Page 84 of Warlord's Plaything

His smirk is slow. Familiar."You should always be prepared for one."

I exhale, adjusting my grip on the hilt of my sword. A familiar dance. A game we’ve played a thousand times before.

But something is different. His movements are precise, powerful—but slower. A half-second delay. A flicker of strain. The realization curls in my stomach like a blade turning inward.

I don’t fucking like it.

"You wish to test me?"I ask, narrowing my eyes.

Xiva tilts his head, and for a brief second, I see something beyond the warlord.

I see the man who raised me.

"No, son."He lifts his blade."I wish to remind you what strength truly is."

I don’t hesitate.

I move first.

The clash of steel shatters the quiet, ringing through the hall like a war cry.

I strike, fast and sharp, my blade slicing through the air—but he counters.

Barely.

I see it in the way his footwork favors his left side. The way his breathing falters for a fraction of a second.

Something is wrong.

But he won’t say it.

He won’t fucking say it.

"You’re distracted."

His voice cuts through my thoughts, and I tighten my grip, forcing my focus back to the fight.

"No,"I counter, twisting into a strike."I’m reading you."

"Then read carefully."

His attack comes swift—faster than I expect.

I barely dodge the blade before his arm slams into my ribs, sending me staggering back.

A sharp jolt of pain shoots through my side.

I growl."Fucking old man."

He chuckles."Sloppy, boy."

I adjust my stance.

I should be pissed.

But there’s something else coiling beneath my skin—a tension I can’t place.

He’s pushing me. But I can see the cracks. The slight tremor in his wrist. The momentary stiffness in his movements. The flicker of exhaustion in his eyes.

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