Page 38 of Burned to Obey

He hesitates, then places a broad hand gently on my uninjured shoulder. The warmth of that touch steals my breath, stirring a precarious flutter in my chest. For a second, I see a glimpse of something beyond Warden and prisoner, something complicated and raw.

We break apart. He steps back, voice returning to its calm authority. “Rest now. I’ll post loyal guards to watch this wing. No one will approach without my knowledge.”

I nod, swallowing. He strides away, boots echoing on the stone floor. Part of me wants to call after him, to ask questions that swirl in my head. Another part is grateful for the space. My pulse remains frantic, the day’s near-death experience colliding with the realization that Saru has become my fiercest ally. How did we reach this point?

Returning to the cot, I lower myself with a sharp wince. My ribs throb, and the memory of the attack replays in my mind. Thakur’s men nearly had me. If Saru hadn’t arrived…

I close my eyes, struggling to steady my breathing. The brand hums on my arm, a twisted symbol of the line between life and death. For so long, I hated him for pressing that iron into my flesh, but he used that power to safeguard me. The thought unsettles my carefully built walls. We’re no longer purely captor and captive—there’s more complexity now. He’s still the Warden, but in that corridor, he was my protector.

Minutes blur into an hour, and I drift in and out of a half-doze. The Bastion’s low hum seeps through the infirmary’s walls, punctuated by the occasional moan of a wounded inmate or a guard’s barked order. My body aches, but my mind churns with fresh questions about Thakur’s next move. The senator’s hatred isn’t a rumor anymore. He’s stepped out of the shadows, deploying loyal men to kill me. Saru’s intervention might keep me alive, but it could also escalate Thakur’s vendetta.

Eventually, the healer returns, checking my bandages. Satisfied that nothing is broken, he clears me to leave if I can walk steadily. My limbs protest, but I refuse to linger. The corridor outside is guarded by a pair of stern-faced minotaurs I recognize as part of Saru’s personal detail. They incline theirheads, letting me pass. I guess he wasn’t lying about posting loyal guards.

Slowly, I make my way toward my quarters. My left side flares with each step, a grim reminder of how close I came to losing everything. Gritting my teeth, I push on. The Bastion’s corridors swirl with rumors—some inmates whisper that the Warden nearly killed a squad of guards for me, others claim it was just a random brawl. Either way, I sense a shift in how they look at me, more caution or perhaps grudging respect. If Saru was willing to break bones for me once, maybe he’ll do it again.

At last, I reach my door. A smaller minotaur guard stands watch, offering a brief salute. He unlocks the door, letting me inside. My room is still spartan, but it’s mine—far better than a cell. I lock the door behind me, exhaling as I slump onto the bed. Pain flares again, and I clench my fists.

A thousand thoughts flood my head, but one stands out: how Saru’s eyes blazed with fury when he saw me pinned by Thakur’s men. He tore through them, unstoppable, yet he didn’t kill them. If he’d unleashed lethal force, no one would question it. But he chose justice, not execution. That choice resonates with me. I recall the worst cruelties I saw in dark elf cities, where men in power reveled in bloodshed. Saru’s method is different. Brutal but still tempered by a sense of law.

I palm my ribs. My entire body trembles from the aftermath, but a flicker of warmth seeps through the cracks. He’s not merely playing a role for politics. He risked his own stance to rescue me, an indentured human whose sabotage outraged the Senate. I hated him for branding me, but now I see a glimmer of a deeper code within him—something that might be honorable, in a world that so often spits on honor.

Dropping my head onto the pillow, I stare at the ceiling. The pain in my body pales compared to the confusion in my chest. Ican’t ignore that he saved me. I also can’t ignore the brand that binds me. How am I supposed to reconcile those truths?

Sleep tugs at me, adrenaline fading. My eyes drift shut. Maybe tomorrow I’ll return to my quartermaster duties, battered but alive. Maybe I’ll figure out a strategy against Thakur. But in this moment, I let exhaustion claim me, lulled by the memory of Saru’s voice, that commanding thunder that cut through the corridor like a blade.

As I slip into uneasy dreams, I hold onto one certainty: I’m still standing, and it’s thanks to him. The Warden might be my captor in name, but he’s also the shield that kept me breathing today. The swirl of gratitude and resentment warps in my mind until I surrender to oblivion, half whispering a silent vow that no matter how tangled this becomes, I won’t fall to Thakur or anyone else. I will live, brand or not—and if Saru stands with me in that fight, I won’t turn him away.

