Page 10

I stand there for some time, thinking about how swiftly the day turned on its head.

By claiming her, I bound her fate to my name.

In minotaur culture, that’s almost as irreversible as a formal marriage vow.

Even if we never stand at an altar, the brand is a public statement of intent.

I know how the Bastion’s population will talk.

They’ll say the Warden took a human mate, they’ll sneer, or they’ll pity me for losing my way.

Let them talk. The alternative was her death.

Eventually, I head down the corridor toward the infirmary wing. My footsteps echo on the stone floors. I want to ensure that her burn is treated properly. The brand is an ugly wound if not tended swiftly, and though I cannot undo the scarring, I can at least see that it doesn’t fester.

The infirmary stands off a narrower hallway. I push through the doors and find a couple of healers tending to various injuries. One is a seasoned minotaur named Rohka, who specializes in burn treatments. She acknowledges me with a curt bob of her head.

“She’s there,” Rohka says quietly, pointing to a curtained area. “Holding up as best she can.”

I approach the curtain, hearing hushed voices.

A guard stands outside, arms folded. He steps aside at my nod, letting me through.

Inside, Naeva sits on a stool, arm extended, her tunic sleeve rolled up to expose the raw brand.

Another female minotaur is dabbing ointment over the seared skin.

Naeva clenches her teeth at the sting but doesn’t pull away.

When she notices me, her entire body stiffens. “You don’t have to watch. Haven’t you done enough?”

I swallow, forcing myself to remain calm. “I came to ensure your arm is treated properly.”

Her lips press together. She doesn’t say anything, but the glare she levels at me is scorching. The healer finishes applying a foul-smelling poultice, then binds it with a loose bandage. It’s tinted with an herbal solution that helps prevent infection and reduce pain.

“That should do,” the healer says softly, stepping back.

Naeva lowers her arm, cradling it against her torso. The brand is still visible beneath the wrappings, an angry outline of horns and waves. She meets my gaze, and for a moment, the silence is so thick that the air tastes heavy. The memory of that sizzling iron brand reverberates between us.

“Feels like you ripped off my skin,” she mutters, voice raw.

I nod, struggling to find words. “This was the only choice I had.”

She stands, favoring her burned arm. “I’ve heard that before. Every slaver has the same excuse: We had no choice but to claim you, no choice but to collar you. Spare me.”

I grip the edge of the curtain. “I’m not a slaver.”

She snorts. “Could have fooled me.”

Her glare sears through me, stirring a mix of anger and regret. “Without that mark, you’d be dead right now. Thakur was minutes away from ordering your execution.”

She squares her stance. “Then I’d have died free.”

A flash of frustration rushes through me. “You call the arena free? That’s just another death spectacle. Here, at least you have a chance to breathe, to fight in your own way.”

She inhales, eyes flicking down to the bandage. “I’d rather burn on my terms than wear your crest.”

My jaw tenses. “I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she exhales a long breath, pain flickering in her features. “Let me go back to my cell. I don’t want your pity or your presence.”

I nod once, stepping aside. The guard outside steps in to escort her.

As she moves past me, her shoulder brushes mine, a fleeting contact that leaves my heart thumping for reasons I don’t fully understand.

She halts momentarily, turning her head slightly as if to say something.

But then she marches on, leaving me staring at the empty space where she stood.

The healer glances at me, frowning. I realize I’m still gripping the curtain in a white-knuckled hold. Forcing my fingers to unclench, I step away. My limbs feel weighed down by the tension between Naeva and me.

As I leave the infirmary, the corridors feel narrower, the walls pressing in.

I can’t ignore that part of me, that faint flicker of heat whenever her defiance meets my gaze.

It’s more than guilt. Something about her spirit pulls at me, a spark of life that I haven’t felt in my own heart for far too long.

The Senate’s order forced my hand, but I can’t pretend I only acted out of a sense of debt or duty.

A deeper thread binds me to her, even if I won’t name it yet.

