Page 41 of Warlord’s Plaything

41

HIRA

T he world erupts.

The first arrow pierces flesh.

The first explosion shatters stone.

The first scream splits the air.

And just like that—we are at war.

I don’t think.

I move.

Because Xyron is still on his knees, his neck still bared to the blade.

The executioner is falling, blood pouring from his throat.

I can feel the moment breaking, splintering—either we take it, or we die here.

"Get him up!"

My voice is a snarl, raw with battle-fury, as I cut through the chaos, charging toward Xyron.

Guards swarm the platform.

Blades gleam in the torchlight, slashing toward us.

But I am faster.

I twist, my dagger finds soft flesh, my sword follows through with a spray of crimson.

A body falls.

Another takes its place.

And then Xyron is moving.

He doesn’t need saving.

Even without magic, even weakened, even bloodied—he is still a warlord.

He shoves a guard aside, grabs another by the throat, yanks the man’s own dagger from its sheath and buries it in his chest.

"You’re late." Xyron growls, eyes flashing at me as he rips a sword from a dead man’s hands.

"I’m right on time." I throw him another weapon, and he catches it without looking.

The execution platform is drenched in bodies within minutes.

The rebellion has arrived in full force.

Varian’s soldiers pour in from the northern ridge, dark elf loyalists mixed in with human gladiators, all descending upon the execution square like a goddamn storm.

They strike hard, brutal, weapons flashing, feet crushing through the dirt and blood.

I see Dagen’s axe gleaming through the mess, cutting a soldier down at the knees.

I see Sella slip through the chaos, a dagger slicing a throat clean.

For a moment—just a moment—victory seems within reach.

And then I realize we’re wrong.

We didn’t surprise them.

We walked right into a trap.

The first explosion hits from the east, blasting a chunk of the battlefield apart.

Flames devour the front line of rebels.

Screams rise, deafening, agonized, bodies hitting the ground as fire licks at their skin.

Smoke billows into the air, thick, suffocating, cutting off our sight.

The Council was waiting for us.

Kaelith was waiting.

"FALL BACK!"

Varian’s voice roars through the battlefield.

But it’s already too late.

The Council’s forces come pouring in from the side, cutting off our retreat.

Dark elf warriors in elite armor, their faces unreadable beneath their helmets, their formation precise, merciless.

A second wave of soldiers presses in from the west.

Then a third.

We are surrounded.

The execution square, once our battleground, has become our tomb.

Kaelith played us.

We came ready for war—but he came ready to wipe us out.

A snarl curls my lips.

"We keep fighting!" I hiss through my teeth, already spinning, already blocking another incoming strike.

My sword meets steel, a clash of sparks, a brutal dance of survival.

Xyron is at my side, his blade slashing through the next attacker, his movements precise, controlled—but I can see the fury in him.

He knows what I know.

This was never meant to be a battle.

This was meant to be a slaughter.

"Hira!"

I turn just in time to see Varian, his face slick with blood, his blade barely blocking the strike of a dark elf captain pressing in.

"We have to regroup!" he shouts, voice hoarse. "We have to get the fuck out of here!"

I want to deny it.

I want to fight.

I want to kill every last one of these bastards for thinking they can trap us like dogs.

But I’m not stupid.

Varian is right.

If we stay here, we die.

"Form a path to the tunnels!" I order, my voice sharp as steel.

A plan is already forming in my mind, fast, reckless, but the only chance we have.

We need to get out.

We need to get underground.

And we need to fucking live long enough to make these bastards pay.

The fight doesn’t stop.

Blades clash, bodies fall, blood spills, the sounds of war roaring louder than anything I’ve ever known.

The rebellion fights like hell, carving a brutal, desperate path toward the underground tunnels buried beneath Herox’s land.

But as I glance back—my chest seizes.

The battlefield is littered with corpses.

Our corpses.

I’m afraid we’re not getting out of here.