Page 35 of Burned to Obey

She’s not your brother, I remind myself. Her fate doesn’t have to end in your blade. I close my eyes, recalling how she stood at the brazier’s glow, forging her own destiny. If I had allowed my brother to yield, if I had fought the Senate’s demand more fiercely, would he still be alive? The question gnaws at me. Perhaps I see a second chance in her, a chance to choose differently and protect a life instead of snuffing it out.

I move to my bed, dropping onto the edge. My horns feel heavier than usual, as though burdened by revelations that keep piling up. In the hush of the night, I let my mind drift, replaying the forging session in that abandoned chamber. The synergy of our motions, the clang of metal meeting metal. The flickersof unspoken understanding that bridged the chasm between warden and prisoner.

What am I becoming, forging an alliance with the one I forcibly branded? The question resonates. Duty demands I maintain distance. But every day, she erodes my barriers by showing a tenacity that mirrors my own. My chest tightens when I recall her eyes, bright with purpose. Maybe I need that spark to combat the numb weight of my guilt.

I collapse onto the mattress, eyes unfocused as the ceiling blurs overhead. What was meant as a sterile tactic—a seal burned into her skin to override the Senate’s kill order—has become something far messier. With each passing moment, she carves a place for herself here, not just with steel, but with purpose. And with each strike, she cracks open something in me I thought long sealed.

I remain awake, letting these thoughts swirl until the Bastion’s torches burn low. Outside, a guard calls out to another, the echo carrying through stone halls. Darkness presses at the windows. My mind replays the final moments of my brother’s life in the arena: the sun glaring overhead, the crowd chanting, his blood on my hands. I recall the vow I made never to fail someone again if I could save them. Perhaps that vow led me to brand Naeva, despite every rule.

Tomorrow, the Bastion will continue its ceaseless demands. The Senate might send new threats. Prisoners will test us. Yet a small, secret corner of me holds onto the memory of forging metal with Naeva tonight, crafting a dangerous shard. The guilt remains, but for the first time in ages, I sense something other than regret. A quiet, simmering hope that I can choose differently than I did in the arena. That I can shield instead of slay.

I close my eyes, the night’s weariness at last claiming me. My dreams are scattered: glimpses of the Bastion’s corridors lit byflaming braziers, the clash of metal in a distant ring. And amid that swirling haze, an image of Naeva turning to me, holding out a blade we forged together, as though offering a truce we both crave and fear.

9

NAEVA

Istand beneath the high arches of the Bastion’s eastern corridor, tapping my foot while I wait for a cart of rations to arrive. The morning light filters through tall windows, revealing dust motes dancing in the air. Around me, minotaurs hustle with crates and scrolls, each engaged in the fortress’s ongoing routine. After a restless night, the bustle feels jarring. I keep reminding myself to breathe, trying to find my balance among the noise.

Pain flares beneath the scabbed crest on my wrist whenever I move it. Saru’s mark. Small, but sharp enough to cut through my thoughts with fury if I let it. But I can’t deny it’s protected me from immediate death—at least in formal terms. The Bastion’s laws might respect a brand, yet individuals with grudges don’t always obey. I wonder how many more days I’ll manage before another confrontation flares.

A junior guard wheels in the supply cart at last, sweat beading on his muzzle as he halts in front of me. “Quartermaster,” he says, a little out of breath. “These are the ration bags for the southern blocks.”

I nod, scanning the contents: sacks of flour, dried fish, salted beans. I scribble each item into my ledger. The guard shifts uneasily, avoiding my gaze. He’s trying not to stare at the brand. I ignore him, finishing the tally with brisk efficiency.

“That’s all,” I say, voice cool but polite. “Get them to the staging area. We’ll distribute by noon.”

He salutes—rather awkwardly, as if he doesn’t know how to handle a salute to a human—and rolls the cart away. I turn, heading for the side passage that leads to the distribution yard. My mind churns with half-formed thoughts about reorganizing the storehouse. We keep uncovering unlogged crates, hidden corners. Contraband? Overlooked relics from old campaigns? Hard to say.

