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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 line a 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?”

He shrugs with a dismissive wave. “If you’re guilty, that’s the price. Move along.”

“Bastard,” I hiss under my breath. The guard gives me a warning glance, but he doesn’t strike me again. Not yet.

They drag me through the next gate, leading into a corridor that smells of damp stone and old sweat.

At intervals, narrow windows let in slices of daylight.

I glimpse more of this fortress—a courtyard with training dummies, a distant ring that must be the famed arena, and beyond that, the endless sea.

My eyes burn as I take in the expanse of ocean.

I’ve seen seas before, but never from a vantage like this.

It’s almost beautiful—too bad it’s overshadowed by the fortress walls.

We pass a cluster of minotaur guards. They step aside, exchanging hushed remarks about me. One says, “I heard she killed a whole boatful of dark elves.”

Another retorts, “That’s not even a crime. They’re vile creatures. Must be something else.”

I almost laugh. They hate the dark elves too, but apparently I did it wrong by damaging a trade route. Typical.

We round a corner and come face-to-chest with the largest minotaur I’ve seen yet.

He’s at least two heads taller than the older guard, with broad shoulders and a posture that screams authority.

Dark sable fur covers his arms, and two curved horns—black-tipped with subtle silver lines—frame a face that’s eerily calm.

His eyes are deep amber, and they lock on me with a slow, measuring look.

Everything about him radiates control. There’s a scar that runs across his brow, and it twitches when his gaze drops to my chains. He says nothing for a moment.

One of my escorts clears his throat. “Warden Saru.”

Warden. So this is the rumored warden of the Ivory Bastion. I’ve heard he used to be a general, or something near that rank, before a public fall from grace.

He’s silent, but his presence is enough to still the entire corridor. Several minotaurs nearby bow their heads, an acknowledgment of his status. I’m the only one who doesn’t lower my eyes.

Saru’s gaze flicks down to my wrists, to the chafing red skin under the metal cuffs. Then he looks at my face. My jaw clenches, but I hold his stare. I won’t cower.

He speaks, and his voice is a low resonance that hums in my bones. “Where do you plan to keep her?”

The older guard steps forward. “She’s set for the arena, sir. High-level threat, sabotage. The scribe designated her as fodder.”

Saru’s eyes linger on me a moment longer, as if searching for something. Or maybe he’s just cataloguing my potential weaknesses. “Arena fodder,” he echoes, the words stripped bare of emotion.

“Yes sir,” the guard replies.

For a beat, Saru says nothing. A muscle in his thick neck moves, and then he nods once. “Proceed,” he orders quietly.

He steps aside, and we pass him. My heart is pounding. If I expected any attempt at mercy, that didn’t happen. Not that I truly believed a minotaur warden would offer me a gentle hand, but I had some foolish hope that maybe he’d question sending me to die. Instead, he confirmed it with one word.

The guards pull me forward. I swallow the knot of fear building in my throat. No one will ever own me again, I tell myself. I might be caged, but my will is still my own.

I hear the warden’s footsteps recede behind us. I chance a glance over my shoulder just long enough to see him standing rigid, arms folded across his broad chest. He’s watching, but his expression is unreadable.

They take me down a tight spiral staircase, each step slick with condensation.

Torches in metal sconces light the twisting path, and with each downward step, the air grows heavier, tinged with the smell of mold and sweat.

We reach a corridor with barred cells on both sides.

Moans and curses echo. This must be the holding wing for those slated for the arena.

A guard points to an empty cell. “In.”

I stand still, scanning the interior. A straw pallet on the floor, a bucket in the corner, a single drip of water trailing along the wall. My chest feels tight, but I force myself not to react. Giving them any sign of weakness is pointless.

They unlock my cuffs just long enough to shove me inside. One guard slams the bars shut and clicks the lock in place. Two remain behind, likely to guard me until my official registration is done.