Page 14 of Warlord's Plaything

I step back, sweeping my gaze over them all.

Gladiators. Fighters. People with nothing to lose.

And I say, low and sure?—

"We stop fighting for them."

Dagen stiffens. "The fuck are you talking about?"

I tilt my head. "You think this system works because we’re weak?" I pause. Let them feel it. Let themachefor it. "No. It works because we play along."

Murmurs ripple again.

Sella shifts uneasily. "If we refuse to fight?—"

"They kill us?" I laugh, sharp and humorless. "They already do. But what happens when we stop making it fun for them?"

The silence thickens.

Dagen exhales harshly. "You think one rebellion will burn down a fucking empire?"

I smirk. "I think a single ember can burn a forest to the ground."

There’s a shift in the air.

Something real. Something tangible.

A rebellion isn’t built in a day.

But this?

This is the fucking spark.

Dagen clenches his jaw. But he doesn’t argue.

He knows I’m right.

We’ve been waiting for something, someone, to remind us we’re still alive.

That we’re not just bodies for sport.

That we can stillfucking fight.

And maybe, just maybe—we can win.

Suddenly, a sound from the tunnel entrance interrupts us.

Footsteps.

Not human.

I stiffen as a shadow moves through the dim light.

Tall. Elegant. Cold.

Xyron.

His eyes flick over the gathered gladiators before locking onto me.

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