Page 25 of Burned to Obey

I stride out, a couple of guards close behind. The swirling gossip in the corridors feels tangible, like a stale air clinging to the walls. Every minotaur I pass flicks an ear or casts a sidelong glance, trying to catch any sign of hesitation from me. I give them nothing.

The western courtyard bustles with activity: crates and barrels waiting to be hauled. A group of prisoners stands defiantly, arms folded, while a few guards pace in agitation. The prisoners mutter about the brand, about favoritism. When I arrive, they fall silent, but hostility crackles like a drawn bowstring.

One, a middle-aged minotaur with deep scars across his horns, steps forward. “Warden, we demand equal privileges. If a human can earn your crest, why not the rest of us?”

I plant my hooves and fix him with a stare. “You misunderstand. She’s under my crest to prevent an unjust execution, not to grant her special rank.”

A scoff ripples through the prisoners. Another speaks up, voice thick with scorn. “Could have fooled us. She walks around without chains while we sweat and labor. Didn’t she kill minotaur allies on that dark elf ship?”

I clench my jaw. The Senate’s propaganda has twisted her sabotage into an attack on minotaur trade routes. “The Bastion’s law stands. You follow your assigned tasks, or you face consequences.”

That stirs curses from the group. They start to spit arguments about hypocrisy, about me protecting a human. I meet eachglare with unwavering calm. “You have an issue? Take it to the open forum next week. Until then, the Bastion’s work continues.”

None dare to directly defy me, but their grudges simmer. With a snarl, the lead prisoner stalks off to begin hauling crates, the others follow, muttering. I look to the guards. “Keep an eye on them. If they cause unrest, notify me immediately. No brutality unless necessary.”

A guard dips his head, stepping aside as I walk deeper into the courtyard. My horns ache with the tension of holding the Bastion together under the weight of these rumors. The brand was the only way to save Naeva’s life, but it’s become a wedge in the fortress’s fragile stability. Still, I’d do it again if it means preserving her from Thakur’s blade.

I take a moment to scan the bustling yard: the scaffold where new shipments arrive, the archway leading to the southern wings. This place has been my domain for years, a fortress of stone and iron that’s shaped me as much as I’ve shaped it. Now, a single brand threatens to fracture the order I’ve fought to uphold. Or perhaps it only reveals the cracks that were always there, fueled by Senate corruption.

A commotion draws me to an impromptu ration station. A few minotaurs and humans wait in line for their midday meals. They look uneasy, glancing every so often at the armed guards. Word must have spread that the Warden is bestowing tasks on a branded human, fueling confusion over how the old rules apply. I say nothing, just observe. Some flinch at my presence, others bare their teeth in half-hearted attempts at intimidation. I keep my posture composed, reminding them I’m no stranger to conflict.

When the line clears, I catch sight of Davor entering the courtyard with Naeva in tow. She’s wearing plain trousers and a slightly oversized tunic. The bandage on her arm is smaller now,revealing a glimpse of the crest. My crest. The sight knots my gut. She notices me across the yard, eyes narrowing. There’s a flicker of challenge in her expression, as if bracing for another confrontation.

I stride over, ignoring the prying eyes around us. The midday sun glares overhead, casting sharp shadows on the ground. Davor salutes. “Warden, as you requested, I’ve outlined the tasks for her quartermaster role. She’ll handle inventory logs, supervise distribution, and manage supply requests from the guard captains.”

I nod. “Understood.” My gaze shifts to Naeva. “Follow me. We’ll talk in a quieter space.”

She tenses, but walks beside me, two guards trailing at a discreet distance. I lead her toward an alcove off the courtyard, a narrow space framed by tall columns. When I stop, she crosses her arms. “This better not be another brand session,” she says, voice bristling.

I hold my ground, keeping my tone calm. “No. It’s your job. This fortress needs a quartermaster who can read, write, and keep track of details. You proved you have those skills.”

She scowls. “I suppose I should thank you for the opportunity?”

“That’s not required.” My horns feel hot under the sun’s glare. “But if you sabotage the Bastion’s records, you only hurt yourself.”

She studies me, jaw clenched. The bandage on her forearm draws my eyes again, recalling the memory of her trembling when I pressed the iron to her skin. I force the image away. “Davor has your schedule,” I continue. “You’ll handle the main supply yard in the mornings, then move to smaller distributions in the afternoon. Guards will be present. If anyone harasses you, report it.”

She shifts her weight. “Right. Because I’m your brand, so that makes me your responsibility.” Her tone is scathing, but there’s a note of resignation beneath it.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “I didn’t do that brand for sport. I did it to keep you alive. If you despise me for it, fine. But we have a problem here. The Bastion is on edge. We need stability. Your role helps that.”

Her expression tightens. “Your precious order. And if I don’t comply?”

I exhale. “Then you go back to the cell. Thakur eventually finds a way to push for your execution. I’m trying to give you a path that doesn’t lead to your death.”

She stares, eyes dark and conflicted. I sense her rummaging for a cutting reply, but something stills her tongue. Finally, she jerks her chin in grudging acceptance. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

I step back, gesturing toward the courtyard. “Then get started. The quartermaster station is next to the ration tables. Captain Davor can show you where the logs are kept.”

She gives a curt nod and heads off, her posture tense. My gaze lingers on the scars beneath that bandage. I recall how I noticed similar burn marks on her shoulders. She must have endured intense heat in some forge or chaotic environment. A primal urge to ask about them gnaws at me, but I hold my silence. We’re not at a place where such questions would be welcomed.

When she disappears into the flow of workers, I stand a moment longer, ignoring the curious stares of a few minotaurs. They watch me as if expecting me to crush her spirit any second or hoist her up as some revered figure. I do neither. Instead, I walk away, heading to the northern section where the guard headquarters is located. I must keep the Bastion’s daily operations running smoothly, even with half the fortress gossiping about the brand.

By midday, I’ve dealt with two more minor disputes. Some orcs who arrived last week refuse to share space with human inmates, claiming old grudges. One confrontation ended in shouts but no blood spilled. My staff is exhausted, half expecting an outbreak of major violence. I issue orders for additional guards to patrol the corridors connecting the main yard to the living blocks. The Bastion thrums with tension, but so far, it’s not boiling over.

I return to the courtyard. The sun hovers overhead, and my shadow stretches across the paving stones. I spot Naeva bent over a table, updating a ledger while Davor points to a stack of crates. She scribbles, tucks a quill behind one ear, and marches over to direct a pair of minotaur inmates who shuffle uncertainly under her watch. A bruise along her jaw—likely from earlier scuffles—stands out against her tanned skin, but she doesn’t seem bothered. She moves like someone determined to see the job done, ignoring side glances or muttered insults.

I drift closer, arms folded. Davor spots me and nods, stepping aside so I can observe. Naeva addresses the inmates, calm but firm, telling them which crates need to go to the southern wing. They balk at her instructions, but she stands her ground, chin raised. She’s half their size, yet she radiates a defiance that hushes their complaints. Eventually, they mutter curses and haul the crates away.

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