Page 39 of Warlord’s Plaything
39
HIRA
T he taste of him is still on my lips.
The heat of his body lingers on my skin, a brand I don’t have time to think about, but fuck, I feel it.
My heart pounds in my chest as I move through the tunnels, my steps swift, silent.
I can still smell him on me.
It makes something dark coil in my stomach, something sharp and possessive—something that doesn’t belong here, not now, not when he’s still in chains.
I need to move.
I need to focus.
By sundown, they will put a blade to his throat, and I will burn this fucking world down before I let that happen.
The tunnels are quieter than they should be.
My breath is too loud in my ears.
The flickering torches cast shadows against the walls, twisting, shifting—like the darkness itself is watching.
Like it knows what’s about to happen.
Like it’s waiting for the slaughter.
I slide through the narrow opening leading to the upper levels, stepping into the bowels of the territory like a ghost.
The above are already buzzing with tension.
I can hear it in the murmurs of the crowds.
I can feel it in the way the territory breathes—shallow, uneven, waiting.
They are preparing for a show.
For a spectacle.
For the warlord’s final moment.
They don’t know it’s going to be their reckoning.
"Hira."
The whisper barely reaches me before I spin, blade half-drawn, breath tight.
The hooded figure doesn’t flinch, stepping out from the shadows.
The soldier.
"We’re ready." His voice is low, urgent.
I exhale, pushing past the storm in my chest.
"How many?"
"A handful." His lips curl in a grim smirk. "But the right handful."
Good.
It’s not enough, not nearly fucking enough.
But I don’t have the luxury of waiting.
"The territory is expecting blood." I keep my voice firm. "We give them something else."
His eyes flicker.
"And if we fail?"
"Then we go out the way Xyron would."
A sharp grin.
"Fucking swinging."
The plan is simple.
Brutal. Reckless. Unforgiving.
A perfectly orchestrated symphony of chaos.
While the city’s eyes are on the arena, my people move in the shadows.
The gates will be compromised, the guards strategically taken out one by one.
By the time they realize what’s happening, it’ll be too late.
And Xyron?—
He will be free.
I pull the hood of my cloak tighter, swallowing down the wildfire in my chest.
"We do this clean. Fast. No hesitation."
The dark elf nods.
If Xyron dies, there will be nothing left of me to save.
If I lose him now, I won’t stop until this entire fucking place drowns in its own blood.
The crowd is already gathering.
I slip through them, a phantom moving through the murmurs of anticipation, through the sick excitement humming through the air.
I can hear the bets being placed.
The twisted fucking glee in their voices.
"How long do you think he’ll last?"
"The warlord of Herox? He won’t kneel. They’ll make it slow."
"A shame, really. That face shouldn’t go to waste."
I want to cut out their tongues.
I want to make them choke on their own words.
But not yet.
Not yet.
Because soon, the executioners will learn fear.
Soon, the council will see what happens when they try to kill a god before his time.
Soon, this city will belong to the flames.
And by the end of this night, they will all remember the name Hira.
They will all remember the warlord I set free.
And they will all fucking kneel before him.