Page 5 of Burned to Obey

And if I cross paths with Warden Saru again, I’ll stare him in the eyes and remind him: I might be caged, but I will never be owned.

I don’t realize I’m saying those last words under my breath until the guard glances back with a frown. That frown deepens, but he doesn’t respond. He simply shoves me into another open-air courtyard.

Light blinds me for a moment, the sky a vivid blue streaked with faint clouds. When my vision adjusts, I see a ring of minotaurs—some in armor, some in plain cloth, each armed with either a spear or a sword. They seem to be training. In the center stands Saru, thick arms folded, horns gleaming in the morning sun.

He looks up at my entrance, and our eyes lock. My heart gives an uneasy lurch.

There’s no hostility in his gaze—just that steady, penetrating calm. He tilts his head as though judging every shift of my posture, every twitch of my muscle.

I swallow hard, meeting his stare with all the fire I can muster. “What now?” I ask, voice carrying across the courtyard.

He doesn’t answer immediately. The group of minotaurs around him pause, turning to watch. Saru strides forward with measured steps until he’s only a couple paces away.

He’s massive. I feel dwarfed by the breadth of his shoulders, the quiet power in each movement. Yet I hold my ground.

“You fight in the arena today,” Saru says in that low, deliberate tone. “You’ll be armed. If you impress the Bastion, you might last another day.”

I grit my teeth. “Generous.”

Something flickers across his eyes, like the ghost of an unspoken thought. I’m half certain he’s about to say more, but he stays silent. Instead, he nods to the guard beside me.

“Take her to the pit,” he commands.

And just like that, the final blow lands. I’m going straight to the ring, not even allowed another hour to steady my mind. Fear coils in my stomach, but I bury it. My only armor is the refusal to show them I’m afraid.

The guard’s hand clamps down on my arm again. I ignore the urge to recoil, focusing on Saru’s face. Something about the way he watches me suggests he’s not entirely indifferent. But maybe that’s just another trick of hope I can’t afford.

I square my shoulders, offering him one final glare. “No matter what happens in that ring,” I say softly, “I don’t belong to you. Or to anyone.”

He says nothing, and the silence weighs heavier than a shouted order.

The guard tugs, and I follow, every muscle taut with tension. A swirl of dread and fierce determination thrums in my veins. I’m moments away from stepping into an arena where I’m marked as prey. But I’ll fight. Even if it’s a hopeless clash, I’ll fight.

I cling to that vow, letting it fuel each step across the courtyard. The minotaurs part, eyes gleaming with curiosity orcold detachment. Saru remains near the center, watchful and unyielding, a fortress within the fortress.

My fate in the Bastion has begun. And I will meet it with teeth bared.

2

SARU

Morning light cuts across the high towers of the Ivory Bastion, illuminating the polished walls that have stood for generations of my people. I stand on one of the fortress’s upper terraces, letting the salted wind hit my face. From here, I can see the main courtyard far below, where fresh arrivals are processed. Most enter quietly, determined to finish their indenture or wait out a smaller charge. Others come through in chains, designated for the arena—sentenced to repay their crimes with blood.

My chest feels tight as I consider all the men and women who shuffle into the Bastion with empty eyes. I once believed the system was straightforward: break our laws, face the consequences. But my time as Warden has taught me that lines blur in the real world. Honor can be tainted by politics; mercy can be overshadowed by the need for spectacle. I’ve tried to run this prison as fairly as possible, but in a place like the Ivory Bastion, fairness is shaped by stone walls and ancient traditions.

A messenger approaches, panting from running up the steep flights. He’s a Zotkak guard with broad horns etched by minor decorative carvings—markings that signal he’s fought at leastonce in the arena. After a quick salute, he hands me the day’s prison manifest on a rolled parchment.

“Warden Saru,” he says, voice quivering from exertion. “Here’s the updated list of arrivals.” He hesitates, eyeing the silent vantage point behind me. “Some new cases might...require your attention.”

I nod and motion for him to leave. These days, I prefer reading these documents alone. Within these pages lurk names that might threaten the Bastion’s balance or stir the Senate’s anger. That’s the reality of a fortress that houses political prisoners alongside violent offenders.

I unroll the parchment. The script is crisp but rushed, listing each arrival by name, race, alleged crime, and recommended classification. My gaze skims over half a dozen minor thieves. I linger momentarily on an orc sentenced for fighting in a Minotaur port—he’ll probably serve forced labor. Then my eyes catch a particular entry:

Name: Naeva Viren

Race: Human

Crime: Sabotage of Dark Elf trade vessel, multiple fatalities, including a noble heir.

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