Page 24 of Burned to Obey

A strange pang settles in my chest at the raw edge in his tone. I can’t decipher it, but I sense the weight behind his words. “Then what do you want, Saru?”

He presses his lips together, as if uncertain how to answer. Then he puts a hand on the table, knuckles whitening. “I want you to realize that your life has value. That if I have to protect it through a brand, so be it.”

I reel at the confession hiding in that statement, but my pride rises up. “You’re the one who acts like you hold all the cards. My life may have value, but it’s locked in your fortress.”

He looks at me then, eyes full of some unspoken conflict. “And I’ll unlock it, if I can. But not at the cost of you dying.”

That final statement rushes over me with unexpected force, stealing the breath from my chest. A tangled mixture ofgratitude and fury floods my veins. I want to lash out, to remind him he forced me to bear his crest. Yet an odd warmth glows deep in my gut, a reluctant awareness that he’s fighting battles on my behalf.

Lightning flashes outside the shuttered window, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. He breaks the moment first, stepping back and running a hand over one horn. “You can return to your quarters for now. A guard will accompany you. Rest. Let your burn heal.”

I bristle at the command, but my voice emerges subdued. “Fine.”

He doesn’t respond further, only opens the door. The two guards outside snap to attention. I slip past him, refusing to meet his eyes again. But the electricity lingering in the space clings to my skin like the aftermath of a storm.

The entire walk back to my new room, my mind churns with his words. A part of me despises how easily he makes me waver, how his calm gaze stirs confusion in my head. I vow not to let it weaken me. I still owe him nothing. I still resent every thread of captivity. Yet somewhere beneath the anger, a small flicker of grudging respect flickers, no matter how hard I try to snuff it out.

Back in my room, I bolt the door behind me and press my forehead to the wood, inhaling shaky breaths. The brand twinges under its bandage, a physical reminder of the harsh truth: we’re bound in a forced alliance. Sparks fly whenever we clash, the tension scorching my insides. I hate it. I also can’t seem to turn away from it.

For now, I’ll rest. I’ll gather my strength. Tomorrow might bring a new confrontation, or fresh orders from the Senate, or some cunning move by Thakur. But for tonight, I’ll lie here in the quiet, refusing to bend. If Saru can keep me alive until I find a real chance at freedom, so be it.

Thunder rumbles again, a low drum that resonates through the fortress. My gaze drifts upward, the ceiling a blank canvas while thunder rattles the windows in sync with the unrest in my chest. One thing is certain: my life in the Bastion has taken a new shape, chained to a brand I despise—and tethered to a Warden who sees me as something more than just a casualty.

I vow not to yield, no matter how many times he says he wants to protect me. If I must live with his crest, I’ll do so on my terms, fighting for every scrap of autonomy. And if sparks continue to fly between us, I’ll wield them as a weapon, forging my path through fire and defiance. The brand may mark my flesh, but my spirit remains my own.

6

SARU

Istep into the administrative hall at dawn, braced for the wave of whispers that has rolled through the Bastion ever since I branded Naeva. Conversations hush as I pass. Some of my officers glance sidelong, uncertain how to approach. They all know the rumor: the Warden has taken a human bride. I want to ignore that talk, but it crackles in the corridors, stirring apprehension and fueling speculation about my intentions.

Two guards fall in behind me, their hooves echoing on polished stone. The sun’s first rays peek through narrow windows, illuminating dust motes in the air. I march toward the main table, where Captain Davor and a few other senior officers gather with scrolls of daily tasks. They look up when I arrive, tension etched on their faces.

Davor stands straighter. “Warden,” he greets, setting a ledger aside.

I scan the parchment-littered tabletop. “I want an update on the night watch. Any incidents?”

He clears his throat, his tail flicking once in a telltale sign of unease. “A few scuffles in the lower cells—nothing major. But there’s talk in every wing about your...claim on the human.Some prisoners are stirring trouble, saying if you can brand a human, perhaps they can bargain for special treatment too.”

I dig my fingertips into the wooden surface. “They misunderstand. Naeva’s brand was a legal measure to avert her execution. That doesn’t extend to anyone else.” I glance at the officers, each wearing a guarded expression. “Spread the word: the Bastion’s discipline remains unchanged. If they test me, they’ll find no leniency.”

A couple of them nod. One ventures, “We understand, Warden, but the rumor runs deeper than normal chatter. They’re calling her your ‘human bride.’ They think you might elevate her above the rest.”

I inhale slowly, keeping my composure. “That rumor ends now. She’s a quartermaster under my orders, that’s all. The brand ensures her survival until the Senate decides otherwise.”

They exchange uncertain looks. Even Davor, loyal as he is, frowns. “So you want to give her an official position?”

“That’s what I said.” My voice is measured but firm. “We’re short-handed. Assign her as quartermaster. She’ll handle ration logs, supply distribution, and oversight. Her status will keep certain prisoners from challenging her too openly—assuming they value their lives.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Davor’s face. He nods, then scribbles on a parchment. “Yes, Warden. We’ll formalize that. Should I gather a few guards to escort her around the Bastion?”

“Yes. Two assigned to her at all times. Don’t leave her alone in the corridors.” My tail swishes, betraying the tension that churns inside me. I still feel that moment when I pressed iron to Naeva’s skin, the hiss of flesh searing under my crest. The guilt weighs heavily, yet I keep my features calm. “I’ll inform her of these duties myself.”

A subordinate rushes in, saluting with a fist to his chest. “Warden, trouble in the western courtyard. Prisoners refuseto move crates unless they receive some guarantee of better conditions.”

I grit my teeth. “I’ll deal with it.” Before I leave, I eye Davor. “Bring Naeva to me once you’ve prepared the official logs. I want her on the job by midday.”

Davor salutes again. “Yes, Warden.”

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