Page 135 of Warlord's Plaything

"I was supposed to protect them, Xyron."My breath heaves, fists still clenched."I was supposed to get them out! I was supposed to?—"

The words choke, catch, die in my throat.

The truth is—I don’t know what I was supposed to do anymore.

Nothing I did was enough.

I thought I was a leader, a warrior, a goddamn warlord?—

But all I am is a girl standing in the dark, covered in the blood of the people who trusted her.

"You think I don’t feel the same?"Xyron steps forward, voice low, dark, edged with something sharp.

"You think I don’t blame myself? I couldn’t even grieve my father."

His gaze is unrelenting, fierce, furious.

"I should have seen Kaelith’s trap. I should have known. I should have?—"

He cuts himself off. Jaw tight. Hands shaking.

We don’t talk, the tension enough to speak for us.

What the fuck do you even say in this kind of situation?

It doesn’t matter.

We can list our failures over and over, carve them into our fucking bones?—

But it won’t bring them back.

It won’t undo the dead.

"I don’t know what to do, Xyron."

The confession is quiet.

Small.

Pathetic.

I don’t even realize I’ve said it until I feel him move—until I feel the warmth of his palm curling around the back of my neck, grounding me, steadying me.

"We survive,"he says simply."We find a way. We always do."

I squeeze my eyes shut. A deep inhale. A slow, shaking exhale.

His fingers tighten just slightly—just enough to remind me that I’m not alone.

And fuck, I hate how much I need that right now.

But then?—

The whisper of voices.

The soft, exhausted murmurs of the men who followed us down here.

The last remnants of our army.

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