10

SARU

Iwake at dawn, the Bastion’s chill clinging to my fur. Sleep came in fragments—visions of Naeva pinned against crates, the impact of my horns slamming into her attackers, and Thakur’s hidden hand pulling the strings. It leaves a taste of iron on my tongue. I push aside the tangled blankets, crossing to splash water on my face. The reflection in the metal mirror shows tension in my jaw. Last night’s events still burn in my mind.

Today, I carry out the sentence for those rogue guards. My authority might stir another wave of controversy, but they attacked a marked prisoner. This fortress demands accountability, no matter a guard’s rank. The memory of how she looked after that ambush—breathing hard, bruised but unbowed—spurs me to act. I can’t allow Thakur’s supporters to undermine me, brand or not.

I dress in my usual partial armor, checking each strap with care. The grooves on my horns ache faintly, a reminder of how close I came to losing control last night. Yet I’d do it again without hesitation. My guards wait outside the door, saluting as I emerge.

We walk briskly through winding corridors, passing other minotaurs who lower their heads in respect. Some exchange glances—they’ve no doubt heard the rumors. The Warden battered three fellow guards to protect a human he branded. Whispers follow me wherever I go, but I ignore them, focusing on the day’s grim task.

The open-air forum sits near the western wing, a wide courtyard ringed by stone columns. Here, disputes are heard, punishments declared, and lesser sentences pronounced. Beyond it, the coliseum looms, a place for major crimes or official challenges. For these three traitors, I’ve decided a punishment that isn’t execution but still severe enough to deter others who might conspire with Thakur.

They wait in chains, each kneeling, flanked by loyal guards. Their injuries remain visible—bruises, a limp, fresh bandages from the infirmary. Many onlookers gather, curious to witness the Warden’s brand of justice: a handful of prisoners, plus off-duty minotaurs, hush as I step onto the raised platform. The morning sun pierces the courtyard, casting stark shadows across stone.

I scan the crowd. My horns tilt. I spot Naeva at the fringe, leaning against a column, her arm bound in linen from her bruised ribs. Captain Davor stands beside her. It’s good she’s here to see the Bastion’s process, though I can’t guess her reaction. She has no reason to trust our laws, yet I want her to witness how we handle traitors.

I clear my throat, letting silence fall. The three kneeling guards glower, their resentment undisguised. My tail swishes in controlled arcs. “These men violated the Bastion’s code. They attacked a prisoner under my crest, conspired with an outside force to commit murder, and tarnished our uniform.” My voice resonates, each word clipped. “By the Bastion’s law, they face sentence today.”

One tries to spit a retort, but a guard knocks him silent. Another braces his shoulders, refusing to speak. I address them calmly. “You have a choice: forced labor for five years, or the arena.” A ripple of unease stirs the crowd. The arena is no small matter, but forced labor under the watchful eyes of the Bastion is also grueling. Typically, minor offenses get short stints in labor, but attempted murder is serious. I’m offering them a chance to fight for freedom, or toil away under guard.

They exchange fearful looks. Then the ringleader, the one who pinned Naeva against the crates, bares his teeth. “We won’t submit,” he grates.

I tighten my jaw, scanning his features. He’s still bruised, but defiance seethes in his eyes. “Then you choose the arena.” My voice is unyielding. “You’ll face three fights. Survive them, and your sentence can be reduced. Fail, and you die.”

A hush spreads. Even among this fortress, talk of fighting in the arena is always sobering. The other two guards keep silent. One nods once, bleak acceptance in his face. The ringleader spits to the side. “We’ll see you burn for this, Warden.”

My expression never wavers. “Take them.” Loyal guards haul the trio to their feet. The crowd parts, letting them pass. When they vanish into the corridor that leads to holding cells, I shift my attention back to the silent watchers. “Let it be known,” I say evenly. “No brand, no rank, no gold from the Senate can override Bastion law. Attack a marked prisoner, face justice.”

Murmurs ripple through onlookers, who soon disperse. Some head to their duties, others linger in small knots, discussing the harshness of the punishment or the spectacle of the Warden defending a human. I step down from the platform, scanning for Naeva. She remains by the column, posture guarded. Her eyes flick to me.

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