Page 98 of Warlord's Plaything

The chains bite deep.

Cold iron, laced with dark enchantments, burns into my wrists, sinking past flesh, past bone, into something deeper—something raw and ancient inside me.

Power, suppressed. Caged.

The very thing I once commanded now coils inside me like a dying beast.

I am truly powerless.

The dungeon reeks of blood, damp stone, and decay.

A fitting fucking grave for a warlord.

The only light comes from the torches lining the walls, flickering shadows against rough-hewn rock.

It is cold. Not the kind that numbs—but the kind that burrows into your bones, festers there, eats you from the inside out.

Or maybe that’s just rage.

I exhale through my teeth, rolling my wrists against my restraints.

They don’t give.

The Council knew exactly how to break me.

Not with swords. Not with steel.

But with a cage.

With a fucking collar around my throat and iron around my wrists.

And still—I refuse to bow.

"You look like shit."

The voice slithers through the silence, smooth as silk, sharp as a blade.

Kaelith.

The serpent. The traitor.

The spineless fuck who had been waiting for this very moment.

"Enjoying yourself?"My voice is rough, scraped raw from disuse, but the smirk in it is undeniable."I assume you’ve been waiting for this day for a long time."

Kaelith chuckles, stepping closer, his polished boots clicking against the floor."Longer than you know, warlord."

Not warlord anymore.

The words are unspoken, but they hang between us, thick with meaning.

Kaelith stands over me, eyes glinting with satisfaction."You lost, Xyron."

I finally look up, meeting his gaze, letting my hatred settle between us."Not yet."

His smirk doesn’t falter.

If anything, it widens.

---