Page 14 of Burned to Obey

After a time, I hear a faint commotion in the corridor—guards changing shifts, talk of tomorrow’s tasks. Eventually, thenoise fades. My cell is quiet. The small slit in the wall reveals a dusky sky that might soon cradle the stars.

I lie down, letting exhaustion creep into my bones. Tomorrow, I’ll be back in the armory or some other station, forced to cooperate if I want to keep breathing. And Saru will be there, looming and unflinching, testing the boundaries of my defiance.

I close my eyes, and just before sleep claims me, I wonder how far I can push him. If I keep pulling at the edges of his composure, will something beneath that stoic exterior flare to life? Would I even want to see it?

One thing is certain: I refuse to be docile, no matter how well he organizes his fortress or how calmly he meets my fury. He saved me from immediate slaughter, but that doesn’t mean I belong to him. I decide again that I’d rather face the arena than surrender my spirit. I whisper to myself the same vow I made on the deck of that doomed ship: I’d rather burn free than live caged.

Then darkness swallows my thoughts, and I drift into restless dreams, the scent of steel and the flash of amber eyes seared into my mind.

4

SARU

Dawn arrives with a hush over the Ivory Bastion, the cold light tracing every tower and buttress. I stand on an upper balcony, watching the courtyard below wake to a new day. Kimtivkuz laborers haul crates from the supply wagons; a guard drills a row of prisoners marked for the next arena bout. Normally, I’d review the day’s schedule, ensuring each wing runs smoothly. But today, my mind weighs heavy with the knowledge of what the Senate demands.

A thin official scroll in my hand bears the High Senate’s seal. I’ve read it three times already, but each word cuts deeper: an expedited order for Naeva Viren’s execution. Signed by Senator Thakur, one of the more influential voices in Milthar’s upper chamber. The timing is no accident. Word must have reached them that I’ve delayed her arena sentence—my attempt at gleaning information about the sabotage.

They want her gone before any potential revelations can surface. Perhaps they fear she’ll expose their own secrets about dark elf trade. Or maybe they resent that a single human scuttled a vessel tied to noble families. In the Senate’s eyes, if she isn’t silenced fast, she remains a liability.

I run a hand over the scars carved into my left horn. Each represents a vow or a life lost under my watch. I’d hoped for more time—an opportunity to find a legitimate reason to protect her. But the Senate has forced my hand. The only way to prevent an immediate execution is to invoke an archaic law that I never thought I’d have to use.

The law states that a human claimed by a Vakkak noble cannot be put to death without a full High Senate hearing, effectively granting her a stay from any local sentence. It’s a centuries-old clause left over from the era when humans fought in the Minotaur Rebellions. Rarely used, it allows a noble to brand a human as a betrothed, placing them under house protection. It’s not marriage outright, but close enough in the eyes of the law. And it will scandalize half the Bastion, possibly even provoke the Senate into a more direct attack.

Still, I see no other path. If Naeva is executed, not only does it weigh against the debt I feel for my sister’s survival, but I sense something else stirring in me—something that bristles at the idea of letting a flame like hers be snuffed out for political convenience. My reasons are tangled: duty, guilt, something intangible that flickered in me each time we crossed paths.

I stride inside and make my way down to my office. Guards salute as I pass, curious about my rigid posture. I say nothing, gaze fixed forward. Once inside, I bolt the door and summon Captain Davor. He arrives promptly, shoulders squared.

“Warden,” he says, meeting my eyes.

“Bring Naeva to the main courtyard,” I reply, tone clipped. “Have at least four guards accompany her, but do not harm her. Understood?”

He furrows his brow. “She’ll fight this, sir. Especially if we force her out in public.”

“I know.” I place a hand on the official scroll. “The Senate wants her executed today. I refuse.” My voice tightens. “I’m invoking the Vakkak crest law.”

Davor’s eyes widen. He was a soldier before he joined the Bastion, so he’s familiar with obscure statutes. “Claiming her publicly as your…intended?” He lowers his voice. “That’s a permanent mark, Warden.”

“It’s the only way.”

He gives a terse nod, no argument offered. “I’ll fetch her.”

When Davor leaves, I sink onto a wooden chair, trying to steady my thoughts. Invoking this law means binding her to me. She’ll see it as another prison. And in many ways, it is. We’ll both be tied to a vow that neither of us wants. But it’s better than letting Thakur’s goons kill her in the night. I close my eyes, hearing the distant clang of the Bastion’s gates. A day that began in quiet tension will end in chaos if this goes wrong.

Eventually, I rise and make my way toward the courtyard. The morning sun highlights every crack in the limestone walls. Crowds of prisoners gather behind barred walkways for their routine work assignments. Guards stand in clusters, conferring over rosters. At the far end of the yard, an arena officer drills a group of potential fighters, each wearing battered leather armor.

A hush spreads when I appear, not because I’m overtly cruel or flamboyant, but because the Bastion knows my name—Saru Rhek’tal, once a general, now the Warden who answers to no one but the Senate itself. Or so the rumor goes.

I take my position near a raised platform used for public pronouncements. Two minotaur scribes spot me and scurry to set up a short table with ink and parchment. They assume I’m here to finalize an execution or announce sentencing. They aren’t far off, though today’s announcement turns that on its head.

A commotion stirs near the eastern gate. Davor and four guards escort Naeva inside. Even from a distance, I catch the tension coiling in her posture. Her black hair tumbles around her shoulders, framing those sharp green eyes that glint with defiance. She’s still wearing the Bastion’s plain garb—a rough linen tunic cinched at the waist by a rope belt. Chains bind her wrists, but she walks as though they’re not enough to break her stride.

They push through the crowd, and Naeva shoots a glare at any guard who dares look at her too long. A flicker of admiration sparks in me. Even surrounded, she refuses to shrink. The surrounding prisoners stop their tasks to stare. Whispers ripple across the courtyard.

“Bring her forward,” I command, voice low but carrying.

She’s forced up onto the stone dais. Davor stands to one side, watchful. A hush blankets the yard, everyone sensing something significant about to unfold. The scribes dip their quills in ink, poised to record. Prisoners peer from behind bars, uncertain. Some recall that Naeva was supposed to face the arena soon. They sense something out of the ordinary.

Naeva’s gaze lands on me. Despite the chains, her stance is proud, eyes blazing. I see the bruise along her jaw, the faint lines of old burn scars on her forearms. She looks furious, alive, untamed. She’s always reminded me of a storm contained in a small body, thrashing against confinement. Now, her tension is even sharper, no doubt suspecting a final condemnation.

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