Page 60 of Burned to Obey

I can’t speak, emotion tangling in my throat. He lowers his head, pressing his forehead to mine, ignoring the hustle around us. My tears drip onto his chest plate. We linger like that, a fragile moment of intimacy in the swirl of the Bastion’s mania. Then he straightens, bracing his shoulders. “They’re calling me. Stay with your guard in the stands. Watch, if you can.”

I want to protest. But he’s already stepping away, a silent figure of stoic resolve. Davor motions him toward the arena’s gate. I remain rooted, tears burning, the brand scab throbbing. A guard gently touches my arm. “Come. The stands are filling. He’d want you to be safe.”

I let him guide me. The corridor leads into a wide archway that opens onto the arena’s spectator rows—rows of stone seats ringed around a central sandy pit. The midday sun glares overhead. A swirl of minotaurs, some humans, a few senators, all gather, hungry for spectacle. Thakur sits in a reserved section with his retinue, smug satisfaction etched on his face. My blood boils.

I find a seat near the lower row, as close as permitted. The guard stands behind me, arms folded. My heart slams with every breath. The arena’s sand stretches out, a circle of dust that has seen countless duels. A hush falls as Saru emerges from one tunnel, clad in minimal armor, a large war axe in hand. He walks with the faintest limp, a leftover from poison or bruises. My stomach roils. Thakur’s champion emerges from the opposite side—a massive minotaur with spiked pauldrons and a cruel grin. The crowd stirs, murmurs of a legendary fighter once loyal to Thakur.

A Senate herald steps forward, reciting formalities: Saru Rhek’tal, Warden of the Bastion, challenges the Senate’s champion to defend his rank and the life of the branded prisoner, Naeva. If he wins, Thakur’s charges are null. If he loses, Thakur’s word stands, leading to my execution and Saru’s removal from leadership. The crowd hums with anticipation. My chest feels hollow.

The duel begins, no preamble. The champion lunges, swinging a massive hammer. Saru blocks with his axe, arms straining. Even from my seat, I see his face tighten, horns angled in fierce concentration. Dust kicks up as they circle, weapons colliding in thunderous blows. My heart leaps at each clash.

The champion is cunning, pressing Saru’s weak side where the poison aftermath might linger. Saru staggers once, nearly losing grip on his axe. I choke on a scream. He recovers, slashing upward, forcing the champion back. Blood seeps from a cut on Saru’s left arm—he grits his teeth, pressing on. The stands erupt with cheers or jeers, some for Saru, some for Thakur’s champion. Thakur himself watches with a predatory smirk, arms folded. My nails bite into my palms.

Time warps. The duel rages, blow after blow, dust swirling around them. Saru’s breath heaves, sweat darkening his fur. He takes a hit to the shoulder, staggering. The crowd gasps. I lurchupright, wanting to run down and shield him, but the guard restrains me gently. My eyes blur with tears.

A brutal exchange ends with both minotaurs locking horns—literally. The champion roars, forcing Saru back. My gut twists, remembering how Saru once fought in that arena. This champion must be well-versed in exploiting weaknesses. If Saru’s not careful, a single blow might end it.

Suddenly, Saru pivots with surprising agility, hooking his axe under the champion’s hammer. He yanks upward, disarming him for a heartbeat. The crowd gasps as the champion’s hammer flies free, skittering across the sand. Saru attempts a killing blow, but the champion ducks, retrieving a hidden blade from his belt. He slashes low, slicing into Saru’s thigh. Saru roars in pain, staggering. Blood stains the sand.

A hush of horror washes over me. If he collapses now, it’s over. My heart pounds so hard I can’t breathe. He wavers, but with a furious snarl, he grips his axe in both hands, ignoring the blood. The champion lunges again, blade angled at Saru’s chest. Saru sidesteps, though not fully— a fresh line of blood appears on his side.

Time seems to slow. The champion rears back, preparing a final strike. Saru roars, horns angled, slamming forward with unstoppable force. I see the champion’s eyes widen in shock. Saru’s axe descends in a brutal arc that collides with the champion’s blade. For a heartbeat, both weapons lock. Then Saru twists, forcing the champion’s blade aside, and buries his axe in the champion’s torso with a sickening crunch.

The crowd explodes in noise—some cheering, some shrieking. Blood spatters the sand. The champion collapses, weapons clattering away. Saru wrenches his axe free, staggering to his knees. The entire arena seems to freeze, awaiting the verdict. The champion lies motionless, eyes glazed. It’s over. Saru won.

Relief slams into me so hard I almost sink to the ground. The guard at my side exclaims in joy. Many in the stands cheer, acknowledging a victory. Thakur leaps up from his seat, face thunderous. He storms off, retinue scrambling. My chest heaves, tears flooding down my cheeks. Saru is alive. Wounded, but alive. I push through the throng, ignoring the guard’s warnings, rushing down the steps to the arena’s edge.

A gate stands between me and the bloodstained sand. Guards gather around Saru, who struggles to rise, leaning on the handle of his axe. His entire left leg glistens with red, chest heaving. I call his name, voice breaking. He hears me, lifts his gaze. The relief in his eyes is overwhelming. Davor and a few others hurry to support him, half-carrying him from the arena. I scramble after them, my guard clearing a path.

We find ourselves in a narrow corridor behind the stands, a swirl of healers rushing in with bandages and water. Saru collapses onto a bench, horns drooping. I kneel beside him, tears streaming. He tries to speak, but only a ragged cough comes out.

A healer curses, pressing cloth to his thigh wound. Another minotaur cleans the slash on his side. Blood seeps over the stone floor. I hover, wanting to help, but they wave me off. Saru clenches his jaw, not making a sound despite obvious agony. Finally, he grabs a corner of my tunic with shaking fingers.

“Alive,” he rasps, voice like broken gravel. “You… safe.”

I nod, tears dripping onto his forearm. “You fool. You nearly died. Again.”

A faint chuckle escapes him, laced with pain. “Worth it.” His horns shift, eyes fluttering.

The healers clamp a fresh bandage, instructing me to brace him. I cradle his head, ignoring the blood that smears my clothes. Each breath he takes rattles, but I sense relief thrumming through him. He bested Thakur’s champion. The Senate must honor that outcome.

As they work, I blink away tears. “You promised you wouldn’t die,” I whisper, voice trembling.

He musters a small nod, wincing. “Kept my promise.”

My heart clenches. “Yes. You did.”

The corridor surges with Bastion staff, guards exclaiming that the Senate is forced to drop charges, that Thakur fled in disgrace. My brand itches, reminding me all this was to keep me breathing. I let out a shuddering sigh, brushing sweaty hair off Saru’s brow. “We won,” I murmur, leaning in so only he can hear. “But if you ever pull that stunt again, I’ll kill you myself.”

A cracked smile tugs at his lips. “I’ll try not to.”

Davor steps forward, face alight with relief. “Warden, you must rest. We’ll clear the formalities. Thakur can’t challenge the result. You’ve reaffirmed your rank and the prisoner’s right to live. Congratulations.” He offers a respectful bow, ignoring the mess of blood.

Saru grunts. “Good. But see to it that no one tries another trick. The champion is dead, but Thakur might still push from the shadows.”

Davor nods. “We’ll double vigilance. Now, let’s get you to the infirmary.”

He gestures at two minotaurs, who help lift Saru, supporting him under the arms. Saru groans, trembling as they move him. I walk alongside, fear coiling in my belly at the amount of blood. The battle was short but brutal. My brand is safe, but the cost to him… it’s too high.

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