Page 65 of Burned to Obey

I exhale, bracing my trembling hands on the table. “I accept.” The weight of that simple declaration stirs something deep in my chest. The brand on my arm tingles, reminding me how far I’ve come.

Amuka nods. “Then let us adorn you. Each color has meaning, a story you must acknowledge as you walk to the altar.”

The acolyte helps me remove my travel-worn clothes, leaving me in a light shift. I flush under their calm scrutiny, but try to remain steady. One by one, they drape the veils around me,layering the translucent fabrics until my shape is outlined by overlapping colors:

The first veil is smoke gray, representing the darkness of my early captivity and fear. I feel its soft weight settle, a reminder of the shadows I once lived in.

Next is crimson, symbolizing rebellion and the fires I started when I destroyed that dark elf vessel. My pulse quickens with the memory of forging sabotage, the risk that nearly cost me my life.

Then gold, for resilience, shining like the courage I had to keep surviving. It feels warm, as if the fabric itself glows with determination.

Finally, sea-green, the color of freedom, layered on top. With each addition, the veil gown grows thicker, though still gauzy. My breath catches at the reflection in the room’s mirror: I look almost unearthly, each hue telling part of my tale.

Amuka steps back, face serene behind her blindfold. “You carry all these pieces into your vow. Saru will remove them in private, naming each trial you overcame. Only then will you stand unveiled before Zukiev’s altar.”

My heart flutters. This tradition feels both daunting and intimate. “I understand,” I whisper, voice tight with emotion.

She smiles gently. “Then come. The moment nears.”

We leave the chamber, the acolyte trailing to ensure my layered gown doesn’t snag. The estate’s corridors open onto a grand courtyard where Saru waits. He’s dressed in formal minotaur attire, bandages hidden under ceremonial armor etched with swirling wave motifs. His horns glisten with fresh polish, each scratch or scar telling a story of battles won. The cane is gone—he stands on his own, posture stiff but proud. My chest swells at the sight of him.

His eyes widen when he sees the layered veils, awe touching his features. I step forward, heart pounding, my entire body trembling with the gravity of this vow. He offers his arm. Islip my hand over his forearm, feeling the slight tension in his muscles. The entire courtyard hushes, acknowledging the bride’s arrival. We exchange a glance brimming with unspoken emotion.

A line of minotaur guards stands at attention, flanking a path that leads to a high altar perched on the cliff’s edge. The estate’s banners drape from pillars, each embroidered with the crest of House Rhek’tal. Waves crash far below, the wind carrying briny spray. We walk slowly, side by side, each step resonating with the finality of this ceremony. My breath stutters—after this, there’s no turning back, but I feel no regret. Only anticipation that sparks a slight quiver in my knees.

At the far end, the altar stands: a massive stone platform carved with ancient runes. A brazier at its center flickers with a contained flame. Amuka and another priest kneel before it, chanting a low melody to Zukiev, the lady of light who birthed the minotaur race. My heart thuds, remembering the story Saru once told me about how Milth’s beheaded form was given a horned beast’s head by the goddess. The minotaurs believe she shields them from corrupting magic. Perhaps she also shields me.

We step onto the platform, the crowd pressing close but keeping a respectful distance. I sense countless eyes watching as I stand in this layered gown of memories, while Saru, the battered Warden who triumphed in the arena, stands at my side. The brand on my arm prickles, but I welcome it—my vow to him, now sealed by something bigger than the Senate’s codes.

Amuka rises, arms outstretched. “We gather here at the sea’s edge, where Lady Zukiev sees all from horizon to shore. We witness a vow between these two souls.” She glances toward Saru. “Saru Rhek’tal, do you offer your lifemate shelter under your crest by choice, not by chain?”

His voice emerges low but firm. “I do.”

She nods, turning to me. “Naeva, do you accept his crest not as a cage, but as a union, carrying your own will into this vow?”

My breath shakes, tears pricking my eyes. “I do.”

She beckons me forward. “Saru will now remove the veils, each representing a shard of your journey, naming what it means.”

Heat flares in my cheeks. In front of so many watchers, this feels intimate, but I nod, stepping closer to him. He carefully lifts the topmost veil—the sea-green layer. For a moment, his fingers graze my shoulders, horns tipping as he murmurs for only me to hear. “Freedom. The day you learned to stand unchained.”

My tears slip free at the quiet respect in his tone. He sets the green veil aside, baring the layer of gold beneath. He brushes a knuckle along the cloth, leaning in again. “Resilience,” he says, voice trembling with emotion. “You rose from the ashes every time they tried to break you.”

I grip his arms, tears dropping onto the veil. “Yes,” I whisper.

He removes the gold layer, exposing the crimson. A hush ripples through the watchers, sensing the raw intimacy of each unveiling. His breath hitches as he lowers his face to my ear. “Your fire,” he murmurs, referencing that defiant flame when I sabotaged the dark elf ship. “You refused to be a pawn. You burned their chains.”

A sob catches in my throat. I recall that night, the ship’s deck aflame, the terror and triumph that cost so much. I nod, letting him set aside the crimson veil. Now only the gray remains, hugging my form. The final layer, the darkest part of my past.

His eyes glisten. He gently lifts the gray cloth, voice unsteady. “Your fears. The shadows that haunted you since captivity. You overcame them each time you chose to live.”

With that, the last veil slips away, leaving me in a simple shift, tears shining on my cheeks. The crowd stirs in empathy, each color removed revealing a piece of me once hidden. Sarucups my face, horns angled close, so I can hear his whisper above the wind. “No more shadows. You stand unveiled, free, by my side.”

I nod, trembling. The priest sets a small brazier of incense between us. “Place your offering of the old life into the flame,” Amuka instructs. I move closer, tossing the layered veils into the brazier’s lower chamber. The cloth ignites, turning to ash with a soft whoosh. My entire body quakes with the symbolism—my old identities burned away, forging a new path.

Amuka and her fellow priest chant in a language older than the Bastion, calling upon Zukiev to witness. The flame in the brazier flickers, then bursts into a gold hue that catches the watchers’ breath in awe. A hush of astonishment spreads— the flame turning gold is a sign of divine favor. My heart leaps, hope surging that the goddess blesses this vow, forging us beyond forced brand or Senate decree.

Saru reaches for my hands, the brand on my arm visible in the midday sun. He clears his throat, voice echoing in the silent crowd. “I stand not as Warden and prisoner, but as lifemates. This vow is ours, shaped by choice. Under Zukiev’s flame, I claim you, Naeva, as my equal.”

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