Page 46 of Warlord's Plaything

I stand at the corner of the pits, my fingers curled into tight fists, watching as the others move like shadows through the tunnels, preparing for the raid.

The underground air smells of sweat, steel, and quiet desperation.

No one speaks.

Not yet.

What we’re about to do presses against us all like a fucking storm waiting to break.

I should be afraid.

I should be thinking about the ones we lost.

But all I feel is the burn.

The anger.

The need to strike back—to make them bleed for every drop of blood they’ve taken from us.

And I don’t give a damn if I burn with it.

"This is reckless."

Dagen’s voice is low, tense.

I don’t look at him. I don’t need to.

I already know the look he’s giving me—the one he always does when he thinks I’m pushing too far.

"You knew what this was."I keep my voice composed, my focus sharp."This doesn’t stop. Not now."

He exhales, sharp and frustrated."It’s different now. We’ve already lost too much. If this goes wrong?—"

"Then we adapt."I turn to him, finally, meeting his gaze head-on."Or you walk away."

Something flickers across his face—anger, maybe even hurt.

But he doesn’t move.

He won’t walk.

Not really.

Not when we’ve come this fucking far.

It’s been happening more often.

The fury.

The restlessness.

The way my blood hums too loud in my veins, screaming for more.

This isn’t just about survival anymore.

It’s about domination.

Destruction.

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