Page 45 of Burned to Obey

He exhales slowly, stepping closer. His presence looms, comforting yet daunting. “You can confide in me.”

My throat tightens. “Confide what? That a chaos mage rattled me? I’m alive, brand intact. Move on.” I fold my arms, hating how my voice wavers.

He frowns, tail swishing in agitation. “All right. I won’t pry.” Then his tone gentles. “But if Arkiel tries anything again, tell me.”

A flurry of conflicting emotions churn. Some stubborn, aching part of me longs to trust him—to confess the truth about my blood. But the risk coils too tightly. So I simply nod. “I promise.”

He watches me a moment longer, then inclines his head. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

When he slips out, the emptiness of my room returns. My heart thrums, half relieved he didn’t sense the deeper secret, half guilty for hiding it. He’s shown me kindness I never expected, yet I can’t fully trust him with this. With shaky hands, I unbuckle my belt, letting myself slump onto the stool by the narrow window. Through it, I catch a glimpse of the Bastion’s courtyard, guards patrolling. If they find out I can nullify chaos magic, I’ll either be branded an asset or an enemy. Either way, my freedom vanishes.

Time crawls. My ribs ache, and the brand throbs like a silent reproach. In the late afternoon, I stir, deciding to check the southwestern storerooms for any new shipments. Occupying my mind with mundane tasks might stave off the panic. So I don’t wait for my guard to knock—I step out, meeting him in the corridor. We walk in silence, tension thrumming in my limbs.

In the southwestern storeroom, a musty chamber full of crates and half-forgotten equipment, I set about verifying logs. An orc prisoner lifts boxes, watched by a minotaur overseer. The orc sneaks a wary glance at me. I wave him off, too preoccupied to scold or chat. My ledger in hand, I compare item codes to the stacks. My thoughts keep drifting back to Arkiel’s fizzled spell. If dark elves or the Senate learn I might be Nullborn, how would that change my life?

A clatter behind me makes me whirl. The orc stumbled, dropping a crate, cursing. The overseer barks at him. I realize I’m too jumpy, reacting to the slightest sound. Exhaling, I push on, finishing the inventory. It’s all correct, no missing items. One small victory amid a swirl of worry.

By the time I’m done, the sun has dipped lower, shadows stretching across the Bastion’s corridors. My escort leads me back toward the living blocks. A hush looms, as though thefortress waits for nightfall. I consider heading to Saru’s office again, but the memory of my panic around magic halts me. I need to process this alone.

Once in my quarters, I lock the door. My mind whirls, sleep far out of reach. Instead, I pace, testing my bandaged ribs with each step. The brand stands stark on my forearm, a symbol of forced survival. This Nullborn rumor is a second brand, hidden beneath my skin. Both weigh me down.

Long minutes pass, the corridor outside growing quiet. At last, exhaustion sets in. I slump onto the bed, letting my eyes flutter shut. Dreams come swiftly, twisting with old memories: the dark elf forges, arcane engines thrumming, robed mages chanting vile spells. I see them lash out with chaotic fire, but in my dream, it fizzles before touching me, leaving them outraged and me stumbling into the night.

I jolt awake, heart hammering. The Bastion is dark, a single torch outside my door casting shadows. I rub my eyes, cursing the nightmares. My breath remains ragged, half expecting Arkiel or some other chaos wielder to burst in. Shaking my head, I lie back, focusing on the slow in-and-out of breathing. I vow not to let panic rule me. I have to hide this Nullborn trait, at least until I figure out who can be trusted.

The following day arrives too soon, but I throw myself into routine tasks again, hoping the busyness will keep Arkiel away from me. Davor mentions the chaos mage was reassigned to a lesser area, still with watchers. My relief is palpable. I attempt to avoid crossing paths with him, though a coil of fear thrums in my gut. My side still aches, but I push past it, ensuring rations are delivered on schedule.

