Page 52 of Warlord’s Plaything
52
HIRA
T he fires still smolder.
The battlefield is a graveyard of bodies that refuse to stay dead.
And Kaelith is gone.
But he left his corruption behind.
I can still feel it in the air.
A foul, slithering thing, wrapping around my throat, sinking into my bones.
Xyron feels it more.
His back is to me, eyes fixed on the horizon.
The wind whips through his silver hair, his jaw locked, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
I’ve seen him angry before.
Seen him hungry for battle.
For blood.
But this?
This is different.
He’s not just furious.
He’s haunted.
"This is why my father never let them take this land."
His voice is low, strained, like he's speaking through clenched teeth.
"It wasn’t just about power. Not just about legacy. It was because of this."
He gestures toward the battlefield, toward the abomination Kaelith left behind.
The ground still writhes with the remnants of his spell, corpses twitching, the aura of death lingering.
"This place breeds necromancy. It’s old magic. Evil magic."
He exhales sharply.
"And it was our family’s duty to keep it locked away."
I watch him.
Waiting.
He's not done.
There’s more.
Something buried beneath the weight of his words.
And when he speaks again, it’s quieter.
Almost a confession.
"I was born for this."
He turns to me, finally.
"To stop it. To end this fucking war before it consumes everything."
His eyes burn.
Not with anger.
Not with vengeance.
But with purpose.
With duty.
This isn’t just about revenge for him anymore.
This isn’t just about reclaiming power.
This is about stopping something far worse.
Something that, if left unchecked, will spread beyond this territory.
Beyond this war.
A scream.
A sound sharp enough to slice through our moment like a blade.
I whip my head toward the source.
There.
The outskirts of the battlefield.
A small war band.
Orcs.
Fighting. But not against elves. They’re fighting the undead.
And at the center of them, swinging a bloodied axe, teeth bared in a snarl.
Menias.
My mouth parts.
Not from shock.
Not from some fucking familial instinct screaming at me to save my long-lost father.
But with the knowledge that this war isn’t over yet.
If we don’t handle this now, we won’t have an army left to fight Kaelith.
I look at Xyron.
He already knows.
"You’re going to save him."
It’s not a question.
I nod, gripping my blade tighter.
"Not because I give a damn about him. If we don’t— We’ll be fighting this war alone."
The battlefield turns into a blur.
I move fast, too fast, cutting through reanimated corpses, dodging their clawing hands, feeling the burn of exhaustion claw at my limbs.
But I don’t stop.
I need to get to him.
Because whether I fucking like it or not?—
Menias is still useful.
He sees me coming.
His eyes narrow, confusion flickering across his face for a split second before he realizes what’s happening.
"Move!" I snarl, cutting down a rotting corpse lunging toward him.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He’s a warlord. A killer.
And even if he wasn’t a father to me… Even if he never cared about anything but power… He knows how to survive.
We fight together.
Slaughtering the last of the undead surrounding him.
And when it’s over, when the battlefield is still again, we stand there, staring at each other.
Breathing heavy.
Waiting.
Daring the other to speak first.
"Why?"
The word is sharp. Rough. Suspicious.
I wipe blood from my face, letting my lips curl into a smirk.
"I want something."
His eyes darken.
"Of course you do."
I nod toward the battlefield.
"This war isn’t between us anymore. Kaelith isn’t just trying to kill us—he’s trying to control death itself. If we don’t stop him ? —"
"We’ll all be his fucking puppets before the end of it." Menias exhales, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off an old wound.
His warriors are waiting, watching, tense.
If Kaelith wins there will be nothing left to rule.
"We fight together."
The words taste bitter.
But they’re necessary.
And Menias?
He grins.
"Then let’s go kill the bastard."