Page 44 of Burned to Obey

A jolt of unease ripples through me. The mention of an aura pricks at old rumors I tried to bury. I fold my arms. “Focus on your job.”

He picks up another crate, smirking. “Of course.”

I sense the guard’s tension, so I step back, scanning the rest of the yard. For the next hour, I monitor general tasks—verifying crates’ contents, checking ration distribution. My guard stays a short distance away, letting me navigate on my own. My bruised ribs ache, but I press on, determined to prove last week’s attack hasn’t broken me.

At length, I pause near a corner of the yard where idle crates sit, rereading the morning’s logs. A prickling sensation crawls over my neck, making me glance up. Arkiel stands a few paces away, his watchers momentarily distracted by a small commotion near the gate. His collar still glimmers with those runes. My pulse kicks up.

He steps closer, that unsettling grin fixed. “You bustle around like you own this place.”

My jaw tightens. “I have a job to do. Return to your assigned spot.”

He tilts his head, voice dropping. “It’s fascinating. A human wearing a minotaur’s crest but brimming with…something else. I sense a blockade around you, as though magic can’t quite sink in.”

My stomach clenches. “You’re speaking nonsense. Back off.”

He ignores my command, lifting a hand as if to conjure a minor spell. My breath catches, fear skittering along my veins.The collar should dampen him, but what if it’s malfunctioning? He utters a few guttural syllables, words reminiscent of dark elf incantations I once overheard in the forges. A faint shimmer forms in the air between us.

I brace for pain or a flash of scorching magic. Instead, I feel…nothing. The shimmer fizzles, collapsing into a swirl of harmless sparks that vanish before touching me. Arkiel’s eyes widen in shock. The collar hums, runes flaring bright. He hisses, stepping back, confusion etched on his face. “How…? You’re not minotaur. That collar shouldn’t?—”

My heart thunders. I recall vague rumors from my past, whispers about Nullborn humans selectively bred by elves for magic nullification. I always told myself it was a myth, or at least not relevant to me. But now, confronting Arkiel’s fizzled spell, dread churns in my gut. If I am Nullborn, it explains why chaos magic fails near me. But that revelation can be dangerous. If the dark elves learn, or if the Senate finds out, they might exploit me or lock me away.

I swallow, forcing my face to remain impassive. “Get back to work,” I say, voice cracking with tension. My guard, noticing the exchange, hurries over, glaring at Arkiel. He sees no sign of magic, just a minor scuffle. Arkiel stares at me, puzzlement overshadowing his previous smirk.

He starts to speak, but the guard shoves him away. “Move,” the guard growls. “You have crates to carry.”

Arkiel staggers, then laughs low, eyes flicking to me with unspoken interest. He resumes stacking, collar runes flickering with frustration. My mouth is dry. I glance around, noticing other workers too distracted to notice the fizzled spell. Relief mingles with terror. I can’t let them see this.

I retreat to a quieter corner, breath uneven. My mind races, recalling old hush-hush talk of Nullborn lines, humans bred by elves centuries ago to quell chaos magic. Dark elves would killor re-enslave them if discovered. The minotaurs might do worse if they suspect I carry a magic immunity that could shift the balance of power. I clutch my bandaged ribs, panic twisting in me. Everything I’ve built here—my reluctant alliance with Saru, my role as quartermaster—could crumble if this truth emerges.

My guard steps up, concern furrowing his brow. “You all right? That prisoner get rowdy?”

I wave a dismissive hand, fighting to steady my pulse. “He tried to spook me with nonsense. The collar kept it in check.”

He nods. “Chaos mages like to bluff. Let me know if he tries again.”

I force a tight smile. “Of course.” Then I excuse myself, claiming I need to check on other tasks. Inside, dread simmers. I can’t reveal this to Saru. He’s the Bastion’s Warden, bound by laws. If he learns I’m potentially Nullborn, it might shift everything. The Senate likely views me as either a weapon or a liability. Thakur could use me or end me. Knowledge like mine is never safe in their hands.

I hurry out of the supply yard, each step painful on my ribs but overshadowed by the swirl of panic in my chest. The corridors pass in a haze, guards saluting or ignoring me. My thoughts tangle: If Arkiel decides to mention my apparent resistance, will the rumor spread? Could he blackmail me somehow? I want to confront him, but that would draw attention. So I keep walking, forcing composure.

I reach my quarters and lock the door, leaning into the chilled wood as my breath stutters. That magic—fizzling, breaking—flickers through my memory. A sharp ache radiates from the sigil carved into my skin, as if warning me I’m already knee-deep in minotaur power games. Nullborn blood would only sink me further. Maybe if I stay small, I’ll slip beneath their notice.

A quiet knock startles me. “Naeva,” a deep voice calls. My pulse surges—Saru. I consider ignoring him, but he’s persistent. “Are you there?”

I exhale, trying to calm my racing heart. I unlatch the door, stepping back so he can enter. He glances at my drawn face, concern flickering in his amber eyes. “I heard Arkiel acted strange. The guard said you left abruptly.”

I swallow, cursing how quickly news travels. “He tried to spook me. Nothing serious.” My voice sounds thin.

He steps inside, letting the door close. “You look shaken.”

I stiffen, refusing to meet his gaze. “He’s a chaos mage. The collar dampens him. That’s all.”

Saru studies me, arms folding. “You’re trembling. Did he cast something on you?”

Panic flutters in my gut. “It fizzled. No harm done.” I force a wry scoff. “It’s just old memories stirring. The dark elves used chaos magic in their forges. I hate seeing it again.”

His expression softens, tension easing. “I see. If you need relief from dealing with him, I can reassign your duties.”

I bristle, not wanting pity. “No, I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter. “I’ll handle it.”

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