She sees me as no better than a captor, and I can’t blame her.

I did brand her flesh. But I also kept her alive, and that has to matter in the battles to come.

I continue down the corridor, lost in thoughts that circle around the same point: I have saved her life, and in doing so, bound her to mine.

The brand is meant to protect her, yet it also yokes us together in the eyes of Milthar.

She’s enraged, and I don’t have the words to ease her anger.

Maybe time will prove that living is better than dying in the Bastion’s sand.

Still, her hatred burrows under my skin, clawing at me.

I push aside that discomfort, reminding myself that I’ve faced worse scorn.

Let the Senate snarl. Let Naeva rage. I’ll bear it if it means she stays alive.

Because if I fail her now, not only do I betray my vow, but I cast aside the flicker of something new—something strong—growing inside me each time I look into her storm-bright eyes.

I enter the main hall again, where the echoes of Thakur’s anger still linger.

The hush that settled earlier has been replaced by guarded conversation.

The Bastion staff likely waits for me to issue fresh orders in the wake of this scandalous move.

I can imagine the rumors: The Warden has taken a human to his house crest. That’s nearly akin to a vow of engagement.

Some will mock. Others will watch with curiosity, guessing if I’ve lost my discipline or if I have a cunning plan.

But as I step onto the dais where we keep the Bastion’s official logs, I find no simple explanation to offer them. My chest still tightens when I recall Naeva’s expression of pure betrayal. She’s not wrong: I forced this bond on her. Yet it was either the brand or death.

The logs remain open, waiting for me to update them.

My hand hovers over the quill. I pen the official line: Naeva Viren, claimed under House Rhek’tal crest by Warden Saru Rhek’tal on the Fifteenth Day of Vahkus Season.

The ink glistens, final and binding. A scribe stands by, reading over my shoulder.

He doesn’t speak, but I sense his shock.

I set the quill down. My horns feel like they bear the weight of a mountain.

There is no turning back now. I am entwined with a human prisoner who despises me.

The Senate will come at me with all the fury they can muster.

The Bastion’s staff will watch every move, divided in their opinions.

And Naeva, shackled by a brand she didn’t choose, will continue to spit fire my way.

Yet in the pit of my stomach, I feel that maybe this is the first decision I’ve made in a long while that aligns with the warrior I once was—someone who believed in saving lives, no matter the cost. Even if it means being cursed by the one life I saved.

I stand tall, rolling my shoulders to chase off the tension. Let Thakur conspire. Let the Senate rage. I have an oath to uphold, and whether Naeva believes it or not, I won’t let her be slaughtered.

I leave the dais and walk toward the corridor that leads to my quarters.

Tomorrow, the Bastion will awaken to rumors that swirl and swirl.

But I won’t retreat. I’ll face the storm and see if there’s a path for both of us to survive.

And if that path requires me to hold the line against the entire Senate, so be it.

As I pass a window overlooking the open courtyard, I catch a glimpse of the space where I branded her, the scorch marks on the brazier’s coals still darkening the stone.

That brand is more than a physical burn—it’s a bond that neither of us can break easily.

And it sets a fuse beneath us both, one that could destroy everything if we can’t find a way to stand together.

I grip the stone sill, letting the breeze from the sea wash over my face.

The salt tang reminds me of the old campaigns, of the vow I made to protect Milthar from corruption.

Now, I realize protecting her might also be part of that vow.

Even if she hates me for it. Even if I have to burn all my bridges with the Senate to keep her breathing.

I push off the sill, mind resolved. My horns weigh like anchors, but my spine straightens with purpose.

This brand binds us to a dangerous game, yet I refuse to yield.

Tomorrow, or the day after, the Senate might arrive in force, or Thakur might move behind the scenes.

Naeva will likely rail at me for stealing her freedom in another form.

Still, I’ll weather it. Because in a world of shifting loyalties and a fortress built on iron rules, protecting her is the one thing that feels undeniably right.

So let the storms come. I will hold the line.