Page 97 of Warlord's Plaything

The soldier shouts, stumbling.

I tear free.

And I run.

My bare feet pound against the floor, cold and slick with spilled blood.

The hallways blur past me, a maze of shadowed corridors and flickering torchlight.

Shouts echo behind me.

But I don’t turn back.

Not for them.

Not for him.

Not for the fucking ache in my chest that I don’t have time to name.

I run.

The gilded halls fade, the polished obsidian giving way to rough-hewn tunnels.

I push deeper, down into the filth and heat of the pits, the stench of sweat and blood wrapping around me like a shroud. Istop only when my legs threaten to give out, my breath ragged, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

My hands tremble. I press my back against the stone wall, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to block out the words.

Xyron killed his father.

No.

Not him.

Not the warlord who had touched me like I was something sacred, even when he was ruining me.

Not the man who had whispered my name like it was the only truth left in this fucking world.

Not him.

Not him.

I force myself to breathe.

To think.

I’m not safe.

Not yet.

And I won’t be until I know the fucking truth.

If they’ve taken him—if they’ve truly framed him—then the real war is just beginning.

And I am not fucking losing.

32

XYRON

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