Page 61 of Burned to Obey

In the upper corridor, I keep my hand on his forearm, offering silent support. Guards and onlookers part, some murmuring about the champion’s savage demise, others praising Saru for upholding old minotaur tradition. I grit my teeth, anger rising that they applaud a spectacle that nearly cost his life. But at least no one calls for my head now.

We reach the infirmary, a wide, vaulted space lined with cots. The staff hurries to lay Saru down, stripping away broken armor and applying strong-smelling ointments. I hover, useless. A older minotaur healer barks orders, pressing fresh gauze on his thigh wound. Saru winces, tail lashing. I grip his hand, ignoring the sticky blood that coats my fingers. He squeezes back with surprising strength.

A hush falls while the healers set to work. They speak in low voices about stitches and poultices, about how he’s lost too much blood but might recover with rest. My chest aches with both relief and lingering fear. We’ve won a temporary respite, but if the injuries run deep… My free hand shakes. He notices, breathing unsteadily. “I’m not dying,” he mutters, lips twisting in a half-smile, voice still hoarse from the fight.

I bow my head, letting a tear fall onto the cot. “You keep tempting fate,” I whisper, trying for levity but failing.

He lifts his other hand, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “I told you. If I die, my name shields you. That’s enough.”

A raw sob catches in my throat. “Don’t say that. Not anymore.”

His eyes soften, horns angled in apology. The old minotaur barks for me to step back so they can apply stitches. I release Saru’s hand, stepping aside but remaining close. My heart is a storm of relief, anger at Thakur, and a potent desire to ensure we never face this again. As the healers stitch him up, each tug of the needle draws a hiss of pain from him. I can’t watch, but I can’t leave either.

Time crawls. Eventually, they bandage the wounds, place a thick pad around his thigh. One of them announces he should be moved to a private cot for days of rest. I exhale, tension unwinding from my spine. Days of rest, but alive. For a fleeting second, we meet eyes. The brand on my arm throbs like a living tether.

Once the bustle fades, I perch on a stool near his cot, ignoring the nurse who tries to shoo me away. Saru’s breath remains shallow, but he’s stable, sweat plastering his fur to his forehead. He’s half-lidded with exhaustion, but when I reach for his hand again, he clasps it with surprising fervor.

We share a look that says everything we can’t put to words. He risked everything so I might live. I risked heartbreak if he died. We found a precarious victory. The Senate can’t deny his challenge result, and thus can’t condemn me. Thakur’s plan backfired— for now.

I slip closer, pressing my brow to his. “I won’t lose you,” I whisper, voice unsteady. “It doesn’t matter how many times they come at us.”

He huffs a faint laugh, wincing. “They’ll have to try harder,” he murmurs, half conscious.

Tears blur my vision again, but I manage a watery smile. “Sweet cinders, you’re reckless.”

He cracks an eye, horns shifting. “Don’t bend. You’ll just snap under heat,” he quotes lightly, repeating my forge slang. It startles a small laugh from me through the tears. I brush a careful kiss over his brow, ignoring the stares of the staff. I no longer care if they see us. Let them know we stand side by side.

He eases his head back onto the pillow, exhaustion dragging him down. I watch his breathing for a moment, ensuring it’s steady. Then I settle into a waiting stool, arms folded, brand itching but oddly comforting. Davor eventually appears, nodding solemnly. “He’s secure, no immediate threats. Thakur left the Bastion in a fury.”

I let out a slow breath. “Let him run. We’ll be ready next time.”

Davor offers a small, respectful nod, then leaves. The staff dims the lantern, letting Saru rest. I remain, a silent sentinel, occasionally adjusting the blanket or dabbing sweat from hisbrow. Each quiet moment solidifies the knowledge that we’ve survived another impossible test. The Senate’s challenge ended in blood, but it also reaffirmed our bond— unbreakable, no matter the cost.

Saru stirs once, half waking, reaching blindly for my hand. I take it, tears threatening anew. “Rest,” I whisper. “I’m not leaving.”

