Page 23 of Burned to Obey

I pull away from his touch and trail him across the yard, leaving Saru behind. I can practically feel the Warden’s gaze boring into my back. Each step reminds me that my body is still sore, especially the raw brand. The memory of how his huge hand held the brand to my skin sparks an angry flush across my face.

We exit through a small gate into a side courtyard. There, I see a line of wagons, each with a pair of minotaur guards checking inside. Davor leads me to a table set up with parchment and quills, presumably for inventory. A few prisoners in chains wait nearby, heads bowed.

He hands me a quill. “You can write, yes?”

I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”

With that, I set to work, verifying crates, noting down contents, cross-referencing arrivals. It’s menial, but it’s more interesting than rotting in a cell. My mind remains alert for opportunities, but the guards are too numerous for a quick escape. The Bastion’s outer gates are well fortified, and I see at least a dozen minotaur soldiers patrolling the perimeter.

Time drags as Davor barks instructions. I record the names of new inmates, a mixture of humans and one orc, all battered and resigned. Their wretched expressions remind me of my own arrival not long ago. If anything, my predicament is now worse—branded with a crest I never asked for, forced into a strange status that’s neither prisoner nor free.

Eventually, the last wagon is processed, and Davor signals me to follow him back inside. My arm aches from the repetitive writing, and my burn throbs. The guard leads me down a corridor, through a winding staircase, and into a part of the Bastion I don’t recognize. Finally, we arrive at a small alcove near a broad courtyard door. A stone bench sits against the wall, lit by torches.

Davor points. “Sit. The Warden will speak with you again soon.”

Exhaustion tugs at me, so I slump onto the bench, hugging my bandaged arm. Davor hovers a short distance away, exchanging words with another guard. Minutes pass in uneasy quiet. My thoughts drift to Saru again, how he watched me in the yard. The weight of his attention pressed on me like a physical force.

I half expect him to appear, but he doesn’t. Time stretches. My eyes grow heavy, lulled by the warmth of the torches. Before I realize it, I drift into a light doze, mind swirling with half-formed images. The brand, the ship’s inferno, Saru’s quiet voice.

“Get up,” someone rumbles.

I snap awake, blinking. The Warden stands over me, expression unreadable. I surge upright, scowling to mask my embarrassment.

He nods to Davor, who steps aside. “Come with me,” Saru says, voice low. No explanation.

I follow him through a winding corridor that leads to the base of a stairwell. The presence of two armed guards behind us quashes any idea of flight. We climb until we reach a heavy wooden door. Saru opens it, revealing a simple chamber: a modest table, a single shuttered window, and shelves lined with dusty tomes.

He gestures me inside, then closes the door behind us. The guards remain in the corridor, presumably. My heartbeat quickens at being alone with him in such a confined space. The tension from earlier flares again.

He regards me for a moment. “You did the inventory without incident.”

I cross my arms. “Surprised?”

A faint twitch of his lips, almost a smile but not quite. “Pleased. I told you we can do this without locks and chains—if you behave.”

A flare of anger dances up my spine. “I’m not a rabid animal. I can be civil if your minotaurs don’t push me.”

His eyes flick to my bandage again, then back to my face. “Still hurt?”

I huff. “Of course. But I’ll live.”

He stands near the table, arms folded, and something shifts in his expression. “Look, I’m trying to find a path for you that isn’t a death sentence. I know you hate this brand. But I won’t apologize for keeping you alive.”

My nails bite into my palms. “I didn’t ask for your pity.”

He exhales through flared nostrils. “It’s not pity.”

We stare each other down, a silent clash of wills. The air in the chamber crackles, though neither of us moves. My pulse thrums, and a subtle heat winds through my gut. I despise the brand and everything it stands for. Yet some small part of me acknowledges that he’s not reveling in my suffering. If anything, he looks just as frustrated.

At length, he breaks the quiet. “You said you owe me nothing. Fine. But for your own sake, follow the rules so the Senate doesn’t have an excuse to override the brand.”

I set my jaw. “I’m not an idiot. I know Thakur wants me dead.”

He nods, face darkening. “He does. Let me handle Thakur. You just stay alive.”

A swirl of bitter laughter rises in me. “That’s all it takes? Stay alive, do your chores, be your docile prisoner?”

His voice drops an octave. “You think I want docile from you? I’ve seen your spark. That’s exactly why I….” He hesitates, eyes shifting away. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t demand you kneel or bow.”

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