Page 20 of Warlord's Plaything

Sella watches me, considering.

Dagen looks pissed.

But the truth is there, hanging between us.

Xyron is playing a game.

But so am I.

And when the time comes, I’ll make sure he’s the one who fucking loses.

8

XYRON

The arena hums with anticipation.

It’s a different kind of energy tonight—not the usual drunken, bloodthirsty fervor that rolls through the noble stands like thick, oppressive heat.

No.

Tonight, there’s a different hunger in the air.

A hunger for a reckoning.

I sit in my usual place, elevated above the pit, the cool stone of my throne pressing into my back. Below, the sands glow gold and crimson under torchlight, the blood of past fights already darkening the earth.

The crowd wants a show.

They want obedience.

And Hira is about to spit in their fucking faces.

I knew it the second she stepped onto the sand.

Knew it by the way she walked, slow and deliberate, as if the chains meant nothing to her.

By the way she lifted her chin, the flickering fire casting sharp shadows across her cheekbones.

By the way her gaze locked onto mine, unblinking, defiant.

She’s about to test me.

Of course she is.

I’ve given her too much leash. Let her play too long.

She thinks this is a game.

And I think I’m going to enjoy reminding her it’s not.

The announcer’s voice booms through the air, a guttural chant rolling off his tongue, something about tradition, honor, and the blood owed to the sands.

The nobles cheer as Hira’s opponent is led into the ring.

A massive beast of a man, twice her size, a brute bred for slaughter.

The betting slips exchange hands, gold changing ownership as they wager on how fast she’ll fall.

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