Page 26 of Burned to Obey

When she turns, she catches sight of me and narrows her eyes. “Here to supervise me, Warden?”

I resist the urge to bristle. “Observing the quartermaster at work. I see you’ve adapted quickly.”

She lays down her quill, rubbing her sore wrist. “I’ve managed a forge before, sorted cargo. This is similar.” She glances around, noticing the restless crowd. “The real problem is no one trusts me.”

I incline my head. “They trust you enough to follow orders.” Or at least, they comply out of fear of crossing me. But I don’t say that out loud.

She doesn’t smile. “They’d rather spit in my face, but you’re looming behind them. That’s all.” She shrugs, then lifts a ledger, scanning the pages. “I found two crates unaccounted for. Might be a scheduling oversight.”

My gut tightens. If crates are missing from the official log, we could have contraband slipping in. Or perhaps it’s just a lazy record keeper. “Which crates?”

She taps the entry, handing me the ledger. Our fingers brush, and an odd spark jolts through me. Her eyes flick up, showing surprise, but we both ignore it. I read the note—two crates labeled “grain reserves” unlisted in the Bastion’s main inventory. A small discrepancy, yet it could be significant.

I pass the ledger back. “Good catch. Investigate. Report to me personally if you suspect anything illegal.”

She sets her hand on her hip. “I will.” Something in her voice suggests she takes a small pride in uncovering mistakes. Her gaze lingers on me, as though she has more to say, but she pulls back. “Davor, let’s check the supply yard again.”

He nods, and they head off, leaving me standing in the courtyard, strangely unsettled by that fleeting spark of contact when she handed me the ledger. I shake off the sensation. We have bigger concerns than a stray jolt of awareness.

The day presses on, duties piling up. I handle a dispute between two guard captains, each claiming the other withheld supplies. By the time I circle back to the yard, the sun is dipping toward the horizon. The sky burns orange, and torchlight flickers from sconces on the Bastion walls.

Naeva leans against a table, scrawling final notations into the quartermaster ledger. Sweat gleams on her brow, her sleeves rolled up to reveal the bold lines of my crest on her forearm.The brand is healing, though the skin around it remains red. She moves gingerly, occasionally wincing if her arm brushes something.

I approach, placing my hands behind my back. The yard is calmer now—most prisoners have returned to their blocks, guards patrolling in small clusters. “You’ve been at this all afternoon,” I say quietly.

She looks up from the parchment. “Had to reorganize half the supply logs. Some were a disaster.” She sets down her quill. “Done now.”

I glance over the piles of notes. “Efficient.”

She lifts a shoulder. “I prefer the word thorough.” Then her lips tighten, expression dimming as if remembering she’s still a captive. “Anything else you need from me, Warden?”

I hesitate, noticing a sliver of weariness in her eyes. “Have you eaten?”

She snorts. “Had a bite earlier. Don’t worry, I won’t starve on your watch.” She shuffles the parchments together. “I guess I should bring these to your office?”

I take them from her grasp, ignoring the prickle of awareness when our fingers collide again. “I can read them later. For now, rest. But remain in your quarters once the evening bells sound.”

She nods. “Don’t worry, I won’t wander. You have guards posted outside my door anyway.”

“That’s to protect you,” I say, sharper than intended. She arches a brow but stays silent. I sigh, controlling my temper. “I’ve heard rumors that certain inmates resent you enough to plan violence. The presence of guards deters them. That’s all.”

She exhales, gaze flicking away. “Fine. Let’s not argue about it.”

I notice a new bruise peeking above her collar—probably from a scuffle we never saw. My insides twist. “If someone attacked you, you can tell me.”

She brushes it off, setting a hand over the mark. “Minor scrap. I won.” Her voice is tight. “I’m used to fending for myself.”

A complicated ache stirs in my chest, but I keep my tone steady. “You don’t have to fight alone. Not here.”

She gives me a look that blends sarcasm with something softer. “Easy to say when you’re the Warden with half the fortress at your beck and call.”

I swallow a retort, stepping back. My body pulses with conflicting urges—duty, guilt, and a strange protective impulse I can’t quite name. “Return to your quarters. I’ll review these logs.” I gesture with the stack of papers.

She nods once, posture stiff. “Lead the way.”

We leave the yard, walking side by side through corridors lit by flickering torches. The air is thick, scented with hot stone and old iron. Guards step aside as we pass, eyes darting curiously. The two assigned to her follow at a respectful distance, vigilance plain on their faces.

When we reach the hallway leading to her room, I stop outside her door. The torches cast dancing shadows on the walls. “Here,” I say. “Stay inside after the bell. The Bastion can be unpredictable at night.”

---