Page 142 of Warlord's Plaything

I wasn’t there.

I was rotting in chains and unable to protect what’s left of my father’s legacy.

I wasn’t enough.

I push the thought aside before it eats me alive.

I don’t have time for ghosts.

Grief is a luxury I don’t have.

I have one goddamn night.

And I will not let Hira walk into that marriage blind.

The shadows welcome me.

My steps are silent, my body moving through the rubble with practiced ease.

What’s left of my father’s study is half-buried under the collapsed eastern wing of the stronghold.

I find it by instinct—by the scent of old parchment and the memory of a place I spent my childhood watching my father carve the future into ink and blood.

The door is barely hanging on its hinges.

The room is wrecked—papers scattered, furniture overturned, broken glass catching the flickering glow of the dying torches.

But the cabinet at the back?

Still standing.

Still locked.

And I know my father better than anyone.

If there was ever a truth worth hiding, it’s in there.

I break the lock with a single twist of my blade.

Parchment spills onto the floor, old maps, trade agreements, half-written letters of war.

But I’m not looking for those.

I’m looking for what they tried to erase.

What they burned the city to hide.

And then?—

I see it.

A sealed letter.

A small, dark vial.

And the symbol etched into the wax makes my blood run cold.

An orc clan seal.

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