Page 11

NAEVA

I wake to find my arm throbbing in a dull, punishing rhythm.

The bandage wrapped around the brand sticks to my skin, and every small shift of my muscles reminds me of the fresh burn beneath.

This is the Warden’s doing—Saru. He seared his family crest into my flesh in front of a hundred onlookers, shackling me through some ancient Minotaur law.

I hate it as much as I hate these gray fortress walls.

My cell feels smaller today, even though it’s the same cramped space as before.

Straw crunches under my boots as I sit up.

The narrow slit of a window reveals a rainy morning, with a damp chill drifting in.

There’s a plate of leftover bread on a small stool near the bars, presumably dropped off by the guard earlier.

My stomach growls, but the resentment lodged in my throat makes it hard to swallow.

I trace a finger over the bandage’s edge.

The brand is tender, and I recall the hiss of hot iron, the acrid scent of scorched skin.

Most of all, I remember his expression—Saru’s eyes calm but grim.

He didn’t flinch while pressing his crest into me.

A quiet hope flickers—maybe he regretted it.

But the memory of that searing agony scorches any comfort before it can settle.

Voices echo from the corridor: boots on stone, hushed orders.

One voice stands out among them—a low timbre.

Saru. I tense as the footsteps approach my cell.

The guard stationed outside gives a crisp nod, then unlocks the door with a clang of keys.

Saru steps in, flanked by two minotaurs who hover in the doorway.

He’s wearing his usual partial armor: a chest plate molded to his broad torso, leather bracers that wrap his powerful forearms. I can’t help noticing the faint shine of moisture on his dark fur, as though he came here straight from an early inspection in the rain.

He stands still, horns angled with quiet authority.

My heart thumps with aggravation. “Come to see your prize?”

“Check your bandage,” he says, voice clipped. “Make sure it’s not infected.”

“Your minotaurs saw to it last night,” I snap. “Or was that not thorough enough?”

He steps closer, ignoring the jibe. “Let me see.” It’s not a gentle request.

The presence of two guards in the doorway kills any notion of refusing outright, yet I feel my rage spike.

I hold his gaze for a solid moment, letting him see just how little I appreciate this.

Then I yank the bandage down an inch, exposing the raw edges of his crest. The flesh around the mark is an angry red, scabbed in places.

He exhales through flared nostrils. “Swelling has gone down.” He angles his head at one of the guards. “Fetch the salve.”

I grit my teeth as the guard leaves, returning shortly with a small clay pot. Saru gestures for me to hold out my arm. My first impulse is to jerk away, but the throbbing pain and the guard’s watchful stance stops me. Instead, I shove my forearm forward.

Saru scoops a small amount of pale-green ointment with two thick fingers.

He carefully pats it onto the burn, the gesture unexpectedly precise for such a massive hand.

It stings at first. I clench my teeth and stare at him.

He meets my eyes, and for a moment, the tension between us tightens like a drawn bow.

His voice is quiet. “This will help it heal faster.”

“You act like you’re doing me a kindness.” My voice trembles with unspent fury. “I never asked for your brand.”

He finishes applying the ointment, then steps back to let me fix the bandage. He doesn’t speak right away, and the silence fuels my anger further. At last, he straightens. “We need to talk.”

I fold my arms, mindful of my burn. “Fine. Talk.”

He nods at the guards, and they step out, leaving us alone in the cell. He closes the door behind them, a soft rattle of metal. My pulse kicks up, uncertain whether to lash out or brace for confrontation. A low hush settles.

Saru stands tall, arms folded across his chest. “The Senate demanded your execution. Thakur intended to carry it out swiftly. That brand was the only way to keep you alive.”

I snort. “Why do you care if I’m alive or dead?”

A flash of something passes through his gaze. Guilt, perhaps, or regret. “Because your sabotage saved someone important to me.”

My stomach tightens. “Your sister, right? The senator.”

His jaw shifts. “Vira. She was scheduled to board that dark elf vessel. She never did, because you destroyed it first.” He looks away, horns tilting in a subdued motion. “If I let them kill you, it’s as though that sacrifice meant nothing.”

I force a bitter laugh. “So I’m your pet good deed. You can’t let me die, so I’m stuck with your crest burned into my flesh.” I lift my bandaged arm accusingly. “That’s no better than a slaver’s mark.”

He steps closer, voice dropping. “I know you see it that way. But the Senate’s order gave me no alternative.

