Page 47 of Burned to Obey

I nod. “Yes. And there’s another matter: your combat readiness. If a cornered confrontation arises, you must handle yourself.”

She narrows her eyes. “I can fight well enough.”

I keep my tone firm but not unkind. “Well enough for standard brawls, yes. But minotaur combat is different. Let me show you more advanced stances.”

She hesitates, recalling last time. Then she sighs. “I guess it can’t hurt.”

I give a short nod. “Good. We’ll train in the southwestern courtyard. It’s quieter there.”

We finish her current distribution checks, ensuring the crates match the logs. Then we slip away, accompanied by two loyal guards who keep a respectful distance. The southwestern courtyard is a modest expanse of packed earth and old stone pillars—a favored spot for those who prefer privacy. Late-afternoon sunlight slants across the space, casting long shadows.

I gesture to a weapon rack at one edge, retrieving two wooden practice swords. She stands a few paces away, scanning the courtyard. A gentle breeze ruffles her dark hair. The day’s tasks have left her with a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, bruises from earlier scuffles still visible on her arms. Yet she stands with quiet determination.

I hand her one wooden sword. “We’ll refine footwork. That’s key in minotaur styles. Firm stance, but flexible enough to pivot.”

She grips the practice blade, testing its balance. “Fine. Show me.”

Stepping back, I lift my own blade in a neutral guard. “Stand wide,” I say. “Ground your weight. Let your knees bend slightly so you can move quickly if the opponent shifts.”

She mimics my posture, and I circle her. She’s improved since last time, though her left side remains stiff from bruises. I prod her stance, adjusting her foot angle. “Shift your left foot out. Good. Keep your shoulders aligned.”

She nods, biting her lip in concentration. Her posture locks into place. I step in front, demonstrating a basic slash pattern. She imitates me, the wooden sword swishing through the air. Our guards watch from a distance, but I sense their mild surprise—seeing the Warden instruct a human prisoner in minotaur techniques is unusual. I ignore them, focusing on her progress.

We trade light blows, wood clacking. She moves well, though occasionally wincing at a sudden motion that strains her healingribs. Each time, I pause to let her catch her breath. She refuses to complain, forging ahead with fierce resolve. My respect for her tenacity grows.

Eventually, I raise a hand. “Stop a moment.”

She halts, panting. “What is it?”

I approach, setting my wooden sword aside. “Your upper stance is decent, but your foot placement drifts. Let me correct it.”

She tenses as I step behind her, but doesn’t protest. Gently, I rest my hands on her hips, adjusting her angle. My heart thuds. The moment crackles with unexpected intimacy. She goes still, breath hitching. “You see how your feet align? Center them under your shoulders, not off to the side.”

She swallows, nodding. “Got it.”

I move one hand to her shoulder, easing it back so her posture straightens. My fingers brush the warm skin just above her tunic’s seam. A faint tremor courses through me. We’re alone in this quiet courtyard, dust swirling in the late-afternoon light. Her scent—sweat, faint soap, a hint of tension—fills my senses. I struggle to remain composed.

She inhales, voice tight. “I see. So my stance is more stable?”

I clear my throat. “Yes.” I step away, reclaiming my sword before I do something reckless like linger in that closeness. “Now, lunge at me.”

Her eyes flick with a spark of challenge. She lunges, blade angled. I parry, shifting side to side. Our wooden swords meet with soft thuds. She grits her teeth, trying a low strike. I pivot, returning a controlled tap to her blade. Each connection vibrates in my arms.

She curses lightly when I disarm her with a neat flick, sending her sword clattering. Then she staggers, nearly losing her balance. I lunge forward, catching her around the waist before she hits the ground. Her hands grip my forearm, eyeswide as she regains footing. We freeze, breath mingling in the hush.

My pulse pounds. Her body is slight against mine, the brand on her arm a silent reminder of forced ties. Yet standing here, it feels less like bondage and more like a tenuous bond we’re forging day by day. She stares up at me, shock and a flicker of something else in her gaze.

I help her straighten. She clears her throat, stepping away, cheeks flushed. “Thanks.”

I nod, voice gruff. “Watch your momentum. You’re overextending.”

She rubs her bruised side, nodding stiffly. “Right.”

A wave of awkwardness descends. We retrieve the wooden swords, continuing a few more controlled exchanges. Each time we clash, I sense the tension—part hostility, part attraction, part shared determination. She’s learning swiftly. After several passes, sweat beads on both of us, the courtyard’s heat stifling. At last, I lower my practice weapon.

“That’s enough for today. You’ve improved.”

She stands there, chest heaving, eyes gleaming with reluctant pride. “I might survive if someone tries to corner me again.” She sets the wooden sword down, massaging her wrist. “I appreciate the lesson, even if it’s… complicated.”

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