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At the top of the stairs, we reach an arched doorway. Saru pushes it open, revealing a short hallway with only two doors at opposite ends. He escorts me to the right one, then steps aside so I can see inside.

The chamber is modest but worlds better than my previous cell.

A single bed stands near a small window that catches a glimpse of the courtyard below.

There’s a wooden dresser and a table with two chairs.

A basin sits in one corner, presumably for washing.

No bars or heavy locks from what I can tell, but I assume the door locks from the outside.

The guard who led the way waits by the doorway, halberd in hand. Saru gestures for him to stay put. Then he turns to me. “This room is yours now.”

I arch a brow. “What’s the catch?”

“You’ll remain here. You can leave only under escort, for tasks I assign. You will not wander the Bastion freely.”

“I told you: a larger cage.”

His jaw tenses. “It’s protection as much as restriction. You’re hated by powerful people, Naeva.”

I cross my arms. “I can handle hate.”

He sighs. “They’ll do more than hate. They’ll kill you. I have to be certain you’re not exposed.”

I want to snap a sharp retort, but I can’t deny he has a point.

There are minotaurs out there who’d strike me down just to curry favor with Thakur.

That brand on my arm may stop them legally, but I doubt every guard will follow the letter of the law if they think they can get away with an ‘accident.’

“Fine,” I say. My voice scrapes with bitterness. “Welcome to my new prison.”

Saru nods at the guard, who steps back into the hall. He lingers a moment before following. For a heartbeat, I think he might leave me in solitude, but he closes the door and remains inside, crossing the threshold so it’s just the two of us.

My pulse spikes. The room feels smaller with him in it, his presence sucking the air out of the space. I back up until I’m near the bed, arms crossed defensively.

He studies me, those amber eyes flicking to my bandage. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the bed. “You’re still healing.”

I stay on my feet. “I’m not tired.”

He exhales, and for the first time, I sense a hint of weariness in him. “You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry. You burned your crest into me. You think I’ll just get over that?”

“I never said that.” He watches me carefully. “You can hate me as much as you like, as long as you don’t do anything reckless.”

I clench my jaw, words tangled. “Reckless? Like try to run?”

He sets his gaze on me. “Yes. Or provoke the Senate’s allies. I want you alive.”

“Why?” The question tears from me. “Do you see me as some tool to use against the Senate? Or do you have a guilty conscience because I saved your sister?”

His posture stiffens. “I don’t see you as a tool.”

“Then what am I?”

Silence. His horns reflect the faint lamplight, and in that moment, I sense the churn of conflict inside him. “You’re a person who deserves more than an execution for saving lives.”

I bark a harsh laugh. “What a heroic statement. I might swoon.” The bitterness coats each syllable. “Let me guess, you’ll pretend this brand was never about your own personal stake.”

He steps closer, fists tight at his sides. “You think I wanted this? Binding you to me in front of half the Bastion? That is no small matter for a minotaur. It changes everything for me, too.”

I tilt my chin up, ignoring the sudden leap in my pulse. “I never asked for your sacrifice.”

He snorts. “I didn’t do it for gratitude. I did it because letting you die would be wrong. And because the Senate’s corruption is deeper than you realize. If I can expose that, I will.”

The fervor in his voice surprises me. There’s genuine anger there, a frustration that mirrors mine. Could it be he’s truly at odds with the Senate, not just towing their line?

I shake my head, unwilling to let his motives sway me. “So I’m supposed to believe you’re my savior? You mention exposing corruption—what do I care, if I remain collared under your house name?”

He stares down at me, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I never asked you to see me as a savior. Just…do as I say, stay alive, and maybe something good will come of this.”

My chest heaves with resentment. “You speak as if I have a choice.”

A charged silence follows. Rain patters more insistently against the window. My burn throbs in time with my heartbeat. I notice the subtle scents on him: wet leather, faint traces of iron. He’s too close, too large, overshadowing my breath.

He breaks the silence first. “I’ll leave you to settle in. A guard will stand outside, day and night. If you need anything, speak through the door. If I summon you, you’ll come.”

