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I curl tighter under the blanket, my body craving rest even as my mind refuses to relent.

The Bastion feels alive around me, stone walls humming with echoes of the day’s drama.

I wonder how many minotaurs are still gossiping about this bond forced upon me.

Half of me wants to burn the brand off with the same fire I used on the dark elf ship.

The other half acknowledges that if I do, my only shield against Thakur vanishes.

Saru might be my captor, but he’s also the barrier between me and an execution. That fact sticks in my throat like a bitter shard of metal. I hate him for having the power to do that to me, but I also can’t deny that I’m alive because of him.

At last, I slide into a restless slumber, nightmares of blazing ships and echoing screams tangling with flashes of amber eyes and the hiss of a hot iron pressed to my flesh. My mind wrestles with the brand, the harness of House Rhek’tal, and I wake multiple times, sweat chilling my skin.

Eventually, dawn arrives in a slow creep of gray light.

The guard outside shifts at some point, replaced by another.

I hear them exchanging quiet words about their watch.

My arm aches fiercely, the bandage stiff with dried salve.

I rise, rummaging in the basin for water, splashing my face.

The new clothes hang on the dresser, a reminder that I’m expected to wear them.

I peel off the ragged tunic from the dungeon, wincing at how the cloth rubs my burned skin. Then I dress in the fresh garments. They’re slightly loose but comfortable enough, the fabric plain yet sturdier than the threadbare shirt I had. A shift in the corridor draws my attention.

Moments later, there’s a knock. “Naeva,” a guard calls through the door, voice cautious. “The Warden requests your presence in the yard.”

I clench my jaw at that. Requests. As if I have the luxury of refusing.

Grabbing a moment to calm myself, I open the door and confront the minotaur guard. He glances at my bandage. “Need a moment to fix that?”

I shake my head. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He leads me through corridors that I’m starting to recognize—the ones near Saru’s private domain, then a flight of stairs descending to a side entrance of the Bastion yard. Outside, the sky is overcast, though the rain has calmed. A cool wind ruffles the damp stone, carrying a hint of sea salt.

In the yard, several minotaurs train with spears, their heavy steps pounding the ground in rhythmic unison.

Others clean up the leftover rain puddles.

Saru stands near a low platform, reviewing some sort of ledger with Captain Davor.

His horns gleam under the cloudy light, and the partial armor makes him appear every bit the warrior-warden he is rumored to be.

He looks up when I approach, eyes sweeping over me in that careful, assessing way. His gaze lingers on my new clothes, then on the bandage. “You’re healing?”

I cross my arms. “As well as a forced brand allows.”

Davor gives me a disapproving frown, but Saru just nods. “The day’s schedule has changed. The Senate demands proof that I’m not coddling you. So I’ll have you assist in reviewing the outer perimeter. We have a caravan arriving soon with more prisoners. I want you to help inventory their supplies.”

A bark of surprised laughter escapes me. “Supplies for new prisoners? That’s your idea of keeping me busy?”

He shuts the ledger. “Would you rather stay in your room?”

I glare. “Doesn’t seem like I have a choice either way.”

He jerks his head at Davor. “You’ll work under the captain’s supervision. Once the caravan is processed, you return to your quarters.”

“Chained, I suppose?”

“No chains unless you provoke trouble,” Saru says calmly, though his stare carries warning. “Think of it as a test of trust.”

I clench my teeth, a thousand retorts bubbling up. But I swallow them, wanting to see how far he’ll allow me to move without shackles. “Fine,” I say, voice taut. “But don’t expect me to wag my tail and obey every barked order.”

Captain Davor exhales, glancing between us. “Warden, are you sure?—”

“It’s decided,” Saru interrupts. He shifts his gaze to me. “If you cause an incident, I’ll lock you up. Understood?”

My mouth twitches with a sneer. “Crystal.”

We stand a moment, tension sizzling. Despite my fury, I sense a flicker of something else. There’s a strange current whenever we face each other, an undercurrent of static that makes my veins hum. I dismiss it as frustration. I can’t let him see any vulnerability.

Davor places a hand on my shoulder, not roughly but firm. “Follow me.”

I pull away from his touch and trail him across the yard, leaving Saru behind.

I can practically feel the Warden’s gaze boring into my back.

Each step reminds me that my body is still sore, especially the raw brand.

The memory of how his huge hand held the brand to my skin sparks an angry flush across my face.

We exit through a small gate into a side courtyard. There, I see a line of wagons, each with a pair of minotaur guards checking inside. Davor leads me to a table set up with parchment and quills, presumably for inventory. A few prisoners in chains wait nearby, heads bowed.

He hands me a quill. “You can write, yes?”

I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”

With that, I set to work, verifying crates, noting down contents, cross-referencing arrivals.

It’s menial, but it’s more interesting than rotting in a cell.

My mind remains alert for opportunities, but the guards are too numerous for a quick escape.

The Bastion’s outer gates are well fortified, and I see at least a dozen minotaur soldiers patrolling the perimeter.

Time drags as Davor barks instructions. I record the names of new inmates, a mixture of humans and one orc, all battered and resigned.

Their wretched expressions remind me of my own arrival not long ago.

If anything, my predicament is now worse—branded with a crest I never asked for, forced into a strange status that’s neither prisoner nor free.

Eventually, the last wagon is processed, and Davor signals me to follow him back inside.

My arm aches from the repetitive writing, and my burn throbs.

The guard leads me down a corridor, through a winding staircase, and into a part of the Bastion I don’t recognize.

Finally, we arrive at a small alcove near a broad courtyard door.

A stone bench sits against the wall, lit by torches.

Davor points. “Sit. The Warden will speak with you again soon.”