Around midday, I realize I’m heading down a side corridor with a handful of crates, a route less patrolled. My guard left to help quell a minor squabble, promising to catch up. The corridor stands empty, torchlight flickering on the worn stone.My footfalls echo. Anxiety twists inside me, recalling the last time I was alone in a corridor.

I press on, refusing to cower. The corridor turns a corner, revealing a set of old storage doors. My job: verify if any new shipments arrived. I open the door, stepping into dust-choked dimness. Musty air greets me. Shelves line the walls, and crates lie stacked in haphazard rows. I rifle through them, scanning for updated labels. It’s all quiet.

Then footsteps approach outside, quick and light. My heart lurches, mind flashing to Arkiel or some other foe. I pivot, stepping behind a tall shelf. The door creaks open, lamplight dancing across the floor. Through a gap in the crates, I see a single figure slip inside, someone in uniform. I hold my breath, hoping they pass without noticing me.

But the figure lingers, rummaging through a chest near the far wall. My pulse thunders. A moment later, they curse softly, muttering about “where the runes are hidden.” My brow furrows. Runic items? Contraband? Something to do with Thakur’s infiltration?

I clench my fists, deciding to confront them. But before I can step forward, another shape appears in the doorway. Two of them? I freeze, uncertain if this is a friendly supply check or a conspiracy. The second figure hisses, “Check faster. We can’t be caught. The Warden’s goons lurk everywhere.”

Thakur’s men? My blood runs cold. If they discover me eavesdropping, they might kill me on the spot. I remain perfectly still, blending into the shadows. They rummage more, cursing that “the pitch crates must be relocated.” Another mention of pitch crates. That ties into the mystery crates I found. My heart pounds as I piece it together—someone is smuggling pitch or contraband. Possibly for sabotage or black-market trade.

Suddenly, a faint noise behind me: my boot scraping the shelf. It echoes in the silence. The two figures go still. Onebrandishes a dagger, stepping closer to where I hide. My breath stalls. I have no guards to save me, no time to run.

Then a muffled shout echoes from the corridor. My guard, presumably, calling my name. The two figures curse under their breath, dropping whatever they were doing. They slip out, letting the door bang shut behind them. I remain unmoving for a few heartbeats, adrenaline roaring in my veins. Finally, I exhale, carefully emerging from my hiding spot.

Shaken, I check the chest they were rifling through. It’s empty but smells faintly of something acrid—maybe leftover pitch or magical residue. My mind spins. If Thakur’s men are smuggling these runes or pitch, it could be linked to further sabotage. I grip the crate for support, fear and anger coiling in my chest.

My guard bursts in moments later, panting. “Naeva? Why are you in the dark?”

I swallow, forcing composure. “Inventory check. It’s… nothing’s here.” My voice trembles. He frowns, noticing my shaken state, but I wave him off, stumbling out of the storeroom. My mind is a storm of half-answers—Nullborn lineage, contraband pitch, Thakur’s infiltration. It’s all building to something, and I stand at the center, precarious.

That evening, I return to my quarters, locking the door firmly. My thoughts swirl with what I heard, the lingering dread that if Thakur’s men discover my potential Nullborn trait, they might weaponize it or sell me to the highest bidder. In the silence, I rub my temple with slow fingers. I have no one to confide in. Saru might help but how do I trust him with something so volatile?

I pace until the moonlight spills through the window. Each breath feels short. The memory of Arkiel’s fizzled magic haunts me, the knowledge that contraband runes and pitch swirl around me, and Thakur’s men prowl these corridors. I realize,with a shiver of clarity, that everything is converging on a single point: my secret might emerge unless I find a way to bury it or harness it.

Rest eludes me. Eventually, I collapse onto the bed, heart pounding. My arms hug my bruised ribs, the brand on my forearm catching the moonlight. This brand was forced on me for my survival. Now, I face a deeper secret that might unravel me. Tomorrow, I’ll muster the strength to investigate more. For now, I let exhaustion drag me under, trying not to dream of fizzled spells and hidden contraband. Trying not to see the possibility that the blood in my veins holds more danger than any brand or fortress code.

12

SARU

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