Page 29 of Burned to Obey

I scan the pages. “Here—there’s a mark for Haktor, but no second sign for the same ration. Could it be someone forged your brand?”

Gray-muzzle growls. “He’s lying. Trying to get extra rations.”

Haktor clenches a fist, steps forward. “Keep your mouth shut. I don’t lie about my food. I work for every scrap in this fortress.”

A crowd gathers, drawn by raised voices. No one wants to intervene yet, possibly hoping I’ll fail. My chest tightens. I can’t let them see me hesitate, or the situation might erupt.

I exhale. “Haktor, if you swear you never signed, we’ll check the supply. I won’t punish you for an unclaimed ration. Let’s confirm if the number of rations matches what’s left.”

Gray-muzzle’s eyes flash. “What if he’s faking ignorance? The logs say brand used. That’s official.”

I force a small, tight smile. “Official can still be tampered with. Let me do my job, or we’ll let the Warden handle it.”

That mention of Saru quiets them. Even if they scoff at me, they won’t risk the Warden’s wrath. With a curt nod, I signal them to follow me to the ration stack. We walk in tense silence, the ring of onlookers trailing behind. My guard keeps close, hand resting on the hilt of his weapon in case fists fly.

Reaching the ration stacks, I scan crates, cross-referencing with the ledger. Then I physically count each sealed package. The crowd shifts, muttering. My heart thumps faster with each tally. This must appear petty to them, but it’s exactly these small issues that spark bigger fights. If I can settle this fairly, maybe it’ll ease some friction.

When I finish, my brow furrows. “We have one extra ration in the list that isn’t here physically. The total is off by one, meaning someone signed for a nonexistent ration.”

Gray-muzzle’s face contorts. “What are you implying?”

I tilt the ledger, showing him the precise tally. “It means your records claim one more ration was given out than actually exists. Haktor’s brand is on that line, but no physical ration was accounted for. Either someone forged it, or the ledger keeper made an error.”

Haktor looks ready to snap at Gray-muzzle, but I hold up a hand. “Calm. We need the ledger keeper to verify the signature. That’s the only way to figure out if Haktor was cheated or if someone scammed the system.”

The onlookers murmur. A few nod grudgingly, acknowledging a method to the madness. I glance at Krav, who steps forward. “I’ll fetch the ledger keeper,” he offers.

“Wait,” Haktor says. “If you realize my brand was misused, do I get my ration or not?”

I tap the crate. “We can’t conjure an extra one from thin air. But I’ll mark your name for a replacement from the next shipment. That’s the best I can do right now.”

Gray-muzzle seethes. “And who takes the blame for forging brand usage?”

My tone hardens. “Whoever did it will face minotaur punishment. You know what that means.”

A hush falls. Everyone in the Bastion knows that forging official records leads to harsh consequences—if not a sentence in the arena, then forced labor or worse. For a moment, the tension sizzles, but it’s no longer directed at me. They see I’m willing to handle the problem fairly, not just point fingers or shrug it off.

Haktor’s shoulders drop an inch. “All right,” he says, voice grudging. “I’ll wait.”

Gray-muzzle scowls but nods, seemingly mollified that we’re investigating. Krav strides off to find the ledger keeper, leaving me with a crowd of watchers. A faint sense of triumph flickers in my gut: I diffused a potential brawl with logic, not brute force. That might be how Saru would handle it too, but I’d rather do it without threats.

“Get back to your tasks,” I say. “I’ll send word when the ledger keeper arrives.”

They disperse, whispering among themselves. Some side-eye me warily, but there’s less hostility in the air. I rub the back of my neck, tension draining as the group thins out. A flicker of heat stirs beneath the sigil etched into my skin—a quiet whisper that freedom remains a fantasy. Still... there’s strange comfort in settling a fight without blood. In dark elf lands, this would've ended in blades or spellfire. Here, words are currency.

I return to the main yard, continuing my rounds. Next up: inventorying newly arrived crates from a distant port. The boxes smell of salted fish, strong enough to make my nostrils burn. I note each label: “Dried cod,” “spiced eel,” “barley flour.” A gloved guard helps me pry open the lids to verify the contents. He coughs at the pungent odor, but I just keep scribbling. This is my job, after all.

As midday sun beams over the fortress, I pause to accept a tin bowl of stew from a ration station. My appetite is lackluster, but I force down a few mouthfuls. I’ll need energy for the afternoon tasks: finishing the supply count, then meeting with a guard who claims to have new crates missing from the logs. Another headache.

While I eat, I sense a shift in the courtyard’s atmosphere. People give me a wider berth, not out of fear but cautious respect. A couple of times, inmates or lower-ranked minotaurs nod in recognition rather than spitting at my feet. It’s not acceptance, not yet. But it’s less pure hostility. Perhaps they seeI’m not just Saru’s brand, nor do I crave bending them to my will. I’m trying to keep the wheels of this fortress from grinding them into dust.

After lunch, I cross paths with Saru again—he stands at the far end of the yard, speaking with a cluster of guards. My gaze drifts to him without meaning to. He’s so distinctly minotaur: towering frame, horns with silver-etched tips, dark fur over rippling muscle. Yet it’s not just his appearance that draws attention—there’s a quiet authority about him. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t posture. He just occupies space like a mountain.

He looks my way, and that spark flares again. I freeze, heart thudding. We’re separated by a throng of workers, but it feels as if no one else exists for a split second. Then a prisoner carrying a heavy crate stumbles between us, and the moment snaps. I focus on my ledger, pretending I wasn’t staring.

When the afternoon grows hot, I find my last assignment for the day: the southern corridor, near the ring that leads to the Bastion’s training yards. Davor asked me to verify how many weapons racks are left there. The corridor is dimmer, the stone walls slick with condensation. I follow a narrow passage that echoes with the sound of distant shouting—someone sparring, perhaps.

Krav points to an iron door. “That leads to the old weapon store. You sure you want to go alone?”

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