Page 28 of Warlord’s Plaything

28

XYRON

T he private training hall is silent, except for the faint hum of torches burning along the obsidian walls.

The space is overflowing—not just with heat, but with something else.

Something unspoken.

I stand in the center of the room, rolling my shoulders, testing my blade.

Xiva stands opposite me, his expression unreadable, his posture as strong as ever.

But there’s something wrong.

Something that makes the hairs at my nape stand on edge.

"You wished to discuss something?" I keep my tone even, casual, but this summons lingers.

Xiva doesn’t answer immediately.

He studies me, his eyes assessing, sharp, and takes a slow, deliberate step forward.

"You’ve lost your patience, boy."

"I didn’t realize you called me here for a lecture."

His smirk is slow. Familiar. "You should always be prepared for one."

I exhale, adjusting my grip on the hilt of my sword. A familiar dance. A game we’ve played a thousand times before.

But something is different. His movements are precise, powerful—but slower. A half-second delay. A flicker of strain. The realization curls in my stomach like a blade turning inward.

I don’t fucking like it.

"You wish to test me?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

Xiva tilts his head, and for a brief second, I see something beyond the warlord.

I see the man who raised me.

"No, son." He lifts his blade. "I wish to remind you what strength truly is."

I don’t hesitate.

I move first.

The clash of steel shatters the quiet, ringing through the hall like a war cry.

I strike, fast and sharp, my blade slicing through the air—but he counters.

Barely.

I see it in the way his footwork favors his left side. The way his breathing falters for a fraction of a second.

Something is wrong.

But he won’t say it.

He won’t fucking say it.

"You’re distracted."

His voice cuts through my thoughts, and I tighten my grip, forcing my focus back to the fight.

"No," I counter, twisting into a strike. "I’m reading you."

"Then read carefully."

His attack comes swift—faster than I expect.

I barely dodge the blade before his arm slams into my ribs, sending me staggering back.

A sharp jolt of pain shoots through my side.

I growl. "Fucking old man."

He chuckles. "Sloppy, boy."

I adjust my stance.

I should be pissed.

But there’s something else coiling beneath my skin—a tension I can’t place.

He’s pushing me. But I can see the cracks. The slight tremor in his wrist. The momentary stiffness in his movements. The flicker of exhaustion in his eyes.

"How long?"

The words leave my mouth before I can think about it.

Xiva stills.

"How long what?"

"How long have you been weaker?"

Silence.

For a second, just a fucking second, I think he might answer. But then, he moves again—faster, sharper. A clean strike, nearly taking my shoulder. I deflect at the last second, my blade catching his.

"I am not weak."

His voice is steady. Controlled.

Too controlled.

And suddenly, I want to fucking hit him.

Not because of the fight.

Not because of whatever lesson he’s trying to carve into my bones.

But I know he’s lying.

And he’s not even trying to hide it.

"You’re hiding something."

"You sound like a child."

"I’m not a child." I push forward, forcing him back. "I see the way you move. I see the fucking difference."

His gaze hardens.

"Do you doubt me?"

"I doubt your honesty."

His lips curl into a sharp, knowing smirk.

"Then that is something we have in common."

I grit my teeth.

This is not how this should feel.

This is not how my father should look after a fight.

He should be unshaken. Unmoved.

But instead—he looks tired.

Like this fight cost him something.

Like the weight of the crown is finally sinking into his fucking bones.

"You’re not telling me something," I say, voice lower now.

"And you are not listening."

Another strike.

Another clash.

A moment of stillness, our swords locked between us.

His strength is still there, but the edge of it—it’s duller.

Less like an unbreakable warlord.

More like a man holding onto something already slipping.

"What are you trying to prove?" I grit out.

His gaze doesn’t waver. "That no matter what happens, you must be strong."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means," his blade twists against mine, forcing me back a step, "that the moment you show them weakness, they will bury you in it."

I still.

Suddenly, I realize… He’s not talking about himself.

"The Council is waiting for you to fall," he says, quieter now. "And they will strike when you least expect it."

"Then I’ll kill them first."

His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, not quite approval.

"Good. But be careful, Xyron." A flicker of something in his eyes. "Your greatest strength will be your greatest weakness."

I don’t understand until it’s too late.