Page 4 of Burned to Obey

Behind us, I sense Saru’s gaze lingering, that silent authority pressing down on me. My back prickles with the awareness that he’s still there, standing motionless like a sentinel.

The guard leads me into a small chamber on the opposite side of the courtyard. Two minotaur medics wait, one holding a rag soaked in some pungent disinfectant. They say nothing as they check me for injuries, prodding at bruises on my ribs, wiping dried blood from a scrape on my cheek.

One of them grunts and gestures for me to rinse my mouth in a basin of stale water. I comply, though it tastes foul. The entire time, I’m trying not to lash out. It’s an exercise in patience I’ve never had to practice before.

“You’ll do,” one of the medics says at last. “No fever. No broken bones. She’s healthy enough for the pit.”

“And if I wasn’t?”

He shrugs. “They’d wait until you healed.”

Great. So they’ll just keep me alive to feed me to the arena crowd.

When the medics finish, the guard returns me to a different cellblock. This one is on ground level, separated by iron bars from the main yard. The cell has a narrow bed of straw and a water jug. Still a prison, but at least there’s a faint draft of air that smells like salt and old stone.

One of the minotaurs locks the cell door. He and his companion stomp away, disappearing around a corner. I’m alone again.

I slump onto the straw bed, massaging my sore wrists. A wave of exhaustion hits me, but I fight the urge to curl up and sleep. My mind whirls, replaying everything that’s happened in the last few hours: the intake hall, the scribe labeling me arena fodder, the warden’s cold stare.

Saru. I hate how he unnerves me. He’s a living wall, built of discipline, and I can’t decide if that’s better or worse thandealing with someone who openly relishes cruelty. At least with a sadist, I’d know what to expect. With him, I sense there might be more beneath that calm.

A metallic clank draws my attention. In the yard, a line of indentured workers is carrying crates toward a storage building. They wear simple tunics, and their expressions are dull with the monotony of labor. A few glance my way, as if reminding me that not everyone in the Bastion is doomed. Some are here by contract—seven years of labor instead of open slavery. My stomach twists at the knowledge that I’m not even offered that chance. My crime is too severe.

I shift on the straw, wincing at a bruise on my hip. Memories claw their way back: the dark elf artificer who once kept me in chains, the hiss of chaos-infused forges, the stench of burning metal. I rub at a raised scar on my forearm where molten slag scorched me years ago.

No one will ever own me again.

The vow burns through my mind. That’s what’s keeping me from collapsing in despair. Even if tomorrow I’m pushed into a ring to fight until I drop, I’ll do it on my terms. I won’t let them break my spirit.

At some point, the sky outside shifts from afternoon brightness to the golden hue of early evening. My stomach growls. No one offers me food. Maybe they think I’ll be dead soon.

Footsteps echo along the corridor. A female minotaur—a Fiepakak by the worn look of her uniform—stops by my cell door, sliding a wooden bowl of porridge through the bars. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

I sniff the bowl. It’s lumpy, smells faintly of grain. My hunger wins. I gulp it down, ignoring the bland taste. At least it’s something.

When I finish, she collects the bowl and trudges away. Silence returns. The hours drag on. I pace the cell, testing the bars with idle curiosity. Solid. The walls are equally impenetrable. I’m used to captivity, but my heart still pounds with the longing to run.

Night falls. The corridor torches blaze, sending flickering shadows across the ground. I lie on the straw bed, eyes open. My mind refuses to shut down. I keep thinking of the warden—Saru—and how he looked at me. So calm, so unreadable.

I wonder if he’ll be watching tomorrow as I’m thrown into combat. Will he feel even a flicker of remorse? Or is he so numb that my life means less than an insect under his hooves?

That last thought pricks an unexpected sense of...not exactly anger, more like a grim challenge. A part of me wants him to see exactly who I am. Maybe I want him to regret letting me slip away so easily.

Eventually, I drift into a restless doze, body curled protectively around my knees. Dreams come in disjointed fragments: the roar of fire, the creaking of a slave ship, the crack of a whip, a minotaur’s unreadable stare.

I jerk awake to a harsh rattling on the bars. Another guard stands there, annoyance etched on his wide muzzle. He gestures for me to rise. “Get up,” he says. “You’re wanted in the yard at dawn.”

I scramble to my feet. My entire body aches, but I hide any sign of weakness behind a glare. “Another inspection?”

He just grunts, unlocking the cell door. “Orders from the top.”

I assume he means Saru. The chain around my ankles rattles as I step forward. I run my tongue over my dry lips. Dawn’s first light spills across the courtyard, revealing a strip of bright sky. A trembling breath leaves me. This day might be my last if they toss me into the arena.

But I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cower. My fists curl at my sides as I let the guard lead me. Cold determination settles in my chest. No matter how monstrous this fortress is, no matter how towering the minotaurs are, I survived the dark elves’ cruelty. I survived forging fires that seared flesh from bone.

No one here can break me unless I hand them the pieces.

I repeat that mantra with every step through the corridor, letting defiance harden my spine. Even if the entire Bastion sees me as a doomed opponent for their bloodsport, I’ll make sure they remember my name.

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