Page 112 of Warlord's Plaything

The gladiator screams.

And still—I don’t move a muscle.

"Cold, even now?"

Kaelith crouches beside me, his eyes gleaming with something too pleased.

"Or does it bother you? Watching them suffer? Knowing they will die with you in the arena?"

I lift my head slowly, just enough to meet his gaze.

"Did you really drag me here just to hear them scream?"My voice is hoarse, wrecked, but still sharp enough to cut.

Kaelith tilts his head, smirking.

"No, Xyron. I dragged you here to break you."

He nods to one of his men.

A bundle of cloth is dropped at my feet.

Heavy. Weighted. Meaningful.

I say nothing.

But I feel it already.

The shift. The gut-wrenching inevitability.

And then—the cloth is pulled away.

A scroll.

Thick parchment, sealed with a warlord’s crest.

I know the symbol.

A sigil.

An orc’s mark.

And then—I see the handwriting.

The breath in my lungs turns to fucking stone.

It’s hers.

Hira’s.

Her name.

Her signature.

Scrawled at the bottom of a contract.

I don’t breathe.

I don’t blink.

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