Page 34 of Warlord’s Plaything
34
XYRON
T hey drag me through the halls of the High Council like I’m already a corpse.
Like I’m something beneath them.
The chains bite deep into my wrists, enchanted steel thrumming with power meant to keep monsters like me in place.
But they don’t know me.
They never fucking did.
If they think I’ll kneel—if they think I’ll beg—they’re fucking delusional.
The grand chamber opens before me—vast, cavernous, towering columns carved from obsidian and bone.
A stage for judgment.
For spectacle.
For power and ruin.
The Council sits high above, perched like vultures waiting for the carcass to stop twitching.
At the center, on the throne that should have belonged to my father, is Kaelith.
The serpent. The traitor.
His eyes glint like a predator who’s already won.
I bare my teeth.
Not yet, you bastard.
The guards force me to my knees.
Pain splinters up my legs, but I don’t make a sound.
I don’t flinch and kneeling isn’t an option.
Instead, I lift my chin, meet Kaelith’s gaze, and smirk. "You always did love theatrics."
Kaelith’s lips curve, slow and knowing. "And you always did love power, Xyron." He leans forward, resting his elbow against the armrest. "Tell me, how does it feel to lose?"
I roll my shoulders, feeling the ache in my muscles, my restraints.
But I don’t break eye contact.
"I wouldn’t know."
Kaelith chuckles, shaking his head like I’m a fucking child. "Still pretending. Still playing warlord even when your empire has crumbled."
He gestures lazily to the council surrounding him, a sea of smirking, soulless bastards.
"The evidence is clear. You murdered your father."
I don’t blink. "Prove it."
His grin widens. "We don’t need to. You’re already guilty."
The room erupts into quiet laughter, low murmurs of satisfaction.
They’re enjoying this.
They think this is already over.
Fools.
Kaelith gestures again, and a pair of guards drag someone forward.
I don’t recognize him. A dark elf—one of my father’s old councilmen.
The man’s face is pale, tight with fear.
"Tell them what you saw," Kaelith orders.
The councilman swallows hard, then speaks.
"I saw Lord Xyron standing over Xiva’s body. His hands were covered in blood. The poison—" he hesitates, eyes darting toward me. "—was traced back to his chambers."
A sharp, cold laugh spills from my lips. "You’re not even trying, are you?"
The councilman flinches.
Kaelith tilts his head. "And why would we need to?"
I shake my head, tongue running over my teeth. "If you’re going to frame me, at least make it interesting." My smirk widens, sharp as a blade. "Or are you afraid of making it look too real?"
The chamber hushes, tension coiling thick in the air.
Kaelith watches me, fingers drumming against the throne.
Then—he leans back, sighing. "Arrogant until the end." His eyes flick to the guards. "Break him."
Pain detonates through me.
A fist to the ribs, another to my jaw.
I barely feel it.
Then a boot slams into my stomach, and I grunt, spitting blood onto the pristine floor.
They keep going.
I don’t break.
Not for them. Never for them.
A hand grips my hair, forcing my head up.
Kaelith crouches before me, his expression unreadable.
"Last chance, Xyron."
"Fuck you."
His lips twitch.
"Wrong answer. Tomorrow, you die in the arena."
The words sink in.
Not today.
Not a quick, clean kill.
They want spectacle.
They want me to die in the sands where I made my name.
Where I built my empire of blood and steel.
They want to make a statement.
They want to tear me down, piece by piece, in front of my own people.
The final insult.
The final fucking nail in the coffin.
Kaelith pats my cheek, voice mockingly soft.
"I wonder if she’ll come to watch."
My body goes still.
"What was her name again?" He raises his chin, pretending to think. "Hira, wasn’t it?"
I don’t react.
I stay still.
But he sees it.
The flicker. The hesitation.
He leans in.
"Ran the moment you fell. Abandoned you."
He raises his chin.
"Or maybe she never meant to stay at all."
I exhale slowly.
Control.
Control is a dangerous thing when you don’t have any left.
He’s wrong.
She wouldn’t?—
Would she?
Would she really let me rot in this fucking cage?
Would she really let them put me in the sand and slit my throat like an animal?
Would she?
Why am I even expecting something?
Kaelith smiles, watching me crack.
Then he stands, brushing off his robes.
"Tomorrow, you’ll kneel."
He turns away.
"Or you’ll die screaming."
The guards haul me back, dragging me through the doors, back into the darkness.
Back into the fucking abyss.
I can’t help wonder if he’s right.
I wonder if she’s really gone.
I wonder if I’m already dead.