Exhaustion tugs at me, so I slump onto the bench, hugging my bandaged arm.

Davor hovers a short distance away, exchanging words with another guard.

Minutes pass in uneasy quiet. My thoughts drift to Saru again, how he watched me in the yard.

The weight of his attention pressed on me like a physical force.

I half expect him to appear, but he doesn’t. Time stretches. My eyes grow heavy, lulled by the warmth of the torches. Before I realize it, I drift into a light doze, mind swirling with half-formed images. The brand, the ship’s inferno, Saru’s quiet voice.

“Get up,” someone rumbles.

I snap awake, blinking. The Warden stands over me, expression unreadable. I surge upright, scowling to mask my embarrassment.

He nods to Davor, who steps aside. “Come with me,” Saru says, voice low. No explanation.

I follow him through a winding corridor that leads to the base of a stairwell.

The presence of two armed guards behind us quashes any idea of flight.

We climb until we reach a heavy wooden door.

Saru opens it, revealing a simple chamber: a modest table, a single shuttered window, and shelves lined with dusty tomes.

He gestures me inside, then closes the door behind us. The guards remain in the corridor, presumably. My heartbeat quickens at being alone with him in such a confined space. The tension from earlier flares again.

He regards me for a moment. “You did the inventory without incident.”

I cross my arms. “Surprised?”

A faint twitch of his lips, almost a smile but not quite. “Pleased. I told you we can do this without locks and chains—if you behave.”

A flare of anger dances up my spine. “I’m not a rabid animal. I can be civil if your minotaurs don’t push me.”

His eyes flick to my bandage again, then back to my face. “Still hurt?”

I huff. “Of course. But I’ll live.”

He stands near the table, arms folded, and something shifts in his expression. “Look, I’m trying to find a path for you that isn’t a death sentence. I know you hate this brand. But I won’t apologize for keeping you alive.”

My nails bite into my palms. “I didn’t ask for your pity.”

He exhales through flared nostrils. “It’s not pity.”

We stare each other down, a silent clash of wills.

The air in the chamber crackles, though neither of us moves.

My pulse thrums, and a subtle heat winds through my gut.

I despise the brand and everything it stands for.

Yet some small part of me acknowledges that he’s not reveling in my suffering.

If anything, he looks just as frustrated.

At length, he breaks the quiet. “You said you owe me nothing. Fine. But for your own sake, follow the rules so the Senate doesn’t have an excuse to override the brand.”

I set my jaw. “I’m not an idiot. I know Thakur wants me dead.”

He nods, face darkening. “He does. Let me handle Thakur. You just stay alive.”

A swirl of bitter laughter rises in me. “That’s all it takes? Stay alive, do your chores, be your docile prisoner?”

His voice drops an octave. “You think I want docile from you? I’ve seen your spark. That’s exactly why I….” He hesitates, eyes shifting away. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t demand you kneel or bow.”

A strange pang settles in my chest at the raw edge in his tone. I can’t decipher it, but I sense the weight behind his words. “Then what do you want, Saru?”

He presses his lips together, as if uncertain how to answer. Then he puts a hand on the table, knuckles whitening. “I want you to realize that your life has value. That if I have to protect it through a brand, so be it.”

I reel at the confession hiding in that statement, but my pride rises up. “You’re the one who acts like you hold all the cards. My life may have value, but it’s locked in your fortress.”

He looks at me then, eyes full of some unspoken conflict. “And I’ll unlock it, if I can. But not at the cost of you dying.”

That final statement rushes over me with unexpected force, stealing the breath from my chest. A tangled mixture of gratitude and fury floods my veins.

I want to lash out, to remind him he forced me to bear his crest. Yet an odd warmth glows deep in my gut, a reluctant awareness that he’s fighting battles on my behalf.

Lightning flashes outside the shuttered window, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. He breaks the moment first, stepping back and running a hand over one horn. “You can return to your quarters for now. A guard will accompany you. Rest. Let your burn heal.”

I bristle at the command, but my voice emerges subdued. “Fine.”

He doesn’t respond further, only opens the door. The two guards outside snap to attention. I slip past him, refusing to meet his eyes again. But the electricity lingering in the space clings to my skin like the aftermath of a storm.

The entire walk back to my new room, my mind churns with his words.

A part of me despises how easily he makes me waver, how his calm gaze stirs confusion in my head.

I vow not to let it weaken me. I still owe him nothing.

I still resent every thread of captivity.

Yet somewhere beneath the anger, a small flicker of grudging respect flickers, no matter how hard I try to snuff it out.

Back in my room, I bolt the door behind me and press my forehead to the wood, inhaling shaky breaths.

The brand twinges under its bandage, a physical reminder of the harsh truth: we’re bound in a forced alliance.

Sparks fly whenever we clash, the tension scorching my insides.

I hate it. I also can’t seem to turn away from it.

For now, I’ll rest. I’ll gather my strength. Tomorrow might bring a new confrontation, or fresh orders from the Senate, or some cunning move by Thakur. But for tonight, I’ll lie here in the quiet, refusing to bend. If Saru can keep me alive until I find a real chance at freedom, so be it.

Thunder rumbles again, a low drum that resonates through the fortress.

My gaze drifts upward, the ceiling a blank canvas while thunder rattles the windows in sync with the unrest in my chest. One thing is certain: my life in the Bastion has taken a new shape, chained to a brand I despise—and tethered to a Warden who sees me as something more than just a casualty.

I vow not to yield, no matter how many times he says he wants to protect me.

If I must live with his crest, I’ll do so on my terms, fighting for every scrap of autonomy.

And if sparks continue to fly between us, I’ll wield them as a weapon, forging my path through fire and defiance.

The brand may mark my flesh, but my spirit remains my own.