The finality in his tone grates on my nerves. “You’re so sure I’ll obey?”

His gaze flickers, a flash of warning. “Don’t push.” He exhales as though calming himself. “Your arm—don’t remove the bandage for at least a day. Let the salve do its work.”

I swallow thickly. “Why the sudden concern?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes linger on the bandaged crest, and a hint of remorse crosses his features. “Because I know what it means to bear scars.” Then he turns abruptly, striding out before I can respond.

The door shuts behind him, and I stand there, pulses of anger and something else roiling in my chest. I drop onto the bed, wincing when my burn rubs against the coarse blanket. My entire body is taut with leftover tension, but my mind churns with scattered thoughts.

I’m out of the dungeon cell. That’s an improvement, though it feels hollow. Saru’s brand glows on my arm, a daily reminder that I’m at his mercy. The idea of relying on him churns my stomach. He claims it was my only chance, and he might be right—but that doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

I rub at my forehead, trying to collect myself.

The room is quiet aside from the steady drip of rain.

After a time, I get up and walk to the window.

The courtyard is visible below, dotted with minotaurs moving supplies through the drizzle.

A few glance up at my new vantage point.

Perhaps they’ve heard the gossip: the Warden claimed a human as his prospective mate.

A vile notion, even if it’s just for show.

The thought of being seen as some docile ornament under Saru’s household makes me want to scream.

Yet I still prefer this to the arena. At least while I’m breathing, I can watch for a chance to escape.

Or maybe find a way to burn the Senate from the inside, the way I burned that ship.

My brand stings as if to warn me away from such thoughts, but I cling to them.

A chunk of defiance is better than nothing.

Footsteps approach outside my door. I tense, half expecting Saru to return. Instead, I hear a guard muttering instructions to someone. Moments later, a soft knock. “I have fresh clothing for you.” The voice is female, sounding hesitant.

I hesitate, then open the door a crack. It’s a minotaur servant, short for her kind, wearing a plain shift. She offers a folded bundle of clothing made from rough, sturdy cloth—trousers, a tunic. She glances at my bandage but avoids eye contact. “Warden’s orders. You may need something warmer.”

I snatch it, mumbling a curt thanks. She bows her head and retreats, letting me shut the door again.

So Saru truly intends to let me live somewhat decently.

I hold the garments, fighting the unfamiliar swirl in my chest—anger and a reluctant, flickering gratitude, which I quickly crush.

I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me accept his gestures as kindness.

I toss the clothes on the dresser and slump onto the bed, exhaustion settling over me.

The events of the past days weigh on my mind: the arrival at the Bastion, the near throw into the arena, the sabotage revelations, the brand.

Each memory sets off a fresh surge of bitterness.

My life has been one chain after another, no matter where I go.

Eventually, hunger drives me to the door.

I ask the guard for food, and a short while later, a tray arrives with soup, bread, and water.

No one tries to interact beyond that. The guard watches me from the hallway, stone-faced.

I sense a swirl of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t speak.

Perhaps he wonders if I’ll attack him or attempt some dramatic escape.

The presence of a locked door and his halberd suggests I’d fail if I tried.

I eat in silence, my stomach roiling with each spoonful.

The brand stings occasionally, forcing a grimace.

My mind, however, remains locked on Saru—his unwavering calm, the frustration in his gaze, the subtle way he tries to keep me alive while respecting (or ignoring) my rage. I can’t make sense of it.

Darkness settles beyond the window, and the Bastion’s courtyard torches flare to life, painting flickering shadows on the walls.

I snuff the chamber’s lamp, letting darkness swallow the room.

Flat on the bed, I trace invisible cracks across the ceiling above.

My thoughts swirl to places I’d rather not tread: old memories of slave collars, fiery forges, and the stench of death on the burning ship.

It’s all too similar to a nightmare I can’t escape.

The brand throbs like a heartbeat in my arm, making sleep elusive.

At some point, I drift into a half-doze, only to be startled awake by a presence outside.

I hear quiet footfalls—a heavier tread. My pulse quickens, expecting Saru to appear again, but no one enters.

The steps fade, replaced by the steady hush of midnight corridors.