Page 12 of Burned to Obey

His form is distinct among the weapons: tall, powerfully built, horns curved with subtle engravings near the base. A short pelt covers his shoulders, blending into the well-defined muscle. He moves with careful precision, not a single wasted motion. Every time he shifts or speaks, the room adjusts around him. It’s more than mere authority—it’s something in his bearing that demands acknowledgment.

I tear my attention away and focus on the swords. The tension swirling inside me won’t fade. I hate how my gaze drifts toward him when I think he isn’t looking, how I’m quietly aware of every time he glances in my direction.

The day drags on. I tally short swords, crossbows, even a handful of exotic curved blades presumably obtained in wars ortrade deals. Occasionally, I call over a guard or wave Saru off to check an item. Despite my scorn, I’m thorough in my work. Pride, or stubbornness, keeps me from slacking.

As midday approaches, one of the guards hands me a water flask. I gulp it down, pushing past the scratch in my throat from hours spent muttering and tallying. The Bastion might be carved into the cliffs, but the interior gets stifling, especially in rooms filled with iron and steel.

Saru takes note of my break, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he walks around, reorganizing an open crate of spear tips. From time to time, he instructs a guard to retrieve something from another wing. There’s an unspoken system here—everyone quietly obeys, but I sense a tension. They’re all uncertain why I’m being spared from the arena.

I press on, determined to show no sign of weakness. My scars itch, a reminder of how many times I was forced into labor in dark elf forges. The memory leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. But the Bastion’s brand of captivity is different. I can’t decide if it’s better or simply another form of control.

Eventually, I finish recording the swords. I set the ledger down, rubbing at my strained wrists. Saru notices, stepping closer once more. “Done with that section?”

I give a curt nod. “Yes. Swords match the ledger except for one that’s out of place—looks like it belongs in a different classification.”

He arches a brow. “Show me.”

I bring him to a display near the back of the chamber. A single curved blade rests in a rack among straight longswords. “This one,” I explain, pointing. “It’s labeled in the records as a standard longsword, but obviously it’s not. The shape is different, the handle’s all wrong. I’m guessing it’s from an eastern region or possibly a commissioned piece.”

Saru grips the sword’s hilt and lifts it. My chest tightens involuntarily. Not because I fear he’ll swing it at me, but because there’s something compelling about watching him handle a weapon with such ease. He studies the curve, then nods. “You’re correct. This is a Kiraen blade, probably mislabeled.”

A faint smile ghosts across his features, there and gone too fast. “You have a keen eye.”

My lips press together in an effort not to snap. I don’t want his approval, but some part of me bristles at the possibility of compliments. “I told you I spent time around forging. I recognize quality steel.”

He returns the blade to its place. “We’ll fix the entry. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Then move on to the crossbows. You know the system by now.”

I give a mocking salute. “Yes, Warden.”

His gaze lingers a second longer, but he doesn’t respond. When he turns, the broad line of his back shifts under his armor, the worn leather revealing nicks that tell stories I doubt I’ll ever hear. I tear my focus away before anyone notices.

The rest of the afternoon slips into a tense routine. I record, he instructs, guards hover, and an invisible thread of pressure builds between us. Each time I find a mistake, I tell him. Each time, he acknowledges it without praise or blame. That subdued approach only stokes my frustration. I want to see him slip—show anger or scorn. Instead, he’s as calm as a statue, holding everything under tight rein.

By the time I finish the primary catalog, my back aches, and hunger gnaws at my stomach. The armory door creaks open, and another guard steps in, carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle.

“Warden,” he addresses Saru. “Midday rations, as you requested.” He sets the bundle on a side table and leaves.

Saru turns to me. “You’ll eat.” It’s not a question.

I roll my eyes. “Because you’re so generous?”

“Because I’m not interested in having you faint on my watch,” he replies. Then he gestures for the guards to allow me to approach the table.

I reach the bundle and find flatbread, some slices of dried meat, and a chunk of cheese. My appetite flares, and I tear into the bread. While I chew, Saru stands a few meters away, arms folded.

“Don’t you minotaurs eat more than this?” I mutter around a mouthful. “Or am I just the low priority?”

He regards me levelly. “We eat plenty. You’ll have your share when you’ve earned it.”

I snort. “You’re such a beacon of hospitality.”

Silence. I notice the guards exchanging sidelong glances. One looks like he wants to chastise me for my insolence, but a tiny shake of Saru’s head stops him. It’s as if Saru tolerates my sarcasm for his own reasons, not out of kindness.

When I finish, I wipe my fingers on the cloth. “There. Fed and watered. Back to the chain gang?”

---