Page 37 of Warlord’s Plaything

37

HIRA

I t’s like the air itself has turned to steel.

Thick. Cold. Suffocating.

Everything inside me twists and burns, a roaring inferno of rage and panic clawing at my ribs.

The walls of the underground hideout feel too fucking close.

Like I’m trapped.

Like I’m running out of time.

And I am.

Xyron is going to die.

"The execution has been moved up."

The words echo, repeating in my skull.

A dull, sickening throb pulses in my temple but I ignore it.

I focus on the bastard standing in front of me—the one who just dropped that little fucking bomb on me.

Varian.

His face is calm, too calm, too fucking smug.

I want to rip that expression right off.

"Say that again." My voice is razor-edged, low, deadly.

He raises his head, unimpressed.

"Tomorrow at sundown. They moved it up. Seems the Council doesn’t want him lingering in the cells any longer than necessary."

Something inside me snaps.

The chair behind me crashes to the ground as I move, fast, too fast.

Before I can think, I slam Varian against the wall, forearm crushing into his throat.

His smirk vanishes.

Good.

"And when were you planning on telling me?"

He doesn’t answer.

The fucker just grins again, lips curling like this is funny.

Like my blood isn’t on fucking fire.

"The fuck do you care, Hira?" He exhales a short laugh. "You still have a choice. You still have your precious deal with the orcs, don’t you?"

That makes me press harder.

He grunts, fingers twitching against my arm.

"I care," I growl. "If he dies, we all fucking lose."

Varian’s golden-brown eyes narrow.

"Funny." He chokes out a breath. "Sounds personal."

It is.

It fucking is.

But I can’t say that.

There’s no way I can admit it.

Admitting that Xyron isn’t just another pawn, just another warlord who needs saving?

That would be dangerous.

And I can’t afford weakness.

Not now.

I release him suddenly, violently, shoving away before I do something worse.

Varian coughs, rubbing his throat, still fucking smirking.

"If you want to do something about it, you better act fast."

He straightens, rolling his shoulders like I didn’t just nearly crush his windpipe.

"They’re parading him through the streets before the execution. They want a show."

The breath punches from my lungs.

"A show?"

Varian nods.

"A spectacle. He’ll be in chains, magic suppressed, beaten for all to see before they put a blade to his throat in the arena."

The visual makes me sick.

Xyron.

A monster caged.

A warrior stripped bare before those who used to bow before him.

He won’t be able to fight back.

And that—that is fucking unacceptable.

"I need allies," I murmur, more to myself than to him.

Varian scoffs.

"What makes you think you have any left?"

I don’t hesitate.

"Not everyone in the capital is loyal to the Council."

He opens his mouth to argue—but then the door opens.

A shadow moves inside.

A figure, hooded, dressed in armor that is too polished, too familiar.

And then—the hood is pulled back.

I still.

There’s no way I can forget the face in front of me.

"You’re Xyron’s man."

The dark elf soldier watches me, expression unreadable.

"I was. But my warlord is no traitor. And neither are those who still serve him."

He steps closer, his gaze cold but calculating.

"There are some of us who would die before we watch the House of Herox fall to cowards like Kaelith."

Another pause.

"The only question is—are you willing to do what it takes to get him out?"

The words hit like a storm.

Varian makes a noise of protest.

"You’re actually considering this?" He scoffs, looking between me and the dark elf. "A handful of loyalists won’t be enough. You’d be throwing yourself into ? —"

"I don’t care. Fuck it all."

The words rip out of me before I even process it.

This is it.

The time I make my choice.

"We need a plan," I say, my voice sharper than steel.

"Then we don’t have much time." The soldier meets my gaze.

"Tomorrow, we strike."