Page 43 of Burned to Obey

Exhaling, I close my eyes, letting exhaustion drag me under. The echoes of her voice float through my mind, that final moment when she hesitated at the door, unsure but not afraid. The Bastion stands silent around me, and I sense we’ve taken one careful step toward bridging the divide. How many more steps remain? I don’t know, but for the first time in years, I drift toward sleep with a touch of cautious hope.

11

NAEVA

The morning light presses through my narrow window, painting the floor in soft gold as I finish dressing for another day in the Bastion. Each muscle still aches from last week’s attack. The bruises linger, but I won’t let them slow me. My reflection in the small metal mirror shows faint purple bruises ghosting along my ribs, the bandage now hidden beneath a fitted tunic. Saru’s crest mars my arm—scabbed, healing, an unwanted sigil turned unlikely shield.

A short rap at the door pulls me from my thoughts. When I open it, a minotaur guard assigned by Saru stands ready. He doesn’t speak much, just offers a curt nod of acknowledgment. This is my silent sentinel, loyal to the Warden, a buffer against further ambushes. I suspect he’s bored trailing me, but the attempt on my life means we can’t be lax.

Outside my quarters, the Bastion hums with purposeful energy. Minotaurs hurry along the main corridors, weapons clinking, scrolls tucked under arms. Humans in indentured uniforms shuffle in single file, carting supplies from storerooms to ration stations. The fortress is like a living beast, each hallwaya vein pulsing with daily tasks. I exhale, preparing for the tide of quartermaster responsibilities.

My first stop: the main yard, where a new batch of prisoners waits in chains for assignment. I push through the large wooden doors leading to an open courtyard ringed with marble pillars. Bright sun glares overhead, and the heat intensifies the smell of sweat and damp stone. Captain Davor stands near a row of benches, scanning a roster. He spots me and waves me over.

“Quartermaster,” he says. “We’ve got five new arrivals. One’s a known chaos mage.” His tone is cautious. “We keep them bound and magic-damped with a standard collar, but keep your distance. No telling if he can slip free.”

My skin prickles. Magic. It’s not something I’ve encountered often in minotaur territory, given the people’s resistance to direct enchantment. But elves thrive on chaotic spells, forging illusions or illusions. I bite back a scowl, recalling the horrors I witnessed in dark elf forges. I set my jaw, determined not to let the memory control me. “All right,” I say. “I’ll note him. Where do you want them assigned?”

Davor checks a parchment. “We’ll split them up. Two to the southern labor wing, two to the supply yard. The chaos mage goes to minimal tasks under heavy guard. Just log their details and ensure no contraband sneaks in.”

“Understood.” I flex my bruised shoulder, ignoring the dull ache. My guard shifts behind me, watchful. Davor leads me to a far corner of the yard, where the new arrivals wait in metal collars. One of them, a tall, lanky minotaur with hollow cheeks, trembles. Another, a broad-shouldered orc, stands stiff, jaw clenched. But the third figure draws my immediate attention: a wiry human with pale, almost grayish skin. A collar of black iron circles his neck, etched with faint runes that shimmer in the sunlight. That must be the chaos mage.

Davor hands me the roster. “Name: Arkiel,” he says in a low murmur, pointing to the mage. “Convicted of illegal spellwork in the borderlands. He’s dangerous. Keep your distance if the collar fails.”

My throat tightens. “I’ll keep it in mind.” Chaos magic can be unpredictable, especially if someone meddles with the runes or finds a loophole. For a moment, my chest constricts, remembering the dark elf ships I sabotaged—cargo holds brimming with contraband spells. I grip the roster, steeling myself.

I approach them, ledger in hand. The guard behind me stands at my shoulder, presumably ready to intervene if anything goes awry. Davor remains close, too. I run down the usual questions: name, prior station, reason for imprisonment. The first two answer with resigned shrugs. Then I step before Arkiel, who tilts his head, eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity.

“You’re the quartermaster,” he says, voice pitched too softly. “The human with a brand.”

I stiffen. “I am.” My brand is visible through the slit in my sleeve. I notice how his gaze lingers on it, a dark curiosity flickering in his expression.

He chuckles under his breath. “Fate brings odd couplings. A minotaur’s crest on your arm. Maybe you should’ve embraced magic instead.”

I swallow, refusing to engage in that taunt. “Name: Arkiel,” I read from the roster. “Any special conditions aside from the collar?”

Davor’s voice comes from over my shoulder. “He’s scheduled for minimal labor, no contact with other prisoners unless supervised.” He nods to the mage. “Disobey, and you’ll face the arena.”

Arkiel’s grin widens, revealing uneven teeth. “I’d prefer the collar. The arena bores me.”

A chill crawls up my spine. I wave the roster. “Assign him to basic crate-stacking, with watchers. That is all.”

He laughs again. “Yes, quartermaster.” He lifts a hand as though to toy with the collar, but a guard barks a warning. He lowers it, though the spark in his gaze unsettles me.

I turn to Davor. “We have enough guards in the supply yard to watch him?”

He nods. “I’ll arrange it. You best keep moving.”

I exhale. The next hour passes in a flurry of standard intake—scanning rosters, verifying no illicit items. My mind keeps drifting to Arkiel, that smirk on his lips, the collar runes that shimmer with faint magic. If it fails or if he finds a way around it, we might have chaos spells loose in the Bastion. The idea curdles my stomach.

By midday, I finish the intake logs, passing them to Davor for final stamping. Hunger gnaws at me, but I decide to check on the supply yard’s new arrivals first. With a wave of thanks to Davor, I head off, guard trailing behind. We cut through a corridor bustling with inmates carrying crates. The clang of metal and the scrape of heavy boxes sets my teeth on edge.

At the supply yard, rows of half-empty crates line a series of tables. A few minotaur overseers bark instructions, and there, near a stack of empty barrels, stands Arkiel. A pair of guards flank him, each armed with short swords. Arkiel’s collar glimmers in the bright sun, the runes faintly pulsing if I look closely. He lifts a crate, depositing it on a nearby cart without complaint. The entire time, that unsettling grin never quite leaves his face.

I approach carefully, verifying he’s actually doing the assigned work. “Any problems?” I ask the guard on the left.

He shakes his head. “None yet. He keeps babbling about how easy crate-stacking is.”

Arkiel chuckles, stretching his arms. “It’s not so bad. I’ve had worse tasks in other jails.” He glances at me, eyes narrowed. “Though I wonder, quartermaster, how you ended up with that crest. Your aura is interesting. A flame behind a locked gate.”

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