Page 116 of Warlord's Plaything

I release him suddenly, violently, shoving away before I do something worse.

Varian coughs, rubbing his throat, still fucking smirking.

"If you want to do something about it, you better act fast."

He straightens, rolling his shoulders like I didn’t just nearly crush his windpipe.

"They’re parading him through the streets before the execution. They want a show."

The breath punches from my lungs.

"A show?"

Varian nods.

"A spectacle. He’ll be in chains, magic suppressed, beaten for all to see before they put a blade to his throat in the arena."

The visual makes me sick.

Xyron.

A monster caged.

A warrior stripped bare before those who used to bow before him.

He won’t be able to fight back.

And that—that is fucking unacceptable.

"I need allies,"I murmur, more to myself than to him.

Varian scoffs.

"What makes you think you have any left?"

I don’t hesitate.

"Not everyone in the capital is loyal to the Council."

He opens his mouth to argue—but then the door opens.

A shadow moves inside.

A figure, hooded, dressed in armor that is too polished, too familiar.

And then—the hood is pulled back.

I still.

There’s no way I can forget the face in front of me.

"You’re Xyron’s man."

The dark elf soldier watches me, expression unreadable.

"I was. But my warlord is no traitor. And neither are those who still serve him."

He steps closer, his gaze cold but calculating.

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