Page 62 of Burned to Obey

My gaze drifts to a lower section where Naeva stands, guarded by two loyal Bastion officers. She’s tense, brand visible on her forearm. Her face ashen, lips parted in dread. Our eyes meet. A wave of warmth floods me. She is the reason I do this. If I fall, they’ll brand her a traitor, and Thakur’s sentencing could be swift. But I intend to survive. I dip my horns in silent promise. Her expression tightens, tears brimming, yet she nods once, steel in her gaze.

A hush descends as a herald steps forward. He lists the charges Thakur has leveled: that I’m unfit, that my prisoner—Naeva—committed treason, that only an arena challenge can settle the dispute. He proclaims I champion my own cause,refusing to yield my rank, and that Thakur’s champion stands for the Senate’s verdict. The hush rises to a collective murmur when the champion emerges from the opposite gate.

He’s massive—a towering minotaur draped in spiked pauldrons, horns tipped with silver. The crowd mutters his name: Korsa, a famed pit fighter who once slaughtered six criminals in a single match. My stomach clenches. He moves with a predatory grace, brandishing a broad-bladed glaive. In the stands, Thakur smiles, anticipating my defeat.

The herald raises an arm, voice carrying. “Combatants, state your cause.”

I grip my war axe, stepping forward. “I fight for the Bastion’s code, for the rightful brand I placed on my prisoner, and against Thakur’s false charges.” My voice resonates, calm but unyielding. “I do not yield. And I will not let the Senate condemn Naeva.”

A rumble passes through the stands—some cheers, some curses. Korsa snorts, pounding his glaive against the sand. “I fight in the Senate’s name,” he declares, voice a thunder. “Your brand is a farce. The Bastion deserves a stronger Warden.” He angles his horns, eyes glinting with cruel challenge.

The herald lowers his flag, stepping back. An instant hush. My muscles coil, horns buzzing. I cast one last glance at Naeva’s section—her face is a portrait of fear. Then the horn sounds, and the fight begins.

Korsa lunges first, swinging that glaive in a wide arc. I duck, bracing my axe to deflect. Metal clashes on metal in a resounding clang that sends vibrations through my arms. He’s strong—each blow pulses with brute force. I circle to the left, searching for an opening. Dust swirls around our hooves. The crowd’s roar crescendos.

He feints high, then thrusts low. I sidestep, though not as smoothly as I’d like. My battered thigh from the prior battlethrobs, reminding me of my vulnerability. Still, I grit my teeth, returning a fierce slash that Korsa only just parries. Sparks fly where our blades connect.

We exchange several brutal strikes, each tested by the other’s cunning. My chest tightens with each movement, sweat trickling down my brow. Despite my injuries, I push forward, refusing to show weakness. Korsa senses a chance, pressing the advantage. He batters at my axe, forcing me to retreat a step. The crowd cheers his aggression.

But I won’t yield. With a sudden roar, I pivot, hooking my axe beneath his glaive to knock it aside. He grunts, staggering, and I drive the haft of my weapon into his armored shoulder. He stumbles, but recovers faster than I expect. A spiked gauntlet rakes across my chest plate, the force jarring me. Pain lances through my old poison-wounds. I bite back a hiss, horns tilting forward.

The stands vibrate with frantic cries, some chanting my name, others chanting Korsa’s. Thakur leans over his box, eyes gleaming with delight at my labored breath. My mind flashes to Naeva—her tears, her vow not to let me stand alone. Her presence propels me onward.

We lock weapons again, horns practically colliding. A savage dance of steel and sand. He tries to spin behind me, but I pivot, slamming my shoulder into him. His blade grazes my side, scoring a shallow cut that stings. Blood trickles down my flank. The crowd gasps. My vision darkens momentarily, battered by old injuries. But I can’t falter. I roar, swinging the axe in a wide arc. Korsa stumbles back, scowling.

We separate, breathing hard. Dust coats our fur, the air thick with tension. My ribs ache with each inhale. He smirks, catching his breath. “Your brand cost you your edge, Warden,” he taunts. “You fight like a wounded bull.”

I glare, refusing to speak. Trash talk won’t rattle me. Instead, I circle him, searching for a crack in his armor. He lifts the glaive overhead, charging in a display of raw ferocity. I brace, crossing my axe to block the overhead strike. The impact numbs my arms. He rams into me, horns locking with mine. For a moment, we strain, muzzle to muzzle, the crowd’s cheers deafening. My injured thigh nearly buckles.

He capitalizes on my stumble, hooking the glaive’s handle behind my knee to topple me. I crash onto the sand with a grunt, my axe pinned. The stands erupt in a collective roar. My skull rings from the blow, vision swimming. Korsa roars in triumph, about to deliver a finishing slash. Panic surges. If I die here, Naeva is doomed.