As I step into the yard, crisp sunlight greets me, along with the hum of morning activity. Prisoners line up for chores, supervised by watchful minotaurs. The smell of old hay, steel, and brine mingles in the open air. I hold my ledger close, weaving between stacks of crates. A few minotaur laborers notice me, offering nods or sidelong stares. The tension between me and them remains—some see me as an intruder, others grudgingly accept I’m just following the Warden’s orders.

I’m halfway across the yard when something tugs at my instincts. A tingle of wrongness creeps up my spine. I pause by a tall pile of sacks, glancing around. The usual guards are in their positions, but there’s a group in the far corner that draws my attention—three minotaurs dressed in the Bastion’s uniform, though something about their stance radiates unease. They stand close together, whispering, eyes flicking in my direction. One rests a hand on the hilt of his short sword, posture tense.

I swallow. My brand might protect me from official orders of execution, but it won’t stop individuals if they decide to take matters into their own hands. Even with the resentments swirling in the Bastion, I’ve never seen these three before. Couldthey be new arrivals or men loyal to a senator who hates me? Something about them sets my nerves jangling.

They break apart suddenly, making a show of directing the flow of traffic. I watch them discreetly, continuing my route to the storage area. Just as I near a narrow corridor, the same three slip away from the main yard. My heart beats faster. I consider calling for Captain Davor or another guard, but I hesitate. I can’t jump at every suspicion—some inmates and guards already assume I overstep. Still, I decide to stay alert.

Stepping into the corridor, I find it mostly deserted. The Bastion’s thick walls muffle the yard’s noise, leaving only the echo of my footsteps on the stone. I notice fresh scuff marks on the floor, as if someone moved crates recently. The corridor leads to a small storeroom, one we plan to repurpose.

A prickle of awareness ripples over my skin. The air feels too still, as if even the distant clangs of the fortress fade. I shift my grip on the ledger, scanning for movement. Light from a single torch flickers along the corridor’s length. Something about that half-burned torch sets me on edge—like it was left here deliberately.

Footsteps. Soft, calculated. I pivot just as a shape lunges from a recess. A heavy forearm swings toward my head. I duck on instinct, adrenaline spiking. The blow whips past my temple, slamming into the wall behind me with a dull thud.

I stagger backward, heart slamming in my chest. A minotaur guard emerges from the gloom, eyes cold and intense. Another guard flanks me on the right, brandishing a short spear. My suspicion about the three from earlier was correct—they aren’t just passersby. They’ve come for me.

They give me no time to shout or run. One lunges, catching my shoulder in a crushing grip. Pain sparks as he tries to slam me against the wall. “Easy,” he rasps, voice brimming with menace. “We’ll make this quick.”

I snarl, twisting free, jabbing an elbow into his midsection. My smaller frame wriggles out of his hold, ignoring the searing ache in my shoulder. I stumble, nearly dropping the ledger, cursing the fact that I’m pinned in this narrow space with no easy exit.

The second guard thrusts the spear. I jerk aside, cursing under my breath, letting the ledger clatter to the floor. My mind races: If I can break free and sprint into the yard, someone might help. But these two block the corridor, and I sense the third looming behind them. Even if I scream, who’s to say they’ll care? They wear the Bastion’s uniform. People might assume I’m just a troublesome prisoner.

The first guard leaps forward again. I raise an arm to shield my face. He backhands me, sending me crashing into the stacked crates. My back meets splintered wood, the wind knocked out of me. That ring of impact reverberates in my skull, stars dancing in my vision. Gritting my teeth, I scramble for the small blade I keep hidden in my boot—the one Saru helped me forge. My fingers grasp the hilt, heart pounding. If I must fight, I’ll fight. I refuse to die like a cornered rabbit.

The second guard laughs harshly. “So you do carry a weapon. Figures.”

He lunges again, spear tip gleaming. My body moves on instinct, sidestepping the strike. I slash with my small blade, aiming at his arm. He recoils with a hiss, blood welling from a shallow cut. But the corridor is cramped, and his companion darts in, pinning my other arm. In desperation, I slam my knee into his gut. A meaty thud, followed by a wheezing grunt, but he doesn’t release me.

My mind whirls. They’re bigger, stronger. One lucky hit, and I’m done. The brand might shield me from official orders, but these men serve someone outside the normal chain—someone who wants me silenced. Possibly Thakur. That malevolentsenator must have planted loyal guards in the Bastion, waiting for a moment to strike.

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