Page 36 of Warlord’s Plaything
36
XYRON
T he screams come first.
Raw. Unrelenting. Ripped from throats that have nothing left to give.
The atmosphere in the dungeons is covered with the stench of blood, sweat, and the slow rot of men who have been left to fester in their own filth.
But this time, it’s not me.
Not yet.
It’s them.
The gladiators—the human slaves who thought they could defy their masters.
The same ones who once stood beside Hira, who fought with her in the pits, who saw her as something more.
Now, they’re nothing more than meat on the Council’s butcher table.
"You see them, don’t you?"
Kaelith’s voice slithers through the dark, smooth as silk, sharp as steel.
"Your little rebel whore’s precious warriors."
He gestures toward the stone slabs where half-dead bodies hang in their restraints, broken beyond recognition.
The flickering torchlight crawls across their skin, illuminating every cut, every lash mark, every shattered bone that juts through flesh.
They are not warriors anymore.
They are examples.
A guard steps forward, red-hot iron in hand.
There’s a moment of silence—a heartbeat, nothing more—before the iron is pressed against a man’s chest.
The sound is sickening.
Flesh sizzles.
The gladiator screams.
And still—I don’t move a muscle.
"Cold, even now?"
Kaelith crouches beside me, his eyes gleaming with something too pleased.
"Or does it bother you? Watching them suffer? Knowing they will die with you in the arena?"
I lift my head slowly, just enough to meet his gaze.
"Did you really drag me here just to hear them scream?" My voice is hoarse, wrecked, but still sharp enough to cut.
Kaelith tilts his head, smirking.
"No, Xyron. I dragged you here to break you."
He nods to one of his men.
A bundle of cloth is dropped at my feet.
Heavy. Weighted. Meaningful.
I say nothing.
But I feel it already.
The shift. The gut-wrenching inevitability.
And then—the cloth is pulled away.
A scroll.
Thick parchment, sealed with a warlord’s crest.
I know the symbol.
A sigil.
An orc’s mark.
And then—I see the handwriting.
The breath in my lungs turns to fucking stone.
It’s hers.
Hira’s.
Her name.
Her signature.
Scrawled at the bottom of a contract.
I don’t breathe.
I don’t blink.
If I do—I might lose whatever’s left of my fucking sanity.
"Curious, isn’t it?" Kaelith muses, pacing in front of me.
"She never told you, did she?"
He crouches down again, his smirk widening.
"That she is orc-born. That she belongs to something bigger than you."
The words land like daggers in my ribs.
She never told me.
The ink on that parchment is still fresh.
Which means?—
"She didn’t just sign away her freedom." Kaelith’s voice is a fucking whisper, smooth and slow, savoring every syllable. "She signed away yours, too."
He taps the paper.
"Marrying an orc chieftain in exchange for an army. An army to take down my Council. To bring war to my lands."
His eyes narrow.
"To burn it all to the ground."
A cruel fucking pause.
"And she didn’t even tell you."
Something in me snaps.
The chains groan as my muscles coil, tension building, fire in my fucking bones.
"She didn’t ? —"
The words die on my tongue.
The answer eludes me and the only thing staring back at me is cold, hard proof.
Her name.
Her choice.
And it wasn’t me.
"I can see it now," Kaelith hums, watching me unravel. "You thought she was different, didn’t you?"
I say nothing.
I fucking believed in her.
"She is just like the rest of them."
He steps closer, voice lower now, meant for me alone.
"She let you fuck her. Let you touch her. Let you think you could have her."
A beat of silence.
"And now, she is giving herself to another."
The fury is blinding.
Raw. Violent. Unforgiving.
I grit my teeth, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue.
It’s a lie.
It has to be.
If it’s not?—
"Enjoy the pit, warlord."
Kaelith steps away, leaving the scroll at my feet.
"You die at sundown tomorrow."
A slow, fucking wicked pause.
"Maybe she'll come to watch."
And then, he’s gone.
The darkness swallows me whole.
And I am left alone.
With nothing but a piece of parchment and my own fucking doubt.