely block the first strike, the impact shuddering through my bones.
But it’s not just the force of his attack.
It’s the way he moves.
The way he’s always too fucking close.
The way his breath brushes my skin as I twist out of reach.
I strike—he counters.
I shift—he follows.
It’s a dance.
A war.
A fucking game of control.
"Too slow, Hira."
"Fuck off."
His chuckle is low, dark.
And then he moves again—fast, too fast.
I barely register the shift before I’m pinned, sword knocked from my grip, his body pressing me against the wall.
Fuck.
My breath is ragged, my pulse hammering.
He leans in, just enough for the heat of him to sink into my skin.
A mistake.
Suddenly, I don’t feel like myself anymore.
I feel fucking wild.
Restless. Like something inside me is trying to claw its way out.
I shift against him, testing his hold.
His fingers tighten around my wrists, holding me still.
"I should kill you for that."
His voice is smooth, too smooth. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. And he’s enjoying it.
"You should try," I breathe, voice sharper than I intend.
His smirk deepens.
"Careful, little warrior."
"Or what?"
"Or you might not like how this ends."
I bare my teeth.
"You think I’m afraid of you?"
"No." His gaze drags over me, slow, deliberate. "I think you’re afraid of yourself."
Something inside me snaps.
My mind goes blank.
I just move.
A brutal shift, a sharp twist—and suddenly, I’m the one pinning him.
His back hits the wall, his grip falters just enough, just fucking enough?—
And then my blade is at his throat.
Silence.
Thick. Tense. Crackling.
My breath is shallow, my muscles trembling.
Not from exhaustion.
Not from the fight.
But from whatever the fuck just happened.
From the way I moved—too fast, too strong.
From the way Xyron is just watching me now, like he’s seeing something I don’t want him to see.
"What are you?"
His voice is quiet.
Not mocking.
Not taunting.
Something else.
Something dangerous.
I step back, dropping the blade.
"I don’t know."
I fucking mean it.
Something is happening to me.
Something I can’t control.
And I have no idea what it means.
Xyron doesn’t press.
Doesn’t push.
He just tilts his head, studying me.
Then, after a long, tense beat—he smiles.
"We’ll find out soon enough."
And the worst fucking part?
I think he’s right.