Page 30 of Warlord's Plaything

Dagen scoffs, pushing off the wall."And if it goes sideways? If we get caught?"

I look at him. Dead on. No flinch. No fear.

"Then we fight like we always have."

A sharp snort. He rubs the back of his neck, frustration rolling off him in waves.

"Damn it, Hira."

I don’t answer him. I don’t need to.

We all know what’s at stake.

We all know what we stand to lose.

And none of it fucking matters.

Not anymore.

The only way out of this is through it.

Something shifts. A presence at the edge of my awareness, a prickle at my nape.

I turn before I even register the motion.

Sparring rings are scattered across the pits, dimly lit by guttering torches, their flames flickering like dying gods.

The sharp clang of steel against steel echoes, bodies moving in sweat-slicked precision.

I step forward, drawn by something I can’t name—something that makes the blood hum in my veins.

Two fighters are circling, feet kicking up dirt, their muscles coiled, ready to strike.

I feel it before it happens.

A shift in weight.

A tightening in the shoulders.

The intention, the violence, a heartbeat before it snaps.

The man on the right moves—too soon, too desperate.

And I know.

Before his opponent even lifts his weapon—I know exactly how the fight will end.

"Stop."

The word leaves my lips before I think about it.

Everything freezes.

The fighters pause mid-motion, hesitation rippling through the watching crowd.

Even Dagen stiffens, watching me like I just spoke in tongues.

My stomach twists. Too late now.

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