Page 32 of Burned to Obey

Shaking my head, I exit the office, stepping into a corridor lit by guttering torches. The hour is late, but I won’t rest until the turmoil in my chest dies down. My hooves strike the stone with a muted echo as I pass a row of tall, arched windows. Beyond them, the moon bathes the Bastion courtyard in pale light. The swirl of cold air through each window helps steady my breathing.

A guard on patrol stops to salute, but I wave him on. I’d rather roam alone. My steps lead me deeper into the fortress, guided by an impulse I can’t fully name. Perhaps I’m searching for a sign that I can be more than a man haunted by the past. Perhaps I’m simply restless.

I find myself in the southwestern wing, a labyrinth of old storerooms and forging alcoves that rarely see use. It’s a half-forgotten area filled with broken racks and leftover gear. The corridor glows faintly from sparse torches. Movement at the far end snags my attention, a small glimmer of reflected light. I slow my pace, ears pricking to catch any faint sound.

A rhythmic tapping resonates, metal striking stone. I edge closer, keeping my breathing hushed. The corridor opens into a wide chamber with an abandoned forge in the corner. Once, the Bastion used it to repair weapons when the main smithy was overrun, but it’s been largely neglected since the war cooled.

In that faint torchlight, I see her: Naeva. She’s crouched over a slab of broken stone, pressing the tip of a scavenged tool against some scrap metal, shaping it with purposeful strokes. The brand on her arm stands out in the flickering glow, a silent claim that ties her fate to mine. My heart gives an uncomfortable lurch.

She’s so absorbed she doesn’t notice me at first. The room is warm from a small brazier she’s lit, embers crackling quietly. Her face is set with fierce concentration, sweat beading at her temple. I linger, uncertain whether to announce myself or observe. My instincts say to speak. My curiosity bids me to wait.

A sudden clang echoes as she strikes the metal against a makeshift anvil. The piece glints faintly, the shape akin to a crude blade. Not a weapon to challenge a minotaur’s sword, but sharp enough to matter in close quarters. My jaw tenses—any prisoner forging a secret blade invites punishment. Yet as I watch her intense focus, another sensation roots me in place: a fractured reflection of my own survival drive, that same edge of desperation that once pushed me to train relentlessly for the arena.

She lifts the metal shard, brow furrowed. She tests the edge with a fingertip, then grimaces. “Not keen enough,” she whispers to herself, voice thick with frustration. The quiet words echo in the deserted chamber.

I clear my throat, stepping into the hazy circle of light. “You’re persistent.”

She startles, dropping the blade with a sharp clang. Her gaze snaps to me, wary and furious in equal measure. “Warden,” she says, breath unsteady. The brazier’s embers reflect in her eyes, that trademark spark alive. “Didn’t realize you were so fond of late-night strolls.”

My posture remains rigid, arms folded across my chest. “Could say the same for you. This corner is off-limits unless assigned. You’re forging something.”

She scoffs, struggling to hide her racing heart. “I’m making a small tool. The Bastion’s inventory is short on decent knives for everyday tasks.”

I arch a brow. “And you decided to do that alone, at this hour, without permission?”

Her lips twist. “I handle the supplies anyway. Might as well improve them.”

A tense silence settles. I glance at the half-formed blade on the stone, noticing the rudimentary technique. She’s using leftover metal scraps, hammered out with a chunk of iron that serves as a poor excuse for a smithing hammer. The brazier is rudimentary, fed with coal she must’ve pilfered.

An officer would typically seize her for this. I know that. But part of me is unwilling to punish her for resourcefulness. I remember forging my own weapons in dire times, cunning solutions demanded by war. She looks at me as if bracing for an outburst. Instead, I step forward, my voice low. “Why risk it?”

She grips the edge of her makeshift tool. “I can’t go unarmed in this fortress. Not truly. Everyone hates me—prisoners, some guards. I needed something, just in case.”

My chest tightens. “Even if the Bastion’s law forbids it?”

She lifts her chin. “You’d prefer I trust your brand to keep me alive? Might be enough for formal challenges, but not every corner of this place is so...official.” Her voice softens with a thread of bitterness. “I see how some watch me. One day, a guard might turn the other way, and I’ll end up dead in a corner.”

My jaw sets. She’s right that hatred lingers, fueled by prejudice or Senate propaganda. The brand is official, but dark hallways and a single determined attacker could ignore officiallines. Guilt gnaws at me. “I gave orders for your protection,” I say quietly.

A dark laugh escapes her. “Orders don’t stop a knife in the back. Orders didn’t stop an inmate from throwing a punch at me yesterday. I need something more tangible.”

The glint in her eyes dares me to refute her logic. Instinct begs me to snap—that her forging crosses the line, that hidden blades breach every protocol I uphold. Another part sees the raw fear beneath her defiant exterior, reflecting a shade of my own memories. I recall standing in the arena, convinced no law or vow could truly keep me safe from a blade aimed at my heart.

Instead of scolding, I tilt my head at the scrap metal. “That shape needs refining. You’re leaving too many rough edges.”

Surprise flickers across her face. She glances at the blade. “I know. I’m working with junk. The heat’s not enough to mold it easily.”

Stepping closer, I crouch near the brazier. Its embers glow orange, the heat licking at my fur. The combined scents of coal dust and molten metal stir an echo of the old arena forges. My voice is subdued. “Let me see.”

She hesitates, then hands me the half-shaped blade. I examine the thickness, the uneven curve. “If you want a better edge, you need a stable anvil and a real hammer. These lumps of iron aren’t suitable.”

Her mouth forms a faint sneer. “I use what I can find. Not like the Bastion’s main smithy will welcome me.”

“True.” My shoulders slump a fraction. “And if you tried, the rumor mill would devour you.”

Her stance shifts, tension radiating. “So are you about to confiscate this?”

I weigh the shard in my palm. It’s heavy enough to cut, if sharpened further. The guard in me says yes, confiscate it. Thepart of me that knows the desperation of survival says no. I stand, handing it back. “Not today.”

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