Page 124 of Warlord's Plaything

The crowd is already gathered.

Their voices a low, ugly murmur, swelling with sick anticipation.

The execution of a warlord is not just death.

It’s a fucking festival.

A moment of power, of submission.

A god brought low.

A legend torn to pieces for the amusement of those who once feared him.

The first guard shoves me forward.

The second slams an armored fist into my ribs.

Pain bursts through me like fire, sharp, deep—but I do not fall.

I will not fucking kneel.

Not for them.

Not ever.

The territory is a wall of bodies, pressing in, waiting.

Sunlight beats down, hot and relentless, burning against my skin like a punishment from the gods.

I keep my head high.

I meet their gazes—one by one.

And I see it.

The hunger.

The cruelty.

The thrill of watching a man die.

But beneath it, buried deep, in the ones who do not cheer?—

Fear.

Because even now, they know I am not broken.

Even now, they know what I am.

A warlord.

A monster.

Something they should have killed the moment they got the chance.

"Where’s your crown now, warlord?"

The first stone hits my shoulder.

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