Page 9 of Warlord's Plaything

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XYRON

Ishould have left her to rot in the pits.

I should have let her bleed out in the sand like all the other fucking slaves who think they can outlast the inevitable.

But I didn’t.

I let her live.

And now I can’t stop thinking about the way her pulse hammered beneath my fingers, how the fine tremor in her breath betrayed her even as she held my gaze like she wanted to burn me alive.

I haven’t touched her since.

Not yet.

But I will.

Not the way she expects—not with whips, not with shackles.

No, I want to pull her apart differently.

Piece by piece.

And it starts now.

The training grounds are carved into the very bones of my clan’s fortress—a pit of polished obsidian and iron, its surface worn smooth by centuries of combat. The air hums with the raw,electric tang of sweat and magic, torches casting jagged shadows against the stone.

The soldiers have cleared the floor, leaving the space empty except for her.

Hira.

Standing in the middle of the ring, barefoot, bare-handed, every inch of her taut with barely-leashed fury.

The bruises along her collarbone have begun to fade, but the fire in her eyes is brighter than ever.

She doesn’t know why she’s here yet.

Doesn’t know that I’m about to take this little game of ours to the next level.

I step into the pit, rolling my shoulders, loosening the tension coiled beneath my skin.

Her gaze snaps to me instantly, sharp as a blade.

The moment stretches, charged, humming with something just as deadly as combat—just as violent.

I smile.

Let’s see what she can really do.

“You’ve never fought a dark elf before, have you?" I ask, circling her slow, measured.

Her stance shifts subtly—feet bracing, weight balanced, hands loose but ready.

Smart.

Not smart enough.

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