Page 48 of Burned to Obey

“Complicated,” I echo, letting the word hang. Everything about us is complicated—the brand, Thakur’s threats, her ambiguous status. “We do what we must.”

She nods, crossing her arms. “I won’t let Thakur drag me away.” The raw determination in her voice resonates with my own vow to protect her. I sense a fierce synergy, overshadowing the chafing brand.

Footsteps echo along the courtyard entrance, and we turn to see a lone minotaur guard approach, bowing. “Warden, urgent matter in the west corridor. A scuffle among prisoners.”

I sigh, tension returning. “All right. I’ll handle it.” I glance at Naeva. “You can come if you want, or rest.”

She squares her shoulders. “I’ll see if I can help. Quartermaster duties might be involved.”

We head out, practical concerns reclaiming the moment. As we walk, I can’t shake the warmth in my chest from that fleeting closeness—my hands on her hips, her breath hitching. Thakur might loom over our heads, brand or not, but for a few minutes we found a rhythm. The Bastion’s halls bustle as we pass, but I keep a watchful eye. Double guards aside, I sense danger lurking, Thakur’s presence rattling the fortress.

We reach the west corridor, finding two orcs in a heated shouting match with a minotaur guard. A few onlookers linger. I bark an order, and the tension deflates under official scrutiny. While I arbitrate the argument, Naeva stands at my side, arms folded. She cuts in with a pointed remark that quells the orcs from further aggression, citing supply records that show they’ve already received their rations. I hide a small smile at how smoothly she wields her authority, refusing to be cowed by species or rank.

When the dispute settles, we part ways—she returns to finalize daily logs, I to handle more Bastion affairs. My mind drifts again to Thakur’s threat and the unstoppable friction of politics. But overshadowing that is the memory of her posture in the courtyard, her spine taut, our stances locked in a teacher-student dance that felt oddly intimate. I bury the feeling in routine tasks, aware it will resurface the next time we spar.

By nightfall, I exit my office into a corridor dimly lit by torches. The Bastion quiets, staff rotating to the evening watch. I catch sight of a few guards saluting, stepping aside. My shoulders feel heavy from the day’s strain. Thakur’s visit lingers in every hush, as though the fortress itself is waiting for the next blow.

I find myself walking toward the southwestern courtyard again, as if drawn. The moon hangs low, bathing the training ground in silver. My chest plate clinks softly, reminding me I never removed it since our spar. The empty courtyard holds only the faint echoes of earlier practice, the dust of scuffed earth underfoot. A swirl of memory arises: her in my arms, nearly falling, the press of her body. My horns ache with conflicting urges.

I stand in the moonlit space, letting the night wind brush my fur. Thakur might bring the Senate’s wrath, but I’ll stand firm. For her. For the vow I made when I branded her. Each day I see her push forward, forging her path in a fortress that once threatened to break her. Each day I sense her forging cracks in my own walls. The dance between us grows more complex—dangerous if we lose control, but I can’t turn away.

Exhaling, I bow my head, silent in the moonlight. Tomorrow might bring more conflict, more Senate demands. We’ll meet them head-on, step by step, from the arena if need be. And if training in these stances helps her survive Thakur’s next strike, I’ll teach her everything I can. Because in the swirling chaos of politics and regrets, the single unambiguous truth is my resolve: I won’t let her be taken. I won’t let her fight alone. And if that means standing against the entire Senate, so be it.

13

NAEVA

Dawn’s glow filters through the narrow window of my quarters, rousing me from a restless sleep. I lie still for a few moments, the old straw mattress crackling beneath me. There’s a peculiar tension humming in my muscles, leftover echoes of yesterday’s clash with Senator Thakur’s demands and the unexpected closeness I experienced with Saru during our sparring session. I can still feel the phantom weight of his hand guiding my stance, the way his voice dropped when he corrected my balance.

I push up to sit, ignoring the soft pull of bruised muscle. Light glints off the healing mark on my arm—Saru’s crest, once a symbol of fury, now tangled with feelings I can’t untangle: reluctant gratitude, uneasy longing, something deeper I refuse to name.

Shaking off lingering emotions, I dress in a fresh tunic and trousers, wincing when my arm tenses. The bruises remain stubborn, but I won’t let them slow me. There’s always more to do in the Bastion: inventory checks, supply runs, diplomatic headaches. Thakur might have left, but his threat lingers like a dark cloud. The fortress hums with speculation that he’ll returnsoon with Senate support, demanding my handover. I force my mind away from that possibility and exit my room, meeting the guard Saru assigned me. He dips his head in a silent greeting, and we head off into the winding corridors.

The morning routine whisks me into a flurry of tasks, verifying that every ration crate is where it should be and that no further sabotage has emerged in the southwestern storehouse. My mind drifts more than once to the memory of Saru’s unwavering stance in the hall, refusing to yield me to Thakur. Perhaps I should be grateful for that unflinching protection, but it also leaves a strange warmth in my chest. I’m not used to anyone choosing me over politics or personal gain.

The supply yard bustles with activity when I arrive. Workers stack crates in neat rows for distribution. I do a quick pass, scanning the logs and crossing references. A wave of mild relief washes through me—no glaring discrepancies. Once done, I set out for the narrower courtyard where Saru occasionally meets me for further training. My heart thrums a little faster at the thought of seeing him, though I tell myself it’s just for self-defense.

When I turn a corner, I spot him standing near a stack of practice weapons, arms folded, horns angled in that stoic posture. Two guards linger at a respectful distance, but drift off when I approach. He’s wearing partial armor, the chest plate and arm bracers that complement his imposing build. For a moment, I let myself admire the way the morning light highlights the subtle silver lines on his horns.

He nods as I approach. “You’re here early.”

I shrug, ignoring the odd flutter in my stomach. “Better than letting the day slip away. Ready to show me another stance?”

His gaze flickers over me, eyes lingering on the fresh bruises visible above my tunic’s collar. “We’ll see how far we go before your side protests.”

I exhale. “I can handle it.”

He moves to the small rack where wooden practice swords and spears rest. He selects two short wooden swords, handing one to me. “We’ll refine transitions from guard to strike.”

I hold the practice sword, stepping into the middle of the courtyard. The ground is packed dirt, ringed by carved pillars that offer sparse shade. The air tastes of dust and faint morning dew. My guard stands watch near the entrance, but otherwise, it’s just me and Saru. A subtle undercurrent of tension crackles, left over from the closeness last time.

He stands opposite, sword raised. “Stance first. Remember the wide base.”

I do as instructed, letting my feet slide into the posture he showed me. Knees slightly bent, one foot angled for balance. My ribs protest a bit, but I steady myself. Saru nods once, his expression set in calm focus. We cross swords with a soft clack, beginning a slow dance of moves. My breath hitches at the quiet intensity. Each step we take, each parry, resonates in my bones, like a conversation beyond words.

He corrects me gently when I overextend my elbow. “Guard your side. That bruise isn’t healed yet.”

I grimace. “I’m fine.” But I tighten my stance, acknowledging the strain. We continue, speeding up incrementally.

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