Page 13 of Warlord's Plaything

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 backalive. 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 noblewantsme 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.

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