Page 27 of Burned to Obey

She unlocks the door with a key the guard hands over. “I know. Thanks for the reminder.” Her tone is neither grateful nor mocking. It’s something in between, a reluctant acceptance of her reality.

Before she disappears into the room, I speak more softly. “You did well today.”

She grips the doorway, tension flickering in her knuckles. “If you’re expecting me to bow in gratitude, you’ll be disappointed.”

“I expect you to survive,” I reply, voice a notch above a whisper. “That’s all.”

Her eyes flick to mine, a sudden hush stretching between us. I catch the faint trace of her breathing, the flush along her neck,the mark on her arm that ties our fates in a way neither of us chose. A heat coils in my stomach, potent and confusing. I push it down.

She steps inside, closing the door with a firm click. I linger in the corridor for a long moment, ignoring the curious guard who stands watch. My heart beats faster than it should. The exhaustion of the day weighs on me, but some part remains electrified by our exchange. There’s friction in every look she gives me, a spark that sears more than any brand.

I turn abruptly and make my way to my office, the stack of supply logs under my arm. I can’t let personal entanglements cloud my role as Warden. Yet I can’t deny the primal protectiveness that flares whenever I see her threatened, or the jolt of awareness every time we’re close. Perhaps it’s guilt, or maybe something deeper that I’m not ready to name.

In the quiet of my office, I settle at the desk, the lone lamp casting warm light on the parchment. A swirl of thoughts tumbles through my mind as I scan Naeva’s notes. Her handwriting is steady and precise, listing missing crates, daily rations, and distribution times. She’s done more in one day than many quartermasters accomplish in a week. The Bastion needs that diligence right now.

I brush a hand across the brand etched into my own shoulder decades ago, the emblem of House Rhek’tal. It’s different from the fresh one I pressed onto her. Mine is old, a mark of heritage. Hers is an unasked-for chain. I wonder how she copes with that forced bond each time she sees it. She must resent me more than she shows.

Sighing, I sift through the logs, focusing on the missing crates. Two labeled as grain reserves never appeared in the official records. That might be an oversight, or it might point to contraband. If it’s contraband, the Senate could use it to furtherundermine me. Or worse, some unscrupulous faction inside the Bastion might be running a covert operation.

Time slides by, measured by the guttering lamp flame. I piece together each detail. No firm conclusion emerges. I’ll have to ask more questions tomorrow, check storerooms personally. My eyes burn from reading. Leaning back, I roll my shoulders, letting the day’s tension weigh them down.

A faint knock on the door drags me from my thoughts. Davor steps inside, face drawn. “Warden, sorry for disturbing you.”

I wave a hand. “Speak.”

He sets a small parchment on my desk. “Another report. Guards found a prisoner beaten in the laundry wing. He’s alive, but badly hurt. He claimed it was retaliation for speaking out about the brand.”

My lips press into a hard line. “Which prisoner?”

Davor sighs. “A minotaur named Revat. He was complaining that you favor a human over your own kind. The rumor is he insulted you, and someone decided to silence him in your name.”

Cold fury stirs in my stomach. “In my name? I never ordered such a thing.”

“I know, but the rumor remains. He’s unconscious, can’t identify his attackers. Some inmates are calling it your brand of vengeance.” Davor grimaces, tail lashing. “This is getting out of hand.”

I surge to my feet. “Lock down that area. Question everyone. This fortress runs by law, not covert beatings. Whoever thinks they’re doing me a favor is wrong.”

“Yes, Warden.” He hurries out, leaving me alone again.

I stand there, fists clenched. The brand was meant to save a life, not spark vigilante brutality. Now some fanatic might be punishing those who speak ill of me or Naeva. My temples pound with the realization that controlling the Bastion is likegripping water—no matter how tight I hold, some always slips through.

Snuffing out the lamp, I leave my office and patrol the corridors, checking a few late-night guard stations. The silence of the Bastion after dark is heavy, the torches casting shadows that seem to flicker with suspicion. Each cell block I pass, I sense the tension, the unrest that hums just below the surface.

At last, I retreat to my quarters, shoulders aching. I shed my chest armor and sink onto the edge of my bed, horns practically throbbing with the day’s stress. Outside my door, I hear the steady shuffle of guards changing shifts. I close my eyes, breath ragged.

Images swirl: Naeva’s furious glare, that ephemeral spark when our hands brushed, the bruises on her skin, the fresh brand. My duty is to keep her alive, preserve order, and undermine the Senate’s corrupt aims. Yet the Bastion’s balance feels more precarious than ever, teetering under rumors and resentments. And beneath it all, a part of me is drawn to her fire—an ember that defies every rule.

I grit my teeth, forcing such thoughts away. She’s a prisoner under my protection, not a partner. My chest constricts at the memory of her defiance. The day ended without a major riot, but tomorrow will bring fresh challenges. The missing crates, the anger in the cell blocks, Thakur’s quiet machinations—none of it rests.

Pulling a thin blanket over me, I dim the lantern. Darkness closes in, except for a faint glow from the corridor. The Bastion’s stones seem to breathe around me, steeped in centuries of conflict. Perhaps the fortress itself senses the brewing storm. I recall how Naeva looked at me when we parted—wary, resentful, yet not entirely dismissive. It’s a small thread of uneasy connection. For now, that must be enough.

I lie back, exhaustion tugging at my limbs. My mind churns with images: the battered inmate in the laundry wing, the malicious rumors, the two unlogged crates, and Naeva’s bright, challenging gaze. The mark etched into her skin binds us in ways I never foresaw. As sleep drags me under, one truth cuts through the haze: I can’t let the Bastion consume her, but I also can’t let her unravel the order I’ve fought to maintain. Keeping both intact may very well break me.

Tomorrow, I will continue this precarious dance, stepping between the Bastion’s demands and my own convictions—protecting a human who wants nothing from me but survival, while ensuring the fortress remains intact. The tension is potent, a live wire crackling beneath every step. And in the midst of it all, I feel a tug—an unspoken connection—that beckons me closer to the flames even as I command myself to keep my distance.

Sleep creeps over me at last, though my dreams spark with images of swirling shadows and the echo of Naeva’s defiant voice. The Bastion stands tall in my mind’s eye, its walls blazing under an unforgiving sun, while the brand I placed on her arm glows like a beacon in the night—a vow I can’t ignore, yet hardly understand.

7

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