” Each word is slow, precise. “In my culture, this brand grants temporary immunity from the local court. It forces the Senate to hold a formal hearing before any execution. That’s time we can use to?—”

“Stop saying ‘we,’” I cut in, throat constricting. “I’m not your partner. You did this to me, regardless of your reasons.”

He doesn’t move, but tension ripples under his fur. “I understand your anger.”

“No, you don’t.” The words come out ragged. “You walk around with power at your fingertips. You call yourself disgraced, but you’re still the Warden, you still command every guard in this fortress. Meanwhile, I’m locked here like an animal, now branded by you. Don’t talk to me about understanding.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Silence stretches, thick with anger and unspoken truths. Rain taps against the stone window, and the chill seeps deeper into my bones.

He exhales. “I can’t undo the brand. But I can offer you a…different arrangement.” He lifts his chin, as if bracing for my reaction. “I can move you from this cell to private quarters, near my own. You’ll be guarded, but you’ll have more freedom to move, more space to breathe.”

A laugh bursts from me, sharp and humorless. “More freedom? Let me guess, I’ll still have a guard trailing me. That’s not freedom. That’s a larger cage with your crest pinned to my arm.”

His amber eyes flicker, betraying a fleeting spark of frustration. “Yes, there will be conditions. I can’t risk you vanishing into the Bastion. The Senate would use your disappearance as an excuse to undermine me.”

“Or they’d suspect you helped me flee. Doesn’t matter. I’m still your captive.”

He takes a measured breath, as though struggling to remain calm. “You’d have privacy, a chance to move, perhaps work outside the cell. The brand protects you from being thrown into the arena. Isn’t that preferable to rotting here until Thakur finds a loophole to kill you?”

I ball my good hand into a fist. “You think I should be grateful?”

He doesn’t say yes. He just watches me with a gaze that’s both guarded and oddly genuine. “I’d prefer you live.”

Those words set off sparks in my chest. My resentment fights with a deeper fear. Part of me knows that if Saru truly abandoned me to Thakur’s schemes, I’d be dead by now, my body tossed in some unmarked grave. Another part of me rages that I’m forced to accept his help on his terms.

I run my tongue over my teeth, searching for a vicious remark. It dies in my throat because I can’t bring myself to say I’d rather die. Deep down, I want to live—just not like this.

He steps even closer, his size imposing. Yet there’s no overt threat in his posture. He lowers his voice. “I’ll ask again. Do you want a cell like this one, or do you want a space of your own, with a bed and a door that locks from inside?”

I wrestle with myself. My pride demands I spit in his face, but the memory of icy nights, rotting straw, and the stink of hopelessness in these prison cells holds me back. Any measure of autonomy might be worth swallowing some pride.

I clench my fists, glaring up at him. “I’ll move, but don’t mistake it for gratitude. You hold all the power here. I’m just trying not to die in a stone hole.”

A flicker of relief crosses his features, gone as quickly as it arrived. “Understood.”

I rub the bandage on my arm, anger still simmering. “And if I do something you don’t approve of, you’ll drag me back to the cage, right?”

He doesn’t deny it. “You’ll have guidelines. If you follow them, I have no reason to confine you again.”

I grunt. “You’re really offering me a deal. Obedience in exchange for a bigger cell.”

His voice hardens. “Or you can choose this cell. That’s your alternative.”

I open my mouth to protest, then shut it. He’s not lying. I truly don’t have another option except waiting for Thakur’s mercenaries or some Senate flunky to finish me off. A wave of frustration crashes over me.

“Fine,” I say at last, forcing the word out. “But I owe you nothing.”

A tension in his shoulders eases, but he doesn’t relax fully. “Then follow me.”

The door opens at his command, the guards stepping aside.

Saru beckons, and I walk out, refusing to show any hint of weakness despite my burn.

The corridor is dimly lit, the smell of damp stone intensifying with each step.

One guard leads, the other falls in behind.

Saru walks at my side, close enough that I can sense the warmth of his body.

We ascend a winding staircase that feels endless.

My legs burn from the climb, but I keep silent.

The flicker of torchlight reveals tapestries on the walls, each depicting scenes of minotaur victories—sea battles, duels in the arena, the goddess Zukiev blessing some ancient king.

I wonder if Saru’s face might one day appear on a tapestry for forging his own mark on minotaur history.