Page 18 of Burned to Obey

A flash of frustration rushes through me. “You call the arena free? That’s just another death spectacle. Here, at least you have a chance to breathe, to fight in your own way.”

She inhales, eyes flicking down to the bandage. “I’d rather burn on my terms than wear your crest.”

My jaw tenses. “I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she exhales a long breath, pain flickering in her features. “Let me go back to my cell. I don’t want your pity or your presence.”

I nod once, stepping aside. The guard outside steps in to escort her. As she moves past me, her shoulder brushes mine, a fleeting contact that leaves my heart thumping for reasons I don’t fully understand. She halts momentarily, turning her head slightly as if to say something. But then she marches on, leaving me staring at the empty space where she stood.

The healer glances at me, frowning. I realize I’m still gripping the curtain in a white-knuckled hold. Forcing my fingers to unclench, I step away. My limbs feel weighed down by the tension between Naeva and me.

As I leave the infirmary, the corridors feel narrower, the walls pressing in. I can’t ignore that part of me, that faint flicker of heat whenever her defiance meets my gaze. It’s more than guilt. Something about her spirit pulls at me, a spark of life that I haven’t felt in my own heart for far too long.

The Senate’s order forced my hand, but I can’t pretend I only acted out of a sense of debt or duty. A deeper thread binds me to her, even if I won’t name it yet. She sees me as no better than a captor, and I can’t blame her. I did brand her flesh. But I also kept her alive, and that has to matter in the battles to come.

I continue down the corridor, lost in thoughts that circle around the same point: I have saved her life, and in doing so, bound her to mine. The brand is meant to protect her, yet it also yokes us together in the eyes of Milthar. She’s enraged, and I don’t have the words to ease her anger. Maybe time will prove that living is better than dying in the Bastion’s sand.

Still, her hatred burrows under my skin, clawing at me. I push aside that discomfort, reminding myself that I’ve faced worse scorn. Let the Senate snarl. Let Naeva rage. I’ll bear it if it means she stays alive. Because if I fail her now, not only do I betray my vow, but I cast aside the flicker of something new—something strong—growing inside me each time I look into her storm-bright eyes.

I enter the main hall again, where the echoes of Thakur’s anger still linger. The hush that settled earlier has been replaced by guarded conversation. The Bastion staff likely waits for me to issue fresh orders in the wake of this scandalous move. I can imagine the rumors: The Warden has taken a human to his house crest. That’s nearly akin to a vow of engagement. Some will mock. Others will watch with curiosity, guessing if I’ve lost my discipline or if I have a cunning plan.

But as I step onto the dais where we keep the Bastion’s official logs, I find no simple explanation to offer them. My chest still tightens when I recall Naeva’s expression of pure betrayal. She’s not wrong: I forced this bond on her. Yet it was either the brand or death.

The logs remain open, waiting for me to update them. My hand hovers over the quill. I pen the official line:Naeva Viren, claimed under House Rhek’tal crest by Warden Saru Rhek’tal on the Fifteenth Day of Vahkus Season.The ink glistens, final and binding. A scribe stands by, reading over my shoulder. He doesn’t speak, but I sense his shock.

I set the quill down. My horns feel like they bear the weight of a mountain. There is no turning back now. I am entwined with a human prisoner who despises me. The Senate will come at me with all the fury they can muster. The Bastion’s staff will watch every move, divided in their opinions. And Naeva, shackled by a brand she didn’t choose, will continue to spit fire my way.

Yet in the pit of my stomach, I feel that maybe this is the first decision I’ve made in a long while that aligns with the warrior I once was—someone who believed in saving lives, no matter the cost. Even if it means being cursed by the one life I saved.

I stand tall, rolling my shoulders to chase off the tension. Let Thakur conspire. Let the Senate rage. I have an oath to uphold, and whether Naeva believes it or not, I won’t let her be slaughtered.

I leave the dais and walk toward the corridor that leads to my quarters. Tomorrow, the Bastion will awaken to rumors that swirl and swirl. But I won’t retreat. I’ll face the storm and see if there’s a path for both of us to survive. And if that path requires me to hold the line against the entire Senate, so be it.

As I pass a window overlooking the open courtyard, I catch a glimpse of the space where I branded her, the scorch marks on the brazier’s coals still darkening the stone. That brand is more than a physical burn—it’s a bond that neither of us can break easily. And it sets a fuse beneath us both, one that could destroy everything if we can’t find a way to stand together.

I grip the stone sill, letting the breeze from the sea wash over my face. The salt tang reminds me of the old campaigns, of the vow I made to protect Milthar from corruption. Now, I realize protecting her might also be part of that vow. Even if she hates me for it. Even if I have to burn all my bridges with the Senate to keep her breathing.

I push off the sill, mind resolved. My horns weigh like anchors, but my spine straightens with purpose. This brand binds us to a dangerous game, yet I refuse to yield. Tomorrow, or the day after, the Senate might arrive in force, or Thakur might move behind the scenes. Naeva will likely rail at me for stealing her freedom in another form. Still, I’ll weather it. Because in a world of shifting loyalties and a fortress built on iron rules, protecting her is the one thing that feels undeniably right.

So let the storms come. I will hold the line.

5

NAEVA

Iwake to find my arm throbbing in a dull, punishing rhythm. The bandage wrapped around the brand sticks to my skin, and every small shift of my muscles reminds me of the fresh burn beneath. This is the Warden’s doing—Saru. He seared his family crest into my flesh in front of a hundred onlookers, shackling me through some ancient Minotaur law. I hate it as much as I hate these gray fortress walls.

My cell feels smaller today, even though it’s the same cramped space as before. Straw crunches under my boots as I sit up. The narrow slit of a window reveals a rainy morning, with a damp chill drifting in. There’s a plate of leftover bread on a small stool near the bars, presumably dropped off by the guard earlier. My stomach growls, but the resentment lodged in my throat makes it hard to swallow.

I trace a finger over the bandage’s edge. The brand is tender, and I recall the hiss of hot iron, the acrid scent of scorched skin. Most of all, I remember his expression—Saru’s eyes calm but grim. He didn’t flinch while pressing his crest into me. A quiet hope flickers—maybe he regretted it. But the memory of that searing agony scorches any comfort before it can settle.

Voices echo from the corridor: boots on stone, hushed orders. One voice stands out among them—a low timbre. Saru. I tense as the footsteps approach my cell. The guard stationed outside gives a crisp nod, then unlocks the door with a clang of keys. Saru steps in, flanked by two minotaurs who hover in the doorway.

He’s wearing his usual partial armor: a chest plate molded to his broad torso, leather bracers that wrap his powerful forearms. I can’t help noticing the faint shine of moisture on his dark fur, as though he came here straight from an early inspection in the rain. He stands still, horns angled with quiet authority.

My heart thumps with aggravation. “Come to see your prize?”

“Check your bandage,” he says, voice clipped. “Make sure it’s not infected.”

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