Page 32 of Warlord's Plaything

"She is a problem."

The words slither from his mouth, slow and deliberate, every syllable coiling like a viper about to strike.

"And you, Lord Xyron, are letting it fester."

I don’t react.

Not outwardly.

Because that’s what they want.

The chamber is full tonight.

The high-ranking dark elves of House Herox, gathered around a massive obsidian table, their robes thick with wealth, their expressions sharpened by centuries of cruelty.

They are older than me.

But not stronger.

And they fucking know it.

Xiva, my father, sits at the head of the table. He hasn’t spoken yet, just watches, eyes half-lidded, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his goblet.

The others wait for his word.

But Valis speaks anyway.

He's a rat who thinks he can bite a wolf.

"The human bitch defies us openly,"he continues, voice silken with malice."She incites rebellion among the slaves, mocks our traditions. And yet?—"

He gestures toward me with his goblet, wine sloshing over the rim.

"She still breathes."

A calculated silence follows.

Then—Kaelith chuckles.

Kaelith.

My second-in-command, my war general, the only one in this room whose hands are as bloodstained as mine.

He sits with one boot braced against the table’s edge, his smirk sharp, amused.

"Maybe he likes the fight."

His voice is a lazy drawl, but there’s an undercurrent of something darker beneath it.

Valis stiffens."You think this is a game?"

"No,"Kaelith murmurs. He raises his head toward me."I think he’s testing something. Waiting. Watching. And we all know he doesn’t keep things around unless they serve a purpose."

His gaze meets mine across the table.

Waiting.

He’s trying to read me.

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