Warlord's Plaything

CHAPTER 1

Hira

The sand reeks of sweat, blood, and old death.

It clings to my skin, to the open cuts along my ribs, to the filth matted into my hair. The roar of the crowd—howling, drunk, starved for violence—thickens the air like smoke, pressing against my skull until it’s a living thing. A fucking beast of its own, hungry to see me bleed.

I tighten my grip on the twin daggers in my hands. My fingers are slick with sweat, but my stance is steady.

Across the arena, the Direfang prowls.

Seven feet of muscle and bone plated in iron-like scales, the beast moves with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator that knows it has already won. Its glowing yellow eyes burn through the gloom, trained on me like a promise. The chain around its throat rattles as the handlers release it, snapping like a fucking gunshot.

The crowd goes feral.

A voice booms from above, amplified by dark elf magic. "Tonight, we see if the human whore lives another day, or if the sands finally swallow her."

My jaw locks. The filthy nobles in their shaded balconies drink their honeyed wine and whisper about my body, about how I move, about how a human bitch shouldn’t have lasted this long. I see their sneering smiles. I feel their eyes crawling over my bare skin.

Let them look. Let them fucking underestimate me.

The Direfang lunges.

I react on instinct, flipping backward just as its claws rake the space where I was standing. My heart kicks against my ribs. The sheer speed of the thing—I barely had time to dodge.

I land, roll, spring back up.

It comes again.

This time, I pivot just as its gaping maw snaps shut where my throat had been. I slam a dagger between its ribs, twisting deep.

It screams.

The wound isn’t deep enough. The scales are too thick.

I curse and dodge again, narrowly avoiding its massive tail whipping toward me. The force alone could shatter bones.

Above, the crowd is on its feet, shrieking. Betting slips exchange hands at rapid speed. The nobles want a show. They want me torn apart in high fucking definition, spread across the sands like a slaughtered pig.

I’m not going to give it to them.

The Direfang charges.

This time, I don’t move. I let it close the distance—just enough, just to the last possible second—then I drop.

The massive beast overshoots, stumbling forward, giving me the one shot I need.

I launch myself up, driving my dagger straight through its eye.

The scream rips through the air, louder than the crowd, louder than anything. Blood explodes from the wound, black and boiling, drenching me as I tear the blade free and drive the second one into its exposed throat.

It chokes. Gargles.

Crashes into the sand.

Dead.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then the world erupts.

Half the crowd boos, furious that they’ve lost their bets. The others—those sick fucks who enjoy watching me survive, who bet on me thriving, who see me as an investment—roar their approval.

The announcer barely contains his own shock. "She lives again!"

My breathing is ragged. The heat of the fight is still pulsing through my blood. I am drenched in black, steaming gore, my muscles quivering, my chest rising and falling with each gulp of hot, tainted air.

And then I feel it.

His gaze is like a rope binding me.

Up in the noble’s box, shadowed by silk curtains and the eerie glow of the mage-lights, Lord Xyron watches me.

Not like the others.

Not with disgust. Not with casual cruelty.

No, his stare is different.

Calculated. Intense. Possessive in a way that makes my skin tighten and my fists curl.

His eyes are a fucking trap—bright, hypnotic, waiting to devour.

Something dark slithers through me, unwanted. A heat low in my belly. A recognition that I don’t fucking want but can’t seem to shake.

Xyron.

The warlord of this hellhole. The cold, deadly second-in-command to his father, Xiva, head of House Herox.

The heir to the very system that put me in chains.

My jaw clenches.

He’s never watched me like this before.

What the fuck does he want?

The announcer bellows again, but I barely hear him over the blood rushing in my ears.

Guards enter the pit, chain in hand.

Here we go.

The chain loops around my neck, the cold iron biting deep. The handler yanks hard enough to drag me off balance, and I nearly trip over the Direfang’s corpse.

The crowd laughs.

I snarl and yank against the hold, but the handler cuffs me across the face.

Pain explodes across my cheekbone, a metallic tang flooding my mouth. I stagger but don’t fall.

I won’t fucking fall.

My chest rises, falls. The crowd begins to lose interest.

But Xyron—he’s still watching.

I meet his gaze.

Hold it.

Daring him.

Challenging him.

His lips part slightly, like something about this amuses him. Like I’m the most interesting thing in this godsdamned pit.

Then he stands.

A single motion, but the entire arena falls silent.

Xyron steps forward, resting one gloved hand on the marble railing of the noble’s box. The way the mage-lights glow against his obsidian skin is fucking otherworldly. His silver hair catches in the torchlight, shimmering in the heat.

Then, finally, his voice.

Low. Cold. Commanding.

"Bring her to me."

The air leaves my lungs as fear takes a hold of me.