Page 34 of Burned to Obey

We share a moment of quiet triumph. She sets the blade against the anvil, blinking back exhaustion. My own heart thuds with a mixture of pride and unease. What we’ve made is far from perfect, but it’s enough to keep her safer.

Still, the rational side of me stirs. “You know if any guard finds this, you’ll be questioned. Possibly thrown in the arena.”

She drags her thumb along the metal, testing its edge. “If it comes to that, I’ll say it’s for quartermaster duties—cutting ropes, opening crates. A tool, not a weapon.”

I grunt. “That might fool them. Or maybe not.”

She shrugs. “I’ll take the risk. Better than walking these halls unarmed.” Her eyes flick to mine, a spark of defiance mingling with a strange, reluctant trust. “Thanks for not reporting me.”

I swallow the knot in my throat. “I’m not here to punish resourcefulness.”

Her gaze dips to my chest plate, then lingers on the brand etched into my right shoulder—a testament to House Rhek’tal. Her own brand on her arm is healing, the scab less angry now. “You talk a lot about rules, Warden. But you break them when it suits you.”

A faint huff leaves me. “I choose which battles matter.”

An ironic smile twists her lips. “We might have that in common.”

A flash of memory stabs me: my brother’s defiance in the arena, his stubborn grin as he challenged me. He believed he’dshow the Senate that House Rhek’tal was unstoppable, that the old ways demanded a victor. Instead, we both lost. My chest tightens.

Naeva shifts, noticing my expression. “I’m not your brother,” she says quietly, as if sensing the swirl of pain I can’t fully hide.

I push aside the old ache. “No. But you have a similar spark. Stubborn. Resourceful. That’s why...he insisted on the duel.” I grimace. “He thought only one of us could stand at the apex.”

She lowers her gaze to the newly forged blade, absorbing the confession. “The Senate forced your hand.”

“Yes. I didn’t see a way out.” The memory tightens my throat. “He died, and I was named Warden, an honor-bound role to pay my debt for the chaos the duel created.”

She gently sets the blade aside. “You keep telling me how the Bastion runs on rules, but I see it’s also shaped by regrets.”

Her words strike deep. “Regrets that I live with daily.”

She eyes me with a flicker of empathy. I realize we’re standing close—too close. The brazier’s fading warmth mingles with our combined heat. Her hair, damp with sweat, falls across her brow, and I notice she’s trembling faintly from exhaustion. Or perhaps from the emotional weight of this conversation.

An urge rises to reach out, to brush back that strand of hair. Instead, I tighten my posture, reminding myself of the boundaries that keep us from calamity. “Let’s get you back to your quarters. It’s late.”

She nods, scooping up the crude blade. She tucks it under a scrap of cloth, a half-smile on her lips. “I won’t brandish it unless I have to.”

“See that you don’t,” I murmur, stepping aside.

We exit the chamber, navigating the dim corridors. I lead, listening for any sign of patrolling guards. Twice we pause as footfalls draw near, but the guards pass by an adjacent hallway. My heart pounds heavier with each careful step. The secrecy ofwhat we’ve done leaves me torn: if the Bastion discovered I aided her in forging a blade, it could be seen as betrayal. I feel oddly liberated though, as if I’ve given her a shield I never managed to give my brother.

Eventually, we emerge into a better-lit corridor, connecting to the main living block. The flicker of torches announces we’ve reached safer territory. She cradles the cloth-wrapped blade against her side, eyes scanning for eavesdroppers.

A guard stationed at the far end glances our way. I assume a neutral expression. “Escort her to her room,” I command him, voice clipped. “I’ll speak with you tomorrow, Naeva.”

She meets my gaze, something unspoken passing between us. Her jaw flexes, and I see the conflict in her eyes: a swirl of gratitude, defiance, and confusion. Finally, she just nods. “Tomorrow.”

The guard leads her off, and I remain, watching until she disappears around a bend. My own breath comes out shaky. I rub my horn, the older scars etched there telling tales of battles survived. I can’t remember the last time I broke protocol for a prisoner. I can’t recall ever forging something for someone who might one day use it to kill.

Yet I’m not sure if I regret it. She’s forging her path. I see in her that raw determination I once had—before the arena forced me into a role I never wanted. She’s an ember that refuses to be extinguished, and part of me respects that so fiercely it almost hurts.

I leave the corridor, treading a route back to my quarters. The Bastion’s corridors feel emptier, though flickers of torchlight cast dancing shadows on every wall. My mind churns with the day’s events and the revelations of tonight. Images of my brother’s final moment weigh heavily, but so does the memory of how Naeva’s eyes lit with fierce focus at the anvil.That same unwavering spirit, teetering on a knife’s edge between life and death, driven by necessity.

When I reach my chambers, I latch the door and lean against it, exhaling. The thick walls offer little solace from my swirling thoughts. I picture Naeva holding that blade, feeling some measure of security. I picture the Senate’s reaction if they discover this. My stomach knots. I know the risk, but I can’t bring myself to regret letting her arm herself.

I strip off my chest plate, chest muscles aching from hammering. The memory of forging resonates through my arms, as though my body still vibrates from each strike. The brand on my shoulder stings, reminding me that everything I do here is bound to House Rhek’tal—my father’s name, my brother’s memory, my sister’s place in the Senate. Protecting a human forging contraband is the last thing tradition would expect.

I cross to the low table near the window, pouring water into a clay cup. The taste is metallic and lukewarm, but I gulp it down, trying to soothe the dryness in my throat. My reflection in the window glass is ghostly. I see the carved lines on my horns, etched for those I’ve lost. That day in the arena left a mark that no brand can overshadow.

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