Page 2 of Burned to Obey

He shrugs with a dismissive wave. “If you’re guilty, that’s the price. Move along.”

“Bastard,” I hiss under my breath. The guard gives me a warning glance, but he doesn’t strike me again. Not yet.

They drag me through the next gate, leading into a corridor that smells of damp stone and old sweat. At intervals, narrow windows let in slices of daylight. I glimpse more of this fortress—a courtyard with training dummies, a distant ring that must be the famed arena, and beyond that, the endless sea. My eyes burn as I take in the expanse of ocean. I’ve seen seas before, but never from a vantage like this. It’s almost beautiful—too bad it’s overshadowed by the fortress walls.

We pass a cluster of minotaur guards. They step aside, exchanging hushed remarks about me. One says, “I heard she killed a whole boatful of dark elves.”

Another retorts, “That’s not even a crime. They’re vile creatures. Must be something else.”

I almost laugh. They hate the dark elves too, but apparently I did it wrong by damaging a trade route. Typical.

We round a corner and come face-to-chest with the largest minotaur I’ve seen yet. He’s at least two heads taller than the older guard, with broad shoulders and a posture that screams authority. Dark sable fur covers his arms, and two curved horns—black-tipped with subtle silver lines—frame a face that’s eerily calm. His eyes are deep amber, and they lock on me with a slow, measuring look.

Everything about him radiates control. There’s a scar that runs across his brow, and it twitches when his gaze drops to my chains. He says nothing for a moment.

One of my escorts clears his throat. “Warden Saru.”

Warden. So this is the rumored warden of the Ivory Bastion. I’ve heard he used to be a general, or something near that rank, before a public fall from grace.

He’s silent, but his presence is enough to still the entire corridor. Several minotaurs nearby bow their heads, an acknowledgment of his status. I’m the only one who doesn’t lower my eyes.

Saru’s gaze flicks down to my wrists, to the chafing red skin under the metal cuffs. Then he looks at my face. My jaw clenches, but I hold his stare. I won’t cower.

He speaks, and his voice is a low resonance that hums in my bones. “Where do you plan to keep her?”

The older guard steps forward. “She’s set for the arena, sir. High-level threat, sabotage. The scribe designated her as fodder.”

Saru’s eyes linger on me a moment longer, as if searching for something. Or maybe he’s just cataloguing my potential weaknesses. “Arena fodder,” he echoes, the words stripped bare of emotion.

“Yes sir,” the guard replies.

For a beat, Saru says nothing. A muscle in his thick neck moves, and then he nods once. “Proceed,” he orders quietly.

He steps aside, and we pass him. My heart is pounding. If I expected any attempt at mercy, that didn’t happen. Not that I truly believed a minotaur warden would offer me a gentle hand, but I had some foolish hope that maybe he’d question sending me to die. Instead, he confirmed it with one word.

The guards pull me forward. I swallow the knot of fear building in my throat. No one will ever own me again, I tell myself. I might be caged, but my will is still my own.

I hear the warden’s footsteps recede behind us. I chance a glance over my shoulder just long enough to see him standing rigid, arms folded across his broad chest. He’s watching, but his expression is unreadable.

They take me down a tight spiral staircase, each step slick with condensation. Torches in metal sconces light the twisting path, and with each downward step, the air grows heavier, tinged with the smell of mold and sweat. We reach a corridor with barred cells on both sides. Moans and curses echo. This must be the holding wing for those slated for the arena.

A guard points to an empty cell. “In.”

I stand still, scanning the interior. A straw pallet on the floor, a bucket in the corner, a single drip of water trailing along the wall. My chest feels tight, but I force myself not to react. Giving them any sign of weakness is pointless.

They unlock my cuffs just long enough to shove me inside. One guard slams the bars shut and clicks the lock in place. Two remain behind, likely to guard me until my official registration is done.

I rub my raw wrists and take in the gloom. There’s no window, only a narrow gap high up where a thread of light seeps through. A minotaur stationed outside glances in my direction occasionally, his large arms crossed, tail swishing impatiently.

I lower to the pallet, ignoring how the straw scratches my palms. My scars tingle in the damp air, a memory of the forgingfires I once worked near. Dark elf magic. Dark elf cruelty. The clang of chains. I close my eyes and exhale.

I’m no stranger to captivity. But every second I spend behind these bars fuels my determination to break free. To them, I’m likely just a disposable tool for the arena but I won’t let myself become bloodsport for minotaur amusement.

A half hour passes in tense silence. The guard outside speaks in hushed tones to a subordinate, who arrives with a battered ledger. They’re discussing scheduling. Words drift over: “Tomorrow’s match... high-level criminals... eight contenders.”

Eight. So they’re preparing a group fight, or some spectacle. Typical minotaur tradition: let the criminals amuse the crowd, a blood-soaked show disguised as justice.

He scrawls something on a parchment, then looks up at me. “Stand,” he orders.

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