Page 3 of Burned to Obey

I roll to my feet, wiping sweat from my brow. I refuse to cower in the corner like some broken beast.

The minotaur unlocks the cell and signals me to come out. I comply slowly, scanning the corridor for a chance at escape. My chain-bound ankles are stiff, the shackles limiting any swift movement. Another guard grips me by the shoulder, leading me deeper into the Bastion.

We pass more cells, each filled with men and women. Some glance at me with hollow gazes. One orc sits cross-legged, quietly humming. The walls are thick stone, etched with old runes of minotaur design. Everything in this place feels ancient, unyielding.

We turn a corner and arrive at what looks like a small administrative chamber. A single table, a small stack of documents, a quill, and an inkpot. No windows. There’s a tall minotaur with chestnut fur waiting, wearing partial armor that clinks when he moves. He nods curtly.

“You are Naeva Viren?” he asks.

My lips twist in a scowl. “Evidently.”

He doesn’t respond to my sarcasm. Instead, he flips through a few pages. “Name: Naeva. Age: mid-twenties. Place of origin: Keshira, formerly human territory, now under dark elf influence. Crime: sabotage of a dark elf vessel leading to multiple noble casualties. Penalty: arena.”

I keep my face blank.

He jots a final note. “We schedule your first match tomorrow. Survive that, you’ll face another. And so on. If you reach a hundred victories, you can earn a reprieve.”

A hundred victories? No one wins that many. It’s basically a slow death sentence. My chest tightens. I breathe through the panic.

The guard motions me out. We retrace our steps, returning to the corridor. This time, they lead me up a separate staircase. There’s a loud clang from above, as if a heavy gate is being drawn open. My heart races.

Sunlight floods my vision when we emerge into a wide courtyard enclosed by high walls. It’s different from the first courtyard. This one is simpler, open, ringed with wooden benches. A few minotaurs lounge about, some in partial armor, others in plain tunics. Their gazes fall on me, lingering with curiosity or boredom.

“Wait here,” the guard says. He steps away, leaving me under the watchful eye of two armed minotaurs.

An uneasy silence settles. Then footsteps—heavy, measured—approach from behind. I turn and find myself face-to-chest with Saru again.

He looks precisely as before: tall, imposing, horns curved like living blades. Up close, I notice old scars crossing his broad chest, faint lines beneath his armor. He radiates a quiet tension, as if every motion is deliberately contained.

He studies me, eyes narrowed. “You’re new to the Bastion.”

A dull laugh escapes my throat. “Maybe the chains didn’t tip you off?”

He lifts his chin slightly, ignoring my jab. “They say you destroyed a dark elf ship.”

“They say a lot of things.”

His brow furrows, and for a moment, I glimpse a flicker of something in his amber eyes—curiosity, maybe. “That’s a high offense in minotaur law,” he says. “Sabotage of a recognized trade route is punishable by death or the arena.”

“Trade route.” Bitterness oozes out in my tone. “That was a slave ship. The only ‘trade’ they practiced was in stolen lives.”

His gaze shifts across my expression. I don’t see judgment or pity—just cool assessment. Minotaurs famously despise dark elves, but maybe this fortress has its own brand of neutrality.

“Your first match is tomorrow.” He says it without emotion.

I clench my fists. “You’re proud of that? Making people fight to the death for your amusement?”

He doesn’t flinch. “We don’t do it for amusement. It is our tradition of justice.”

“Justice,” I repeat. My pulse thrums. “Right.”

He exhales, nostrils flaring, then gestures to a guard. “Take her for medical inspection. No point in sending her half-dead into the pit.”

The guard steps forward, but I stay rooted. My body screams to bolt, though it’s impossible with these chains. “Thanks for your concern, Warden,” I say with biting sarcasm, “but I don’t need your courtesy.”

Saru’s jaw muscles tighten. “Move,” he instructs, voice low.

A wave of helpless fury rushes through me. I want to spit at him, or lash out with everything I have. But that would be suicide. I bite my lip until I taste copper, forcing myself to keep pace as the guard pulls me away.

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