Page 39 of Burned to Obey

I approach, maintaining a measured pace. She stands straight, arms crossed over her bandaged ribs. Captain Davornods in greeting and quietly slips away, giving us space. We stand a moment in the courtyard’s hush, the sun casting shadows across the stones.

Her voice emerges softly. “So that’s your version of justice.”

I keep my tone calm. “They chose the arena. Forced labor would’ve been safer.”

She exhales, gaze flicking to the corridor where the guards were taken. “They’d rather risk death than toil for years. That’s quite a statement.”

I nod. “The arena can be a quick end or a path to redemption. It depends on a fighter’s skill and will to survive.”

Her brow knits. “Does it ever feel wrong? Making them fight for freedom like it’s some game?” There’s no mockery in her voice, just genuine curiosity.

I absorb the question, recalling the day I spilled my brother’s blood in that same arena. “Sometimes,” I admit, each syllable weighed. “But minotaurs nearly destroyed each other through constant war in the past. The arena is how we channel disputes now.”

She studies me, silent for a beat. “I see. You give them a chance, at least, though it’s brutal.”

My chest tightens. “Brutality is carved into our history. This is the system we built to prevent endless civil war.”

She rubs her arm where my brand marks her skin. “Better than no recourse at all, I guess.”

I sense she’s still uneasy. The Bastion’s methods must remind her of dark elf cruelty, yet there’s a difference: we keep an element of choice. Her expression softens, though tension remains. “You let me witness that sentence for a reason,” she murmurs. “Wanted to show me how your fortress handles traitors?”

I meet her eyes. “Yes. I also wanted you to see that your life holds weight here. Attacking you has consequences.”

A flicker of surprise. “My life, or your crest?”

I pause, considering how to respond. “Both,” I say at last, voice low. “They’re tied. But it’s more than that. If I let them attack you without repercussions, the Bastion crumbles from within.”

She nods, acceptance laced with wariness. Her hand drifts to her bandaged side, a slight wince crossing her face. “My ribs still ache,” she mutters. “But at least I can stand.”

I gesture to a quieter passage off the courtyard. “Walk with me. Gently. I’d prefer the infirmary, but I assume you’d refuse.”

She snorts softly, letting a hint of humor rise. “I’m not going back to the infirmary unless I’m dying. The smell of antiseptic is worse than charred steel.”

A reluctant smile teases my lips. “Come on.” I lead her away from the forum, ignoring the curious glances of a few stragglers. We cut through a side corridor that overlooks a small garden courtyard—one of the few bright spots in this otherwise austere fortress. It’s mostly ornamental, a place for minotaur officials to find a moment’s peace. Hardly used, thanks to the Bastion’s ceaseless demands.

We step beneath an archway, entering the courtyard. Sunlight spills across trimmed shrubs and a modest fountain that gurgles softly. The stone path is worn but clean, ringed by columns carved with ancient runes. I glance around, confirming it’s empty.

She pauses, taking in the greenery. “Never thought I’d see a garden in a fortress. Where I come from, everything was metal and smoke, no room for plants.”

I watch her quietly. The mark on her arm stands out—stark, unflinching, a reminder of vows neither of us chose. And yet she looks strangely at ease here, surrounded by hedges and calm. “We keep it for visiting dignitaries, or those who need a breath of peace,” I murmur. “I come here sometimes to think.”

She turns, arms folded lightly over her midsection. “It’s odd. This fortress feels so militant, but then there’s a garden, and a system of law that doesn’t revolve purely around fear. I’m still getting used to it.”

I nod, hearing the faint confusion in her tone. “Minotaurs balance discipline with honor. At least, that’s the ideal. We fail at times—like those guards did.”

A breeze rustles the leaves, carrying a hint of floral scent. We stand close enough that I notice the faint bruise along her jaw from yesterday’s attack. My fists clench at the memory of her pinned down, breath ragged. I step back, controlling the surge of anger that bubbles within. “How are your injuries beyond the ribs?”

She lifts a hand to her bruised jaw, fingertips grazing the tender skin. “Achy. Nothing worse than what I’ve dealt with before.”

Relief washes through me. “Good.” A pause. “I’m sorry you had to face that.”

Her eyes flick to me, searching for honesty. “You didn’t put the blade to my throat. But I appreciate the intervention.”

My throat tightens. “They won’t threaten you again.” I let that promise hang in the air. The breeze cools my fur, tension throbbing beneath the surface. We walk slowly along the path, each step echoing on stone. She’s not exactly comfortable by my side, but neither does she recoil. It’s a careful truce.

I notice how the sunlight glints on her hair, highlighting the scars that lace her forearms—burn marks from forging, or from punishments inflicted by cruel hands. My gaze shifts away, respecting her privacy. A swirl of guilt prods me, recalling how I branded her. I keep those feelings hidden, forging calm outwardly.

She breaks the silence, voice careful. “What will happen to them in the arena?”

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