Page 7 of Burned to Obey

When I enter my office, I find a fresh stack of correspondence on the large wooden desk. Letters from Senate members, supply requisitions, and updated schedules for upcoming arena events are heaped in a disorderly pile.

I grimace and begin sorting them. The Senate’s messages always carry that official stamp—a stylized minotaur horn crest. Each letter is stuffed with commentary on the Bastion’s finances, the cost of feeding prisoners, or the results of particular gladiator matches. One note mentions the potential arrival of “dark elf envoys,” an event that sends a bitter taste to the back of my throat. The Senate loathes the dark elves as much as any minotaur, but politics demands we keep certain trade channels open.

I spot a smaller envelope bearing the personal mark of my sister, Vira: the swirling wave pattern of House Rhek’tal. That’s how she signs her letters. I set everything else aside and open it carefully.

Saru,

Heard from a few tongues at the Senate that the Bastion has received an individual connected to the Therathel sabotage. If it’s the same woman, then we have an unexpected intersection of fate here. I know the Senate demands she be dealt with, butremember…this woman saved me from a dark end. Perhaps we owe her a fraction of consideration. The storms on the horizon are stronger than you think, brother. Don’t let her drown if she can still be of use—to Milthar, and maybe to you.

—Vira

My throat constricts. Vira has a talent for saying much with few words. I can almost see her lifting one brow, that inquisitive look she’s had since childhood. She’s a senator now, but I still picture her as the bright young girl who watched me train in the yard. The letter confirms everything I suspected: this saboteur is indeed the same figure who altered my sister’s fate.

I sit at the desk, pondering the message. Vira rarely urges me to bend rules, so this must be crucial to her. She clearly thinks the woman’s existence matters beyond a mere condemnation. The question is how to act without incurring the Senate’s wrath. They already look for excuses to discredit me, hoping to wash away any scandal from the day I was forced to kill my brother in the arena. They might call me soft, unfit. But ignoring Vira’s words feels like a betrayal of the only family I have left.

My mind drifts back to Naeva’s stance in the training yard. She has no illusions about her precarious position. And yet she doesn’t wilt. A reluctant spark of admiration flickers. It’s rare to see someone so determined.

I rummage through the manifests until I find more details about her. She’s listed as mid-twenties, from Keshira—a human port that fell under dark elf control years ago. That region is notorious for forging slaves. I can guess how she learned to sabotage an engine: forced labor in a dark elf forge, maybe gleaning secrets from their contraptions.

A rap on the door interrupts my thoughts. It’s Davor again, stepping inside with measured strides. He looks tense.

“Warden,” he begins. “We’ve moved Naeva Viren to a secure cell near the armory, as ordered.”

“Good. Keep her out of the general inmate population.”

“Understood.” He hesitates. “She’s…not cooperative, as expected. Refuses to speak unless spoken to and challenges any guard who tries intimidation.”

“She’s not to be brutalized,” I say, voice carrying an edge. “If someone mistakes her defiance for an excuse to beat her, they’ll answer to me.”

Davor nods. “Yes, sir. Should we still plan on giving her a weapon if she’s assigned to duty tasks? That part seemed—unusual.”

I pause, recalling her scars and the way she clutched her chains. “Give her the minimum needed for the job. If she’s inventorying blades, ensure two guards stand by. If she’s cleaning an anvil, let her have a rag, not a pick. She only needs enough tools to carry out orders.”

Davor rubs his chin. “And the Senate’s directive that we send her to the arena tomorrow?”

I clench my hands on the desk. “That directive is on hold until further notice. I’ll handle any questions they have.” My voice resonates with finality.

“All right,” he says, stepping back toward the door. “We’ll do as you command, Warden.”

He turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Silence reclaims the room. I breathe in, the air heavy with the faint smell of old parchment and lamp oil. The Bastion’s never quiet for long, but in this office, I can pretend I still have complete control.

I rise and move to the window. Through the gap, I glimpse the main courtyard. Guards funnel a line of fresh prisoners toward the low-level cells. Indentured laborers gather in lines, distributing rations. I’ve overseen every corner of this place for the past few years, always guided by the principle that discipline keeps chaos at bay.

Sometimes, though, it feels like I’m trying to contain an ocean with a broken net.

I recall Naeva’s upturned stare as we crossed paths earlier. Her defiance lit something in me I can’t name. Is it anger at her audacity? Respect for her refusal to bow? Maybe a bit of both. Regardless, it’s strong enough to make me challenge the Senate’s decree. Even if I couch it in strategic terms, I know the real reason: she saved Vira. Whether it was intentional or not, she performed an act that changed the course of my family’s fate. I owe it to her—and to myself—to figure out who she truly is.

Another thought surfaces, one that I quickly bury. The memory of standing in the arena, that day I faced my own blood under an unyielding law. I banish the recollection to the recesses of my mind. That’s not relevant right now.

I step away from the window and head into the corridor, determined to see Naeva’s cell with my own eyes. Guards nod as I pass, though I feel their curiosity trailing in my wake. We wind down a flight of stairs leading to a lesser-used section near the armory. This area was designed for holding specialized criminals—those who might have skill sets worth exploiting.

Davor stands guard outside a reinforced cell door. The moment he sees me, he gestures for the two lower-ranked minotaurs to step aside.

“She’s inside,” he says quietly, “likely still resentful, but not physically combative at the moment. We gave her a minimal meal.”

“Open it,” I instruct.

He slides the bolt free, and I step through, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior. Torchlight dances across stone walls. In the far corner, Naeva sits on a simple cot, chains still circling her ankles. Her black hair hangs in tangled swaths over her shoulders. When she sees me, her posture tenses.

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