Page 15 of Burned to Obey

“I thought you’d just throw me to the pit,” she spits. “What’s this farce?”

I hold her stare. The courtyard hush deepens, every ear tuned to our exchange. “There’s a Senate order,” I say, tone terse, “to have you executed immediately.”

A ripple of alarm sweeps through the onlookers. A few guards shift, and I see a flash of panic in her eyes, quickly replaced by defiance.

She squares her shoulders. “So you’re making it public? Let everyone see me die with my back unbroken?”

I steel my voice. “No. I’m placing you under my protection.” The words ring out, each syllable heavy with the knowledge of what it entails.

A murmur spreads through the yard. Naeva looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Protection?” Her expression darkens. “I don’t trust that word coming from your mouth.”

I can’t blame her for doubting. But there’s no time to soften the blow. “The Senate wants you gone,” I continue. “There’s an archaic law that allows a Vakkak noble to claim a human who meets certain criteria as a prospective mate. If I do this, they cannot execute you without a full hearing at the High Senate.”

She goes rigid. “Prospective mate? What are you saying?”

Whispers rise in the crowd, some outraged, some curious. I sense every prisoner craning forward, listening to every breath of this confrontation. My chest constricts as I force the words out: “By claiming you, I override the local sentence. The Bastion can’t carry out your death order.”

She bares her teeth in a mocking smile. “How convenient. A brand-new collar, courtesy of the Warden.”

My jaw tightens. “I’m not doing this for convenience. It’s the only means to keep you alive.”

She looks around at the gathering throng, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I should say thanks, I guess.”

I ignore her barb, stepping forward. Two of the scribes approach with a glowing iron brand and a small brazier. Custom dictates that the brand is heated to a dull red, enough to sear a crest upon flesh. My insides clench at the thought, but I steelmyself. This is minotaur tradition—a sanctioned mark that seals our fates together.

Someone in the crowd calls out, “A human under House Rhek’tal? Is the Warden mad?”

Others gasp or mutter about the Senate’s possible reaction. My horns feel heavier under their judgment. But I press on, knowing this is the only path.

Turning to Naeva, I lower my voice. “I’ll brand you with my crest. It’s an old rite, used rarely. Once it’s done, you fall under my household. The law states no one can execute you without the Senate’s direct ruling.”

She jerks against her chains. “And if I refuse?”

“Then Thakur’s men kill you. Today.”

A hush falls between us. Her green eyes are alive with fury, fear, and a flicker of desperation. I can’t read all her thoughts, but I sense the war raging inside her. Accepting my brand is the lesser of two horrors. She trembles slightly, though she tries to hide it.

Her lips curl into a bitter line. “I hate this.”

My voice drops almost to a whisper. “You’re not alone in that.”

The scribes hand me the brand. My family crest is a stylized helm with horns over rolling waves—House Rhek’tal’s emblem. The iron glows an angry red, heat radiating against my palm. I step closer to Naeva, my heart pounding.

She tries to stand tall, defiance still etched in every muscle. She flinches when I approach with the brand. I pause, voice low. “Give me your arm.”

She meets my gaze, a thousand emotions rippling in that moment. I see the memory of chains, of dark elf oppression, of forced labor, all flaring across her face. I see how she despises another set of shackles. But the raw need to survive wins out. She thrusts her arm forward, jaw clenched.

I set the brand against the skin of her upper forearm. The searing hiss rings across the courtyard. She bites down a cry, eyes squeezed shut. My own breath catches as I watch her muscle tense, the smell of singed flesh rolling over me like a wave of nausea. My chest tightens. A reckless urge claws at me to toss the brand aside, but I grip it steady just long enough to mark her.

When I lift it, the crest stands out, bright red and raw on her skin. Her breathing is ragged, sweat beading on her temples. My entire body tenses at the sight of her pain. I hand the brand back to a scribe, struggling to maintain composure.

Naeva opens her eyes, glistening with unshed tears and fierce anger. Her lips press togeter, refusing to let out a scream. That resilience almost unravels my composure. I step back, lifting my voice for the assembled crowd:

“By the law of House Rhek’tal, I claim Naeva Viren under my crest. Until the High Senate rules otherwise, she is not to be harmed or executed. If anyone defies this brand, they defy me.”

An uproar spreads among the gathered prisoners and guards. Some stare in disbelief, others murmur curses. A few call out that this is madness. The official scribes scramble to write everything down. Davor moves closer, eyeing me with a mix of shock and loyalty.

I turn back to Naeva, who’s panting from the pain. The chain linking her wrists rattles as she cradles her scorched arm. She meets my eyes, and the fury there is a bright flame. She looks as though she’d lunge at me if not for her injuries.

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