Page 42 of Warlord's Plaything

Four bodies.

Four faces I won’t see again.

Four fighters who believed in me.

And now they’re rotting under torchlight.

A fucking waste.

"Say something, Hira."Dagen’s voice cuts through the silence, rough as gravel.

I stare at the bodies.

My fingers twitch at my sides.

"What do you want me to say?"I murmur.

Dagen exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.

"I want to know you feel it."His voice is thick with something dark, something angry."That you?—"

His words choke off.

Like he’s fighting himself. He wants to blame me but can’t.

Not yet.

But I already blame myself.

"We weren’t ready,"Sella mutters from the ground, her fingers brushing the cooling skin of one of the dead.

"They knew we were coming,"Dagen adds, his voice low, clipped."They set a trap, and we fucking walked into it like idiots."

I press my teeth together.

Feel the sharp edge of failure cutting into me like a dull knife.

"We move forward,"I say, voice flat, cold with something I can’t name.

"Forward?"Dagen lets out a bitter laugh, stepping toward me."Are you even listening? Four of us died, Hira. They were your fighters, and they’re fucking gone."

"And?"I lift my chin.

Dagen stills.

The tension between us snaps tight like a wire.

"And,"he grits out, stepping even closer, towering over me now,"how many more are you willing to lose before you figure out that this isn’t a fucking game?"

"It’s not a game."

I don’t yell.

I don’t snap.

But my voice—it’s low, sharp, coiled with something dangerous.

I know what he wants.

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