Page 31 of Burned to Obey

I exhale, recalling the scuffle with the striped-fur minotaur. “Just a graze,” I lie. My arm stings, but it’ll heal. “No big deal.”

He inclines his head, silent for a beat. I detect something like approval in his stance—shoulders not quite as rigid, tail relaxed. “You helped maintain order. Well done.”

A strange warmth seeps through my chest at his praise, though I clamp it down. “I’m just doing my job. Doesn’t mean I’m on your side.”

His brow furrows. “I’m not asking for that.” Then he pauses, as though wrestling with words. “But you’re proving yourself. The Bastion sees it.”

I snort softly. “So they see a human who’s not cowering in a corner, that’s all.”

His jaw tenses. “That matters here. Fear rules many prisoners. You’re showing them a different path.” He gestures around at the guarded corridors, the stacked crates, the watchful eyes. “A fortress is held by more than iron. Attitude counts.”

I blink, unsettled by the sincerity in his tone. “You speak as if you respect me.”

He shifts, horns glinting in the fading sun. “I respect anyone who holds the line. That’s how I led armies.”

The memory of him as a general—someone said he was unstoppable on the battlefield—flits through my mind. “Right,” I say, struggling for nonchalance. “Well, if I’m done here, I’ll see you tomorrow. More logs to fix.”

He nods, stepping aside to let me pass. Our gazes brush, and there’s that spark again, like a live wire between us. My breath catches. It’s infuriating, this flicker of tension that makes my pulse skip. I won’t let it weaken me.

“Good evening,” I mutter, hastening to my quarters. My guard matches my pace, confused by my abrupt departure, but I’m too rattled to care. Something about Saru’s quiet acknowledgment kindles a swirl of conflicting feelings in my gut—reluctant gratitude, lingering anger, and a bizarre, primal awareness that he’s no mere jailer.

Back in my room, I bolt the door and collapse onto the small stool by the window. The brand stings, as if it senses my turmoil. I yank off my tunic’s sleeve, studying the crest. It’s healing well,scabbed over at the edges. The pain is less physical now and more symbolic: no matter how many disputes I settle, how many tasks I complete, I’m still wearing the Warden’s mark.

I recall the day he seared it onto me, the agony, the fury in my heart. I hated him then. I still do, in many ways. But the fortress hums differently from the dark elf cities I knew. Minotaur law can be rigid, but there’s a core of order that’s missing from the twisted cruelty under dark elf rule. Here, if I show competence, they might respect me—even if grudgingly. In dark elf lands, my only worth was as a forging slave or an occasional scapegoat.

My mind drifts to that final exchange with Saru in the courtyard. The faint pride in his tone, the understanding in his gaze. It unsettles me how a single glance can stir such confusion in my chest. Is it just relief that he’s not punishing me? Or is there some flicker of mutual recognition that neither of us wants to name?

I laugh under my breath, a harsh sound in the quiet room. “I must be losing it.” I set my ledger aside, rubbing tired eyes. The Bastion’s no paradise, but I can’t deny that I’ve seen hints of fairness. They settle arguments with reason or a clear set of rules—something I rarely witnessed under dark elf rule, where whim and cruelty reigned. Here, no guard has whipped me. None has locked me in a box without food for a minor offense. They watch me closely, but I’m free to walk the halls under escort, a bizarre half-liberation.

Exhaustion seeps through me. I strip down to a thin undershirt, lying on the bed. The mattress is lumpy, but it’s better than cold stone. I stare at the ceiling, mind racing with the day’s events: forging brand usage, contraband in old storerooms, prisoner disputes. The Bastion is a labyrinth of secrets, and I’m caught in its heart. Yet I’m forging a path, clinging to the single advantage I have—Saru’s crest. The brand keeps me alive, though it also binds me to the Warden’s fate.

I roll onto my side, watching moonlight drift through the narrow window. My thoughts circle back to the lethal tension that swells whenever Saru and I lock eyes. Every step I take, I sense him watching, measuring. Maybe he’s just doing his job. Or maybe...he sees me differently, as more than just a prisoner wearing his name.

A flicker of memory surfaces: his quiet voice praising me for upholding order. My chest tightens, confusion tangling with a grudging sense of satisfaction. I don’t want his approval. Not truly. Yet the Bastion’s quiet acknowledgment that I’m no mere savage—that stirs a glint of pride I can’t fully tamp down.

Sleep claims me in fits and starts. I dream of corridors that twist infinitely, stone arches that open onto raging seas, and a brand searing my skin again and again. At one point, I start awake, heart pounding. Outside, a guard shifts, footsteps echoing on the tiles. I sink back into uneasy slumber, images of minotaur horns and swirling sigils haunting me.

Morning comes too soon, light creeping through the window. My body aches from the prior day. Despite that, I haul myself upright, pulling on my clothes for the next round of tasks. Another day as quartermaster in a fortress that both imprisons and strangely empowers me. Another day balancing tension, forging fragile trust. The brand twinges as I flex my arm, a constant reminder that my survival is built on an uneasy alliance with the Warden.

I grit my teeth, determination flooding my veins. I will not let this brand define me. If the Bastion demands I keep their engine running, so be it. I will do it my way, with cunning instead of brute force. Maybe I’ll never be free in the truest sense, but at least I can carve out a space where no one can break me again.

Stepping into the corridor, I find the morning guard waiting. We exchange curt nods, and I head off to meet Davor for the day’s tasks. Life in the Bastion continues, tension swirlingbeneath every calm surface. But as I pass an open window, I glimpse the fortress courtyard stirring awake—minotaurs and humans alike bracing for another day. I steel my spine, telling myself I can handle it. If I can face the dark elves and sabotage an entire ship, I can survive as quartermaster in a minotaur fortress.

And if Saru crosses my path with that quiet gaze again, I’ll meet it with my own unflinching stare, determined not to yield to the confusing spark that lingers between us. Because I am Naeva. I have lived through forge fires and the wrath of malevolent masters. This Bastion, with its complex rules and rumored bride-mark, will not claim me as another silent victim.

I step into the sunlight of the courtyard, ledger in hand, and the day begins anew.

8

SARU

Istare at the oil lamp on my desk, watching the flame dance in the heavy silence of my office. Each flicker casts shadows that seem to mock my state of mind. The Bastion never truly quiets—beyond these walls, guards pace the halls, inmates murmur, and steel clangs in distant training yards. But here, within these four stone walls, I feel the old memories closing in like a tide.

My brother’s face haunts me tonight, as it often does. The memory arrives without warning: that final arena match, the roar of the crowd, his stubborn pride forcing us both into a fight to the death. We locked horns under the scorching sun, each blow reverberating through the dust and the jeering spectators. I can still feel the moment his eyes glazed over, the lifeblood soaking into the sand as I held the sword that ended his life. Duty, they called it. An honor-bound duel demanded by the Senate to resolve a family dispute. I obeyed. The crowd cheered. And my soul fractured.

Some nights I can almost smell the blood. I close my eyes, muscles tensing at the phantom sting of guilt. My hand drifts to the brand on my right shoulder, a symbol of House Rhek’tal. Itwas never meant to carry such remorse, yet I’ve borne it since that day as though it weighs more than any set of armor.

At length, I rise from my chair, ignoring the half-written letter to the Senate that sits on the desk. Endless politics revolve around Naeva’s brand—some senators whisper that it’s a ploy, others seethe that I would degrade my station by protecting a human. Their missives demand explanations or threaten repercussions. But I can’t quell the memory of how her sabotage saved my sister, or the flicker in Naeva’s eyes that challenges everything I thought I knew about condemnation.

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