Page 6 of Burned to Obey

Recommended Classification: Arena Fodder

She arrived yesterday. I remember noticing her in the corridor—short for a human, but with a presence that cut through the space. She had black hair in ragged waves, scarred forearms, and a stare that refused to drop. Her defiance radiated so strongly that I felt it in my chest.

Arena fodder, the manifest says. Usually, that sentence stays unless I see a compelling reason to intervene. But a flicker of recognition sparks in the back of my mind. I scan further to find a small notation scribbled next to her name: Vessel ID—Therathel. That’s the dark elf ship that nearly claimed the life of my sister, Vira.

My jaw clenches as memories strike: five months ago, Vira traveled to negotiate a delicate trade arrangement with allied merchants. She never made it on board because the vessel went up in flames, rumored to be sabotage. The official story said a human saboteur caused the ship’s engines to explode. The dark elves lost one of their minor nobles in the fire. Vira, running late to the port, escaped the disaster by a breath. She wrote me soon after, explaining her narrow miss. If the saboteur had waited even an hour, Vira would have been on that deck.

I clutch the parchment, grappling with conflicting emotions. This woman is directly responsible for multiple deaths, but she might also be the reason my sister is alive. If Vira had boarded the ship, she could’ve died alongside those dark elves. The thought sends a strange chill through me. The Bastion’s official stance is that sabotage of a recognized vessel—dark elf or otherwise—is a serious offense. The Senate demands strict justice because such sabotage disrupts trade, tarnishing Milthar’s maritime law.

I recall the glimpse I had of Naeva. Fierce eyes, bruised wrists, a posture that suggested she’d battle to her last breath. She didn’t cower even when guards circled her. The standard procedure is to throw her into the arena. Let her earn her fate or die in the pit. It should be a simple decision: the Senate has already labeled her a major threat.

I sense something more about her, a presence that’s difficult to ignore. Part of me, the ex-General who served in multiple campaigns, sees potential—someone with cunning, someone who can adapt under pressure. I also have a personal stake: she saved Vira’s life. Indirectly, yes, but still. I pinch the corner of the parchment, pressing it between my thumb and finger. The Senate would have my head if I show leniency. They want to maintain stable alliances with any non-dark-elf partners, and they certainly don’t want to provoke the dark elves right now.

Still, an urge I can’t ignore gnaws at me. Vira is all I have left of my immediate family after—No. I won’t dwell on that. I reach a decision, one I’ll cloak under a pretense of “tactical advantage.” If I place this woman under controlled duty, I can monitor her actions. If she’s truly a threat, I’ll see it firsthand. But if she’s more than just a saboteur, maybe I can glean the truth of what happened on that ship.

I let out a slow exhale, then descend into the corridors below. My footsteps echo on stone floors engraved with runic patterns that date back centuries. Torchlight reveals worn tapestries along the walls, depicting scenes of minotaur heroes battling monstrous sea creatures. I follow a path that leads to a wide archway—the administrative hall where guard captains gather for the day’s updates.

Inside, Captain Davor stands by a large table spread with maps of the Bastion’s wings. He’s a broad-shouldered minotaur with amber fur and an old scar across his left horn. The other guard captains sit in chairs around the table, discussing rotations, contraband checks, and new arrivals. Davor sees me approach and straightens, saluting. The others follow suit.

“Warden,” he says, voice measured. “We have the updated rosters for the next arena matches. Some names on the docket seem…unusual.”

He glances down at the parchment in my hands. I tilt my head and offer it. “You’re referring to the human woman, Naeva Viren?”

“Yes. She’s scheduled for the pit tomorrow, but the Senate’s notice is that she mustn’t survive.”

His words make me bristle. It’s not unusual for the Senate to issue hush orders, especially in cases involving dark elf nobles. Still, hearing it stated so plainly irritates me.

I set the parchment on the table. “Reassign her from the immediate pit schedule. Place her under controlled duty.”

A few captains exchange perplexed glances. One, a younger minotaur named Galot, wrinkles his muzzle. “Sir, the Senate wants her executed quickly. Are we?—”

“You have your orders,” I say, voice cool. “If the Senate questions us, we’ll explain we want to verify her involvement in that sabotage. She may have information about how the dark elves tampered with trade routes. Could be valuable for Milthar’s naval defense.”

It’s not a lie. The Senate does love intelligence that can be used to strengthen our maritime hold. But the real reason is the memory of Vira’s near-disaster. Perhaps the knowledge that a single human’s sabotage saved her is worth investigating.

Davor clears his throat. “Sir, how do we handle her day-to-day?”

“She won’t roam free. Assign two guards to watch her every move. She’ll be given small tasks—inventory in the armory, cleaning, nothing involving direct contact with other prisoners.” I tap the parchment. “Document everything. If she tries to escape, we put her down. If she cooperates, we keep the arrangement. Simple enough.”

The captains nod, though tension vibrates through the room. I’m well aware that some believe I’m going soft. They remember me as the general who once commanded fleets, who upheld discipline with an iron code. They also know the scandal that chained me to this position, the rumors that swirl around my killing a family member in the arena. Some avoid meeting my eyes, uncertain how far my convictions extend.

I can’t show uncertainty. So I maintain a stony gaze, ignoring the flicker of discomfort in my gut. “Dismissed,” I say. The captains salute and disperse. Davor lingers, his tail swishing across the floor in cautious arcs.

“Warden,” he murmurs, “I’ll see to her reassignment personally.”

“Do that,” I reply, turning on my heel and striding out.

I windmy way down a series of stone passages, each lined with iron sconces that hold flickering torches. At intervals, narrow vents let in fresh air, carrying the tang of the sea. The deeper wings of the Bastion always feel claustrophobic: heavy doors, reinforced gates, the echo of distant voices. My hooves strike the ground in a deliberate rhythm as I recall the day Vira sent me that letter. She’d scrawled a quick, urgent message explaining how a human saboteur’s destructive act inadvertently saved her life. At the time, I cursed the saboteur for blowing up a trade vessel that could have kept tenuous peace with the dark elves. Yet I silently thanked them for sparing Vira.

Now that person sits within the Bastion’s walls, marked for a swift death. It feels like fate is pushing me to weigh honor against gratitude.

I pause at a barred window that overlooks the small training yard. A group of Kimtivkuz—indentured workers—practices spear drills under the watchful eye of a lower officer. They move in unison, sweat darkening their tunics. In the corner stands Naeva. She’s flanked by two armed guards. A fresh bruise shadows her jaw, and her wrists look raw from rough manhandling.

She’s not part of the spear line. She simply stands in place, apparently waiting for new orders. The breeze lifts strands of her black hair, revealing scars that crawl across her neck and forearms. They’re the kind of scars acquired from labor near scorching metal or explosives. My instincts guess she’s more dangerous than her small frame suggests.

Her gaze flicks up, catching sight of me behind the bars. Our eyes meet for a single breath. Her expression is a swirl of anger and quiet challenge, as if daring me to keep watching. I hold herstare, forcing my own features to remain impassive. She breaks the connection first, spitting on the ground. One of the guards barks something at her, but she doesn’t respond. She merely sets her shoulders and straightens her posture as though refusing to be cowed.

I step away from the window. My next stop is my office, a chamber adjacent to the Bastion’s main armory. The corridor leading there is lined with trophies from past victories: rusted swords, battered shields, a few helmets from foreign foes. Normally, these relics stir a sense of pride in me—the memory of defending Milthar’s borders. Today, I feel only a dull ache.

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