Page 8 of Burned to Obey

I notice fresh bruises near her wrists. My jaw sets. “Who chained her like that?” I ask, directing my question to Davor.

He clears his throat from behind me. “It was the same set she arrived with. We can switch them to something less severe if you wish.”

I give a curt nod, not breaking eye contact with Naeva. “Do so.”

The guards hurry to unfasten the heavier manacles. They replace them with a simpler chain that allows some movement but won’t let her dash out the cell door. She massages her freed wrists, the red marks stark against her tan skin. Silence stretches as I watch her.

Her gaze flicks to me, lips curving into something that’s half snarl, half tired sneer. “This is how you treat your prisoners of value?” she mutters.

“You’re alive,” I reply flatly. “That’s treatment enough, given what the Senate wants.”

She stands, a slight wobble in her knees betraying exhaustion. Still, she forces herself to stand tall, arms crossed over her chest. I expect an angry retort, but she just regards me with a guarded look that seems half curiosity, half simmering rage.

I study her. The shape of her face is sharp, accentuated by hollow cheeks. There’s a scab near her jaw that must be from a guard’s baton. Scars crisscross her forearms in patterns suggesting repeated burns—like she once labored near forge fires or arcane contraptions. A part of me wonders how many injuries are hidden under her clothes.

“Why am I here,” she says, voice tight. It’s not phrased like a question; more like a challenge.

I step closer, my hooves scraping softly on the worn floor. “I’m told you have knowledge that might be useful. Sabotaginga dark elf ship is no small feat. And I’ll be direct—the Bastion values knowledge.”

She tilts her head, a dark gleam in her eyes. “You mean the Bastion values saving its own hide. The Senate’s brand of ‘justice’ wouldn’t mind letting me rot if I couldn’t be of use.”

My nostrils flare. She’s not entirely wrong. “I need answers,” I say at last. “How did you cause that ship to explode?”

She shrugs, wincing a little as if the movement irritates a sore muscle. “Trial and error,” she answers. “I broke the engine’s wards, tampered with vital components. Lit the place up from inside. If they were carrying contraband, it made everything go up in flames faster.”

Contraband. She must mean the illicit cargo that dark elf nobles sometimes smuggle—a mixture of chaos-forged weapons or experimental potions. That might have explained the quick, violent destruction. And it’s news the Senate could exploit. My mind whirls with the potential. If we can confirm that dark elf shipments pose a risk, it strengthens Milthar’s position to renegotiate certain trade terms.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You realize if you keep to the official story—murdering a dark elf noble—that law condemns you to the arena.”

She doesn’t flinch. “I never thought I’d get out of here alive. So yes, I’m aware.”

There’s a subtle tremor in her voice when she says that, though she tries to hide it with biting sarcasm. I regard her for a moment, remembering Vira’s letter. This woman’s sabotage saved my sister’s life, even if unknowingly. And I’d be lying if I claimed it means nothing to me.

“You have two choices,” I say carefully, ignoring the flicker of doubt gnawing at my gut. “Either you remain in the standard track for the arena or you cooperate. If you cooperate, I canassign you to tasks within the Bastion. You’ll still be a prisoner, but you may live a while longer.”

A dry laugh escapes her. “Cooperate. You mean become a lackey in your fortress of minotaurs?”

My lips press into a thin line. “You think me a tyrant?”

“I think all of you have horns and walls high enough to keep out the sky. I’ve been in chains half my life. This is just one more prison, dressed up in white stone.”

She stares at me, and for an instant, I see raw pain behind her harsh gaze. I recall that many humans—especially from dark elf-controlled regions—endure unimaginable cruelties. The Bastion might actually feel less brutal compared to some experiences. Yet it’s still a cage.

I inhale slowly, forcing my tone to remain level. “Our courts dictate that sabotage of a recognized vessel is punishable by death. That’s not my personal invention. I’m offering a means to stay that sentence, at least temporarily.”

Her mouth twists. She looks away, refusing to let me see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. It’s the first time she doesn’t hurl a retort, and it tells me more than any words could.

Stepping back, I nod to the guard. “Unchain her ankles as well. But keep a close watch.” I meet her gaze again. “You’ll start with the armory’s inventory tomorrow. A guard captain named Davor will oversee your tasks.”

She narrows her eyes. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you go to the arena at dawn. I’m certain you’ll fight well…but a single human can’t outlast the Bastion’s champion.”

Silence. Her shoulders slump a fraction, though her defiance remains. “This is a devil’s choice,” she says at last.

“Call it what you like. But it’s all you have.”

I turn to leave, the torchlight casting my shadow along the stone floor. As I approach the door, her voice stops me.

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