Page 127 of Warlord's Plaything

The first explosion shatters stone.

The first scream splits the air.

And just like that—we are at war.

I don’t think.

I move.

Because Xyron is still on his knees, his neck still bared to the blade.

The executioner is falling, blood pouring from his throat.

I can feel the moment breaking, splintering—either we take it, or we die here.

"Get him up!"

My voice is a snarl, raw with battle-fury, as I cut through the chaos, charging toward Xyron.

Guards swarm the platform.

Blades gleam in the torchlight, slashing toward us.

But I am faster.

I twist, my dagger finds soft flesh, my sword follows through with a spray of crimson.

A body falls.

Another takes its place.

And then Xyron is moving.

He doesn’t need saving.

Even without magic, even weakened, even bloodied—he is still a warlord.

He shoves a guard aside, grabs another by the throat, yanks the man’s own dagger from its sheath and buries it in his chest.

"You’re late."Xyron growls, eyes flashing at me as he rips a sword from a dead man’s hands.

"I’m right on time."I throw him another weapon, and he catches it without looking.

The execution platform is drenched in bodies within minutes.

The rebellion has arrived in full force.

Varian’s soldiers pour in from the northern ridge, dark elf loyalists mixed in with human gladiators, all descending upon the execution square like a goddamn storm.

They strike hard, brutal, weapons flashing, feet crushing through the dirt and blood.

I see Dagen’s axe gleaming through the mess, cutting a soldier down at the knees.

I see Sella slip through the chaos, a dagger slicing a throat clean.

For a moment—just a moment—victory seems within reach.

And then I realize we’re wrong.

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