Page 36 of Burned to Obey

The second guard tears the blade from my grip, tossing it aside. A savage grin twists his muzzle. He raises the spear again, ready to finish this. My pulse roars in my ears. Fury and a flicker of regret surge through me. I survived slavery, sabotage, and forced branding—only to die in a dusty corridor?

Suddenly, a fierce shout echoes. Thunderous footfalls pound toward us. The spear-wielding guard glances up in alarm. The next instant, the corridor explodes with violence. Saru barrels in, horns lowered, smashing into the guard from the side. The impact sends the guard crashing into a stack of crates, splinters flying. The spear skitters across the floor.

The other attacker curses, releasing me. I collapse to my knees, gasping for air as Saru whips around, tail lashing. His voice resonates, rough and controlled. “Stand down. Now.”

They don’t yield. The second guard, injured but not subdued, lunges at Saru with a dagger. Saru sidesteps, grabbing his wrist in a crushing grip. The guard howls, dropping the blade. With a swift motion, Saru twists his arm behind his back and hurls him into the wall. Pain blossoms in my own chest just watching it—Saru’s raw strength is staggering. The guard crumples, dazed.

The third attacker, the one I glimpsed earlier, emerges from behind crates, brandishing a short sword. He snarls something about Thakur’s orders. Saru’s horns tilt in a lethal arc. “Thakur has no command here,” he growls, voice as cold as midnight. The guard swings the sword. Saru blocks with a forearm clad in partial armor, then slams a fist into the attacker’s gut. The minotaur doubles over, spitting curses. Saru rips the sword from his grip, eyes blazing.

For a heartbeat, I think Saru might run him through. The corridor crackles with tension, dust swirling from collapsedcrates. My breath catches. Instead, Saru grips the guard’s collar and hurls him bodily to the floor, planting a hoof on his chest.

“Stay down,” Saru warns, words clipped.

The guard wheezes, pinned beneath Saru’s weight. All around, the carnage lies scattered: crates splintered, my ledger pages fluttering, two guards groaning in pain. Saru stands, chest heaving, horns angled with lethal intent. He spares me a quick glance, verifying I’m alive. My heart hammers at the fierce expression on his face—a warrior’s rage, cold but precise.

One of the guards tries to rise, defiance twisting his muzzle. Saru silences him with a crushing blow from his elbow, sending him sprawling again. “Enough,” he snaps, voice echoing off the stone walls. The corridor is quiet aside from ragged breathing.

I scramble upright, pressing a hand to my side where bruises bloom. My lungs ache from the assault. The small blade lies on the floor, kicked aside in the chaos. I retrieve it, swallowing a surge of gratitude and anger all at once. If Saru hadn’t intervened... I push that thought away, refusing to dwell on my near end.

Saru shifts his attention to me. “You’re hurt?”

My limbs shake, adrenaline coursing. “Bruised. Not broken.” My voice trembles, more from shock than fear. I look around at the three guards lying incapacitated, blood trickling from cuts, the stench of sweat and rage thick in the corridor.

He exhales, dropping to one knee beside the guard pinned under his hoof. “Who ordered this?” No response. The guard spits, refusing to speak. Saru’s jaw sets, muscles in his neck taut. “You serve Thakur, don’t you?”

A flicker of defiance in the guard’s eyes is answer enough. Saru glances at the others. “All of you. Sen. Thakur promised you something, didn’t he? A reward if you removed the brand from existence?”

Silence. The prone minotaurs glare, hatred evident. Saru’s hoof presses more firmly on the leader’s chest, drawing a strained groan. “I could end you,” he says softly. “But I won’t. The Bastion has laws.”

He gestures for me to step back, then calls out. Moments later, a pair of actual loyal guards appear, alarmed by the commotion. Their eyes widen at the scene. Saru orders them to seize the attackers. The battered men resist weakly, but the loyal guards subdue them, snapping manacles into place.

I lean against the wall, trying to steady my breathing. My entire body throbs, fresh bruises aching. Saru finishes giving orders. He strides over, gaze flicking to the smear of blood on my temple. “You need the infirmary.”

I grit my teeth, wincing. “I’ll live. Just...help me find a bench or something.”

He scans my injuries. His anger hasn’t fully subsided; tension vibrates under his fur. With surprising gentleness, he sets a hand on my uninjured shoulder, guiding me down the corridor to a bench near a side alcove. Each step echoes in my ears.

When we reach the bench, he lowers me onto it carefully, crouching beside me. “Breathe,” he says, voice controlled. I meet his eyes, caught off guard by the concern I see there. He used to view me with distant calculation, but now his brow furrows with genuine worry. “Can you walk to the infirmary, or do I carry you?”

I almost scoff, but the throbbing in my ribs cuts me short. “I can walk.”

He inclines his head. “Then we’ll go, but slowly.” He stares at my battered form, jaw clenched, as though blaming himself for not foreseeing the attack. “I shouldn’t have let you wander without more guards. Thakur’s men wait for moments like this.”

My gaze drops to my brand, a bitter laugh welling up. “You think a bigger escort would matter if they’re from Thakur’s ranks? They were uniformed Bastion guards. Anyone can be an enemy.” The memory of being pinned surges again, fear mingling with rage.

His expression darkens. “No. They won’t try again. I’ll see to that.”

I nod, attempting to stand. Pain lances my side, and I bite back a gasp. Saru instantly offers an arm for support. I hesitate, then grip it, letting him bear some of my weight. He’s warm, solid. This is the minotaur who forcibly branded me. The same one who helped me forge a blade in secret. And now, the one who saved my life, possibly at the cost of inciting more fury from Thakur. My emotions whirl in confusion.

We set off toward the infirmary. The corridors blur, echoes of passing staff and curious glances. Whispers spring up behind us, rumors already forming. A few onlookers catch sight of Saru helping me limp along, the scarring on my arm in plain view. The Warden escorting his “human bride,” they’ll whisper. My cheeks burn—not from shame, but the wild, tangled ache of gratitude and exposure. I loathe dependence. Still... I’m glad he came.

The infirmary stands at the Bastion’s southern wing, a vaulted space lined with cots. A stern-faced minotaur healer bustles over, taking one look at my bruises and barking for bandages. I sink onto a low cot, hissing as I clutch my side with a wince. The healer instructs me to breathe, pressing carefully to check for breaks. Pain flares, but it’s manageable.

Saru steps aside, crossing his arms, watchful as the healer examines me. The old minotaur snorts. “Your brand is intact, but you’ll have bruised ribs. No break. Lucky.”

I stifle a grimace. “Yes. Lucky.”

The healer slathers a pungent salve on my bruises and lightly wraps my midsection with linen strips. I swallow the discomfort, refusing to cry out. Saru lingers, silent, tension etched in every line of his posture. The entire time, I feel his gaze like a physical weight.

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