He relaxes, drifting back into healing sleep. My gaze settles on him, battered but resolute. The Bastion can roar with Senate decrees, but he’ll stand in the arena again if that’s what it takes. My insides tremble at how close we came to losing everything. The brand that once felt like a chain now feels like the anchor that keeps us from drifting apart in a sea of enemies.

Somewhere in the fortress, Thakur might plan another strike, stoking fear among senators or forging a new path to tear us down. Let him try. Saru has proven he won’t surrender. And I can’t lose him. I recall the vow he made, how I clung to him in the courtyard, both of us battered but unwilling to bend. The brand on my arm pulses with that vow. I accept it wholeheartedly, forging forward despite the ominous horizon. Because if I have to stand in front of him next time to block the blow, I’ll do it. He’s proven he’d do the same for me.

I wipe sweat from Saru’s brow with a damp cloth, determination flowing through my veins. We’ll endure the Senate’s wrath, the infiltration, the poison, and if needed, another duel. Our bond is tested under the Bastion’s harsh glare, but each test only strengthens what we share. He promised me life, and I promised him I wouldn’t let him stand alone.

As the hush of late afternoon seeps into the infirmary, I press another gentle kiss to his forehead. He slumbers, face relaxing into less pained lines. I settle in for a vigil, mind churning with thoughts of contraband leads, Senate angles, and ways to outmaneuver Thakur. But one truth outshines them all: Sarufought for me in the arena, reasserting his place as Warden, safeguarding my life. This fortress might call him reckless, but to me, he’s the unyielding shield I never had before.

Holding his hand, I lean against the cot, letting exhaustion lull me. The brand on my arm throbs with a dull ache, yet I welcome it as a sign that we’re bound by more than forced vows now. If he tries something so dangerous again, I’ll stand at his side. Because I can’t lose him, not after we’ve come this far. We face the war within and the war outside—together.

18

SARU

The Bastion roars with the stomping of hooves, the thunderous chant of the crowd echoing off ancient stone. I stand beneath a high, arched gate, the arena’s sandy pit stretching beyond the shadows. The midday sun pours in from above, blinding in its intensity. My grip tightens on the massive war axe in my hand, each breath a reminder of the bruises and half-healed wounds lacing my body from the last confrontation. But this is the final stand—my ultimate challenge to protect Naeva from the Senate’s cruelty and Thakur’s schemes.

I hear the muffled voice of a herald announcing my name, a formal recitation of titles and accusations. My heart thuds, horns pricking with pent-up energy. Each word the herald speaks hurls me back to the day’s events: Thakur demanding my removal from leadership, labeling me unfit, claiming I can’t be Warden while harboring a “traitorous” human. All lies. But the Senate, inflamed by Thakur’s manipulations, agreed to one final measure: a duel in the grand arena. If I lose, they declare me stripped of rank, free to condemn Naeva as a traitor. If I win, Thakur’s claims vanish, and the brand stands unchallenged.

My lungs expand with a practiced inhalation, ignoring the burning ache in my side. The poison scars have not fully healed. But we have no choice. I clench my jaw, recalling the sight of Naeva weeping that I shouldn’t fight again, that it’s too great a risk. Yet I can’t let the Senate toss her life aside. I will fight until my last breath.

A guard behind me mumbles that it’s time. With a sharp nod, I step forward, emerging from the gate into blinding sunlight. The stands erupt in noise—thousands of voices, stamping hooves, raucous cheers or jeers. My tail flicks once in tension. I stride to the center, forced to raise a hand against the glare. The wide, circular arena is packed, layered with seats that climb high, each row brimming with minotaurs wearing expressions that range from awe to bloodlust.

In the highest box sits Thakur, flanked by a retinue of Senate supporters. A smug tilt lines his jaw as he leans forward, anticipating my downfall. My blood surges at the sight of him. I spot other senators too, including some who remain stoic, watching whether I can uphold the Bastion’s code. My entire life, I’ve served that code, even when it cost me my brother. Now it demands I risk everything again.

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