Page 104 of Warlord's Plaything

I freeze.

I don’t breathe.

Then, slowly, I look at him.

"Say that again, and I’ll cut out your tongue."

He smirks.

"Hit a nerve again?"

I don’t answer.

I walk away.

I don’t want to heart it.

Not yet.

34

XYRON

They drag me through the halls of the High Council like I’m already a corpse.

Like I’m something beneath them.

The chains bite deep into my wrists, enchanted steel thrumming with power meant to keep monsters like me in place.

But they don’t know me.

They never fucking did.

If they think I’ll kneel—if they think I’ll beg—they’re fucking delusional.

The grand chamber opens before me—vast, cavernous, towering columns carved from obsidian and bone.

A stage for judgment.

For spectacle.

For power and ruin.

The Council sits high above, perched like vultures waiting for the carcass to stop twitching.

At the center, on the throne that should have belonged to my father, is Kaelith.

The serpent. The traitor.

His eyes glint like a predator who’s already won.

I bare my teeth.

Not yet, you bastard.

The guards force me to my knees.

Pain splinters up my legs, but I don’t make a sound.

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