Page 41 of Burned to Obey

The door opens, revealing Naeva. She stands with a satchel slung over one shoulder, presumably containing additional logs or notes. She’s still bruised, but she’s changed into a clean tunic, her hair loosely braided. Her marked arm is exposed. She scansthe room—the lamp-lit shelves, my desk cluttered with papers, the untouched tray. Then she steels herself and steps inside.

“Are we truly working,” she murmurs, “or did you lure me here to read me Senate propaganda?”

I give a faint snort. “Supplies and distribution, I promise.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Sit. You’re still healing.”

She sets her satchel on the floor, settling gingerly. The faint catch in her breath betrays her rib pain, but she squares her shoulders. “I’ve had worse,” she says in that clipped tone, half defensive, half proud.

I pull out a ledger. “Then let’s begin. We have two shipments unaccounted for in the southwestern storehouse, plus those missing crates of pitch you mentioned.”

She nods, resting her forearms on the desk. Her expression shifts into focused mode, scanning the parchment I hand her. We talk logistics for a while—how the crates might tie into an older ledger, or if certain smugglers are exploiting the Bastion’s sprawl. Our conversation flows smoothly, each question answered with precise detail. Her competence impresses me more each day.

Eventually, her stomach growls softly, and she flushes, pressing a hand to her side. I stand, retrieving the tray from the side table. “We should eat.”

She tenses. “All right.”

I remove the cover, revealing roasted fowl, a modest portion of grilled vegetables, and fresh bread. Two simple plates rest beneath. There’s also a pitcher of water, no wine—I decided to keep our minds clear. She watches me distribute the food, apprehension flickering in her eyes. I pass her a plate. “Dig in.”

She glances at it, hesitant. “Seems I’m well-fed for a prisoner.”

I arch a brow. “You’re quartermaster now. Besides, you need strength to do your job.”

She picks at the food, tasting a bite of the roasted meat. After the first nibble, she tears more from the bone, appetite piqued. I settle across from her, eating quietly. The aroma calms some of my tension. This might be the first time we’ve shared a meal in private, not a forced ration line or a corridor scuffle. The silence feels heavier for it.

Between bites, I break the quiet. “How’s your side?”

She shrugs, exhaling slowly. “Sore. The wrap helps. I’m still wearing it under this tunic.”

I nod. “Good. The Bastion’s healers might not be gentle, but they’re thorough.”

She smirks. “I noticed.” A pause. “Thank you for letting me rest earlier. Sometimes I think you’d rather have me working nonstop.”

“Not at the expense of your health,” I murmur.

Silence settles again, but it’s less hostile than before. We finish most of the meal, exchanging occasional remarks about supply routes and the potential tie to Thakur’s contraband. At one point, she speaks of how certain shipments from dark elf territories contain hidden compartments. Her knowledge of sabotage is invaluable. I record her insights, realizing she’s more vital to this fortress than the Senate will ever admit.

When the plates are nearly empty, she sets hers aside, leaning back with a slight wince. My gaze flicks to the bandages peeking from her tunic’s edge. Concern wells in me, though I keep it curt. “Pain returning?”

She presses her lips together. “It’s manageable.”

I reach for a small jar of herbal salve on the desk, one I keep for muscle aches. “Try this. It helps with bruising.”

She eyes it warily, then takes it. “No hidden poisons, right?” Her tone is half-joke, half-genuine caution.

I shake my head, lips curving faintly. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t need a jar of salve.”

A faint grin pulls at her mouth, then fades. She uncaps the jar, sniffing. “Strong stuff.”

“It’s standard minotaur remedy. Rub it where you ache.”

She nods, setting it in her lap for later. We linger, the meal done, ledgers half-forgotten. My tail flicks, that underlying tension reemerging. She glances around the dim office, noticing the older battle reports on a side shelf. “So, you keep records of your campaigns here?”

I stand, crossing to a shelf. “Yes. Some documents detail the old arena wars, the ones that shaped our traditions.”

She steps up behind me, careful not to brush too close. “You read them often?”

I let out a breath. “Sometimes. To remember what we overcame, or where we failed.”

She lifts a hand toward one scroll, then lowers it. “I used to think minotaurs were all brute force. Now I see you have a system—harsh but structured.”

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