Page 4 of Warlord's Plaything

A slow, darkthrill.

I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until the words leave my lips, steady and unyielding.

"Bring her to me."

The handler stiffens at my voice. His grip on the chain falters, just for a second, before he jerks her forward.

The little beast stumbles, just slightly, just enough for her knee to skim the dirt—but she recovers.Bares her teeth like a cornered animal and doesn’t fucking lower her gaze.

Interesting.

Very fucking interesting.

I watch as they drag her through the lower corridors of the arena, down into the belly of my father’s domain, through the tunnels that coil and twist like the guts of some ancient monster.

The blood in my veins burns.

I turn sharply, cloak billowing behind me, and stride toward the inner fortress.

The fortressof House Herox is built into the cliffs like a jagged black spine, sharp and unforgiving, towering over the world like a monument to cruelty.

The halls are carved from obsidian, dark and slick, illuminated only by flickering torches and mage-lights that pulse like dying stars. The air is cold, sharp enough to bite, filled with the faint scent of sulfur and old blood.

I step into my chamber, a vast space of deep silks and polished steel, where the only softness lies in things I barely use.

She’s already waiting.

Kneeling.

Her wrists are still shackled, but her chin is high, her body tight, her eyes locked onto mine with that same burning defiance.

Little warrior.

The guard who brought her hesitates before speaking. "My Lord, the human?—"

I flick a hand. "Leave."

He doesn’t argue.

The door slams shut behind him, leaving us alone.

The silence stretches, heavy and charged.

Hira’s breathing is even, too even, like she’s holding herself still through sheer fucking will.

I take my time, stepping toward her, slow and deliberate, letting my boots echo against the stone.

She doesn’t flinch.

Good.

I circle her, close enough to smell the blood on her skin, the sweat, the lingering heat of battle.

"You’re quiet," I murmur, voice low, silk-laced with something dangerous.

Her shoulders tighten. "What do you want?"

Direct.

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