Page 33 of Burned to Obey

She frowns, suspicion plain. “What changed your mind?”

I inhale, recalling the old ache of losing my brother in that blood-soaked arena. “You’re forging a blade to protect yourself. I fought for survival once too.”

She reads something in my expression, the flicker of regret I can’t disguise. Her hostility ebbs, replaced by curiosity. “You mean the war? Or the arena?”

I look away, swallowing. “The latter.” My voice tightens. “Sometimes the laws we follow don’t guarantee safety in the ring. A blade can do that.”

Naeva lowers the metal shard, a furrow of empathy crossing her face. “I heard rumors—something about you fighting your own kin. Is that true?”

Pain floods my chest. “Yes.” The single word tastes bitter. I see the question in her eyes, and for once, I don’t hide from it. “The Senate demanded we resolve a dispute in the arena. My brother believed it was his right to challenge me. We had no choice but to fight. I...killed him.”

She exhales, all sarcasm gone. “That’s a heavy weight to bear. I can guess you didn’t want that outcome.”

My throat is raw, memories stirring. “I obeyed. He wouldn’t yield. The crowd—” I force a breath. “They celebrated a resolution, but I left that ring in chains of shame. Some said it was a matter of honor, but I can’t see it that way.”

She sets the scrap blade aside. “Why do you stay in the Bastion, then, if it haunts you?”

A wry laugh escapes me. “Because leaving would mean betraying the vow I made. My father built a legacy here, and my sister still holds a seat in the Senate. If I run, I desert them. If I remain, I carry guilt. The Bastion is where I can keep my honor...or what’s left of it.”

She presses her lips together, studying my face. “And part of that honor includes branding me so the Senate can’t kill me?”

I nod once, heart pounding with conflicting emotions. “Yes. I might not have handled it delicately, but letting them bury you without a fight would’ve been worse.”

She’s silent, flicking her gaze to the embers. The harsh lines of her posture soften marginally. “I hate the brand, but it’s kept me breathing.” She says the words quietly. “I don’t know what to make of that.”

I sigh. “Nor do I.”

A hush falls, broken only by the slow crackle of burning coal. The hush allows me to notice small details: the burn scars mapping her arms, each telling a story of forges or punishment. Her clothes cling to her lean frame, damp with sweat from the heat of the brazier. I sense her vulnerability here, forging a clandestine blade in the depths of the fortress. And for reasons I can’t fully articulate, I’m not angry. I might even admire her resilience.

At last, she crouches again, picking up the chunk of iron she uses as a hammer. “If you’re not stopping me, are you going to help?”

I blink. “You want me to?”

She lifts a shoulder. “You were a general once. You must know a bit about forging weapons, or at least shaping metal to your advantage.”

I hesitate. The idea of forging a secret blade with her is madness. But I can’t deny the odd pull in my chest. “We’ll keep this quiet,” I say at length, voice low, “but we need a better approach.”

Her brows lift. “I’m listening.”

I scan the chamber, eyes landing on a heavy anvil half-buried under debris. “That anvil. Clear it.” I stride over and push aside broken planks and dusty armor scraps. Beneath them lies a solidchunk of iron. With some effort, I heave it upright, the squeal of metal on stone echoing.

Naeva steps up, the corners of her mouth twitching in gratitude. “Better than a rock slab.” She sets her half-finished blade on it. “Now what?”

I grasp a battered smithing hammer from the clutter. “You hold the piece steady. I’ll strike where you show me. We heat it in the brazier between strikes.”

She quirks a skeptical look. “Coals might not be hot enough for a perfect forging.”

“We’ll manage. This is just an improvised solution.” I gesture for her to bring the glowing scrap from the brazier. “Here.”

She positions the metal. Our arms brush as I stand behind her, hammer raised. The contact sends an unbidden spark up my spine, an immediate reminder of the tension that’s become so familiar between us. We ignore it, focusing on the metal. I exhale, bringing the hammer down in measured blows. Clang. Clang. Each strike resonates in my bones, a rhythmic echo reminiscent of the old forging days.

Naeva braces the piece, sweat collecting at her temple. She murmurs corrections, telling me where to shape the edge. I follow her direction, staying mindful of her fingers near the sizzling scrap. With each strike, the blade’s outline grows clearer, the metal bending to our joint effort. The hush of the Bastion seems distant, overshadowed by the clang of hammer on steel.

Eventually, she pulls the piece away. “Cool it,” she says, nodding to a bucket of water. I plunge it in with a hiss of steam. For a fleeting moment, we share a look—her gaze is charged, appreciation flickering through her guarded expression. My own chest tightens with an odd sense of camaraderie.

We repeat the cycle: heat, hammer, shape. I’m acutely aware of how our movements align, each step methodical. She stokesthe brazier, I handle the hammer. She sets the angle, I deliver the blow. The synergy is unexpected, two very different people forging something small but potent in the Bastion’s shadows.

Time warps. When I finally set the hammer aside, my arms ache from the repetitive strikes. She tests the blade’s edge, brushing away flakes of slag. It’s still crude, but it has a sharper line, a faint curve that could slice if handled well. She exhales softly, a kind of contentment in her voice. “This will do.”

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