I recall her eyes brimming with terror, her broken whisper not to fight for her again. But I had no choice. I can’t let Thakur claim victory. If I fall, all is lost. Summoning the last dregs of strength, I twist aside, letting his blade slam into the sand. He curses, yanking it free. I roll, ignoring the searing pain, and kick out with both legs, slamming his ankle. He staggers, cursing.

That opening is all I need. I scramble up, driving my axe’s blade at his exposed flank. He spins, but the edge catches him, carving a bloody line. He bellows in rage, hooves stamping. Our weapons meet again, locked in a lethal grid. My arms strain, muscles trembling.

The crowd stands in a frenzy, chanting. My breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhalation shooting pain through my chest. But the memory of Naeva’s face fuels me. I push aside the agony. Korsa tries to bash my horns aside, but I tear free, slashing at his midsection. He blocks with the butt of his glaive, nearly knocking my axe from my grip. Sparks fly, the clang of steel sending shockwaves up my arms.

Blood seeps from multiple cuts along my side. My head swims. Korsa sniffs my weakness, grinning savagely. He lunges,locking horns with me to keep my axe at bay. The force sends me skidding backward, knees nearly giving out. My arms quake, vision blurring. The crowd’s roar fades to a distant thunder in my skull. Korsa grinds forward, trying to pry the axe from my hands. I sense my doom.

But then I see her. Amid the stands, a flash of dark hair, that brand on her arm, and an anguished cry, “Saru!” She’s leaning over the barrier, tears streaming, face contorted in desperation. My chest clenches. I refuse to let that anguish end in tragedy. I won’t let Thakur devour her life.

A fresh wave of resolve ignites. With a guttural snarl, I plant my hooves, ramming forward, using every ounce of will left. Korsa’s eyes widen as I break the horn-lock, swinging my axe in a brutal arc. He tries to parry, but I shift my angle mid-swing, slamming the blade into his shoulder guard. The impact jars me, rattling my bones, but it tears through the armor’s seam. Blood spurts, and Korsa staggers with a pained roar.

The stands explode in a deafening uproar. I hold my ground, panting. Korsa clutches his shoulder, glaive drooping. This is my chance. Despite screaming pain, I lunge, hooking the axe’s head behind his blade. With a sudden wrench, I disarm him, sending the glaive spinning across the sand. Korsa stumbles, eyes wild. He tries to raise a fist, but I slam the axe’s haft into his ribs. He gasps, doubling over.

One final blow is all it takes. I bring the axe down in a sweeping strike, feeling metal bite flesh. Korsa collapses to the sand, blood blooming around him. He tries to speak but only coughs, breath rattling. The crowd hushes, awe mingled with horror. My heart pounds, adrenaline surging. I stand over him, chest heaving, blood trickling down my flanks. The champion’s eyes roll back, and he goes still. It’s over.

An immediate wave of noise engulfs the arena—some cheer, some cry out in shock. My horns hum, body trembling withexertion. I sense Thakur up in the stands, face twisted in disbelief. My vision swims as I step back, letting the battered remains of my axe hang at my side. The champion lies unmoving in a widening pool of crimson.

The herald stumbles forward, voice echoing. “The Senate’s champion has fallen! The Warden stands victorious!” The stands erupt with ear-splitting cheers or jeers, but I barely hear them. My entire body wants to collapse. Yet I force my battered limbs to remain upright. I scan the seats for Naeva, my chest tight with desperate need to see her safe.

She’s there, face streaked with tears, a tremulous smile blossoming as relief surges. I catch her eye, inclining my head. Her lips form my name, though the roar drowns it out. The sight of her relief fuels me. I turn, setting my axe’s butt into the sand for support, and lift my horns high. The hush returns, anticipation thick.

I gather breath, voice resonating. “Thakur accused me. Claimed I was unfit. This duel proves otherwise. I will not kneel to false Senate charges.” My horns angle, scanning the crowd. “My brand stands. Naeva— my prisoner— is not a traitor. She’s under the crest of House Rhek’tal, and no Senate decree can alter that.”

Thakur leaps to his feet in his seat, stammering protests, but the crowd’s roar drowns him. Some boo, others cheer me on. The herald tries to maintain order. The Senate’s watchers are forced to acknowledge the arena’s verdict.

I keep moving, pushing past the sharp pull beneath my ribcage. “I reject Thakur’s demand to remove me from command. I remain Warden, but do not call me a senator.” My voice resonates in the stunned silence. “I renounce any further illusions of Senate ties. The Bastion is my charge, not the Senate’s puppet show.”

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