Page 46 of Warlord’s Plaything

46

HIRA

T he air is suffocating.

The walls press too close, the flickering torchlight makes the shadows seem longer, stretching over me like claws.

I can't think.

Not when my decision is set, not when every second that passes drives the final nail into the coffin of what little freedom I have left.

I tell myself it’s the right thing.

That it has to be.

That I have no other choice.

Then the door slams open.

And I already know.

I already know who it is.

I already know what this is going to be.

"Are you fucking insane?"

Xyron’s voice slice the tension-filled room like steel meeting steel.

Raw. Unrelenting.

His boots crack against the stone, his presence swallowing the space between us in a single breath.

I don’t move.

I don’t flinch.

I just exhale, steady and slow.

I don’t want to fight.

Not him.

Not now.

"You want to do this?"

Something thuds against the table between us.

A letter.

A small, dark vial.

My brows knit together.

"What is this?"

"Your fucking wake-up call."

The words are a low growl, guttural, a beast caged behind his ribs, tearing at the bars.

I frown, reaching for the parchment first.

The wax seal is broken, but the imprint is still clear.

My stomach turns.

Orc clan markings.

I don’t want to open it.

But I do.

"The deal is secured. The poison has been provided. Your warlord will not survive the month. When his son falls, you will rule the ashes. The chieftains agree to uphold their end of the agreement. Your victory is assured."

I feel like I’m drowning.

Like I’ve been thrown into deep waters, my lungs filling with salt, my limbs heavy.

"No."

A whisper.

A breath.

A denial that means nothing.

The words on this page aren’t a lie.

This is real.

They played me.

"They killed my father, Hira."

His voice hits me like a hammer to the chest.

"And they want you next."

I stagger back.

The paper falls from my grip.

The torchlight flickers, casting the evidence in a golden glow.

Mocking me.

I was blind.

I wanted to believe.

I wanted to have something to fight for.

Now—

Now I have nothing.

"You don’t understand."

The words are hoarse, forced past my throat.

I don’t know who I’m trying to convince.

Him?

Or myself?

Xyron laughs, sharp and bitter.

"No, I understand perfectly."

He steps closer.

Too close.

"I understand that you’re about to walk into their fucking hands, gift-wrapped and bound, because you still think there’s a way out of this that doesn’t end in blood."

"What the fuck else am I supposed to do?"

I don’t mean to yell.

But it happens anyway.

I don’t have the answers.

I can’t fucking win.

Because everything I do is wrong.

"Do you want me to sit here? Do nothing? Let our people die? Let this rebellion burn?"

"I want you to stop trying to destroy yourself!"

His voice booms, shakes the walls, shakes my fucking bones.

"I want you to stop acting like the only way to win is to sacrifice yourself!"

I shove him.

He doesn’t move.

I shove him again.

Nothing.

Frustration rises in my throat like bile.

"Why do you care?!"

His eyes burn.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t answer.

Then he moves.

His hands find my face, rough, steady, unyielding.

His mouth is on mine.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not soft.

It’s not careful.

It’s desperate.

It’s a war of its own.

His fingers are in my hair, gripping, holding, pulling me closer.

My hands clutch at his coat, my breath stolen, my mind blank.

This is real.

This is the only real thing I have left.

He is the only real thing I have left.

I kiss him back.

I pour everything into it.

The anger, the grief, the fucking exhaustion that I can’t carry anymore.

He takes it all.

Consumes it.

Devours it.

And then?—

Then he softens.

His lips slow.

His hands steady.

His mouth lingers, tracing over mine like an apology, like a promise.

His forehead rests against mine.

I break.

I don’t mean to.

I don’t want to.

But I do.

I can’t hold it in anymore.

Because for all my strength, for all my fire, for all my fucking will?—

I am tired.

So fucking tired.

I feel my body give out.

I feel his arms catch me.

I feel my chest rise and fall in sharp, uneven breaths, the weight in my ribs too heavy to hold.

And I let go.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for him to hold me up.

Just long enough to remember I don’t have to fight alone.

"We’re going to burn them for this."

His voice is low.

Dangerous.

Deadly.

And I don’t doubt it.

Not for a second.

This war isn’t over.

I am not done.

He will burn for me.

And I will let him.