Page 1 of Burned to Obey

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NAEVA

I’m jolted awake by a sharp yank on the chain that binds my wrists. Pain radiates up my arms, the heavy iron cuffs refusing even a sliver of comfort. It’s hard to remember a time when my skin wasn’t stained by steel. The wagon I’m in sways violently over uneven ground, making my stomach churn as dust clouds my nostrils. The air here tastes different—salty, laden with sea brine. It must be the coast of Milthar, the legendary island of the minotaurs.

Another jolt. The guard next to me sneers and tugs harder, as though I’m nothing but a disobedient mule. I stare at his hulking shape, at the fur cresting the top of his enormous shoulders. Even seated, he towers over me. He flicks an ear my way, noticing I’ve opened my eyes.

“Move,” he snaps.

I consider a biting remark but keep my mouth shut. He probably wants an excuse to break my jaw. Not that I’d go down quietly, but every bit of strength is precious. We’re so close to our destination that I can practically feel the thick walls closing in, and I want all my senses sharp.

I see the Ivory Bastion before we reach its colossal gates. Sunlight glints off pale limestone towers carved into the high cliffs. The entire fortress looms like a bleached sentinel standing watch over the restless sea. Massive spires of gleaming stone pierce the sky, each topped with iron spikes to deter would-be climbers. My heart thuds, but I will my expression to remain cool.

A heavy portcullis opens, operated by thick ropes and counterweights that hiss and groan. The interior yard is a chaos of activity: minotaur guards guiding chained humans, minotaur blacksmiths hammering at a forge, and lines of indentured workers hauling crates. Everywhere, there’s the tang of sweat, metal, and sun-baked stone.

I stumble off the wagon. The guard at my side jerks me forward, away from the line of other new arrivals. They’re led to a different gate. Maybe they’re the ones with lighter sentences—petty theft or minor crimes. My crimes, I assume, sit at the top of the Minotaur Book of Wrongs.

A second guard—this one with gray-streaked fur and a chipped horn—eyes me. “That her?” His voice is deep, each word a gravelly punch to the ears.

“That’s her.”

They both stare as if I’m something to be carved up and sold for parts. I clench my jaw and lift my chin, ignoring the ache in my shoulders.

“So you’re the one who burned that dark elf vessel. Didn’t expect you to be so small,” the older one mutters.

I keep silent. If I speak now, it’ll be with venom, and I need to survive whatever interrogation they have planned. The older guard snaps his fingers, and three more minotaurs materialize from the swirling dust, forming a tight cordon around me.

They march me across a wide courtyard. Sweat slides down my neck. Every footstep echoes off tall marble pillars that linea broad walkway. Intricate carvings of horned warriors decorate each column—some ancient hero, I guess, or maybe a tribute to the goddess Zukiev.

We approach a set of massive doors, each etched with swirling patterns reminiscent of waves. A sign overhead proclaims this is the Ivory Bastion’s intake hall. It’s open-air at the front, but a heavy gate at the far end implies that beyond it lies a labyrinth of corridors and cells.

My escorts shove me forward. I glare at the biggest guard and mutter, “Sweet cinders, I can walk on my own.”

He merely snorts. “Don’t care if you can walk or fly. You’ll do what we say.”

The intake hall is even busier than outside. A line of humans, orcs, and a few minotaurs stand in front of a rough-hewn table, each waiting to be processed. Cries and curses fill the space as sentencing officers scribble notes on parchment. Minotaur scribes scuttle around with quills stuck behind their tufted ears.

I’m manhandled to the front, skipping the line. Several sets of eyes follow me, some with pity, some with a kind of triumphant malice. One of the scribes—a gaunt minotaur with bronze fur—eyes me over the edge of his parchment and calls out, “Next!”

The older guard steps forward. “Name: Naeva Viren, human. Political. High-level offense. Suspected sabotage, arson on a dark elf vessel, multiple deaths.”

He makes me sound like a savage. I bite my tongue.

The scribe looks up. His gaze flicks to my forearms, where faint burn scars lace my skin. “You lit that slave ship on fire?”

“Would you prefer I let them traffic people?” I ask, voice razor-sharp.

One of the guards whacks the back of my knee with a baton. I drop to a kneel, biting back a pained cry. “Quiet,” he says.

“Enough,” the scribe murmurs. He jots some notes, then points his quill at me. “Category: Arena fodder.”

My teeth clench. Arena fodder. That’s what they call high-risk criminals who are better off thrown to the gladiatorial pit. If I expected a real trial, I won’t find it in the Ivory Bastion.

The scribe continues, ignoring the wild pounding of my heart, “Chain her in the holding pen. Arena schedule is posted tomorrow.”

Sweat breaks out under my tattered shirt. The guard’s baton whisks through the air again, tapping my shoulder in a silent command to stand. The others yank me upright. My legs are so stiff from days in the wagon that I nearly stumble, but I refuse to fall.

I meet the scribe’s eyes. “You just sign people away to die?”

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