Page 5 of Warlord’s Plaything

5

HIRA

M y body hums with the aftermath of the fight.

I can still feel him.

The press of his fingers against my wrists, the hot breath against my ear, the strength of his body caging me in but never breaking me.

I should hate how much I liked it.

How much it made my pulse pound, made my skin burn, made my body wake the fuck up in a way I haven’t felt in years.

I do hate it.

But gods help me—I want to do it again.

The training grounds are empty now, the torches still flickering, the scent of sweat and blood still lingering in the thick, humid air. My muscles ache, my knuckles are bruised, and my heartbeat still hasn't fucking calmed down.

I roll my shoulders, ignoring the dull throb of pain as I stride back toward the slave pits—the underground cavernous cells where the gladiators are kept, where the smell of damp stone and rusted chains fill the air, where hope comes to die.

But tonight, something is different.

Something sharp is stirring beneath the surface, something restless, something that tastes like change.

The moment I step past the iron doors, I feel their eyes on me.

The other gladiators. The slaves.

Men and women hardened by war and survival, butchered in the pits for the amusement of the nobles.

They look at me like I’m something else now.

"Did you fuck him?"

The voice comes from the darkness—gritty, sharp.

I don’t flinch.

I don’t even turn as Dagen steps forward, his scarred face half-lit by the torchlight. His knuckles are bruised, split from too many fights. His eyes are dark and unreadable.

I tilt my head, giving him a slow, sharp grin. "Jealous?"

A few men chuckle from the shadows.

Dagen doesn’t smile.

"You disappeared after the fight," he says, voice low, dangerous. "Came back dressed like a fucking noble’s whore. Then trained with him?"

I snort. "I came back alive . That’s what you should be worried about."

"Alive, sure." Dagen crosses his arms, watching me. "But for how long?"

A figure shifts near the stone wall. Sella.

She’s younger than me, but just as scarred. The pits have stolen something from her, something fragile, something soft.

She doesn’t speak much. But now, her voice is quiet, hesitant.

"What did he want?"

The others lean in slightly.

Waiting.

Watching.

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders. "He wanted a fight. He wanted to test me."

A scoff. "And?"

I smirk. "And I won."

A low murmur ripples through the crowd.

Dagen’s lip curls. "You think this is a fucking game, Hira? You think because a dark elf noble let you live, it means you have power here?"

I take a step toward him.

"No," I murmur, slow, deliberate. "I think because a dark elf noble wants me alive, it means we all have power here."

Silence.

A charged, electric silence.

Dagen steps forward until we’re inches apart. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough to feel his suffocating anger, his suspicion, his fucking desperation.

"You’re playing a dangerous game," he murmurs, voice rough, dark.

"So are we all," I counter.

He studies me for a long moment. “What’s your plan, Hira?"

My pulse thrums.

I step back, sweeping my gaze over them all.

Gladiators. Fighters. People with nothing to lose.

And I say, low and sure?—

"We stop fighting for them."

Dagen stiffens. "The fuck are you talking about?"

I tilt my head. "You think this system works because we’re weak?" I pause. Let them feel it. Let them ache for it. "No. It works because we play along."

Murmurs ripple again.

Sella shifts uneasily. "If we refuse to fight?—"

"They kill us?" I laugh, sharp and humorless. "They already do. But what happens when we stop making it fun for them?"

The silence thickens.

Dagen exhales harshly. "You think one rebellion will burn down a fucking empire?"

I smirk. "I think a single ember can burn a forest to the ground."

There’s a shift in the air.

Something real. Something tangible.

A rebellion isn’t built in a day.

But this?

This is the fucking spark.

Dagen clenches his jaw. But he doesn’t argue.

He knows I’m right.

We’ve been waiting for something, someone, to remind us we’re still alive.

That we’re not just bodies for sport.

That we can still fucking fight.

And maybe, just maybe—we can win.

Suddenly, a sound from the tunnel entrance interrupts us.

Footsteps.

Not human.

I stiffen as a shadow moves through the dim light.

Tall. Elegant. Cold.

Xyron.

His eyes flick over the gathered gladiators before locking onto me.

His lips curl.

"Am I interrupting something?"

The pit goes silent.

Fucking perfect.

I let my mouth curl into a slow, sharp grin.

"Not at all, my lord."