Page 14

SARU

I step into the administrative hall at dawn, braced for the wave of whispers that has rolled through the Bastion ever since I branded Naeva.

Conversations hush as I pass. Some of my officers glance sidelong, uncertain how to approach.

They all know the rumor: the Warden has taken a human bride.

I want to ignore that talk, but it crackles in the corridors, stirring apprehension and fueling speculation about my intentions.

Two guards fall in behind me, their hooves echoing on polished stone.

The sun’s first rays peek through narrow windows, illuminating dust motes in the air.

I march toward the main table, where Captain Davor and a few other senior officers gather with scrolls of daily tasks.

They look up when I arrive, tension etched on their faces.

Davor stands straighter. “Warden,” he greets, setting a ledger aside.

I scan the parchment-littered tabletop. “I want an update on the night watch. Any incidents?”

He clears his throat, his tail flicking once in a telltale sign of unease.

“A few scuffles in the lower cells—nothing major. But there’s talk in every wing about your.

..claim on the human. Some prisoners are stirring trouble, saying if you can brand a human, perhaps they can bargain for special treatment too. ”

I dig my fingertips into the wooden surface.

“They misunderstand. Naeva’s brand was a legal measure to avert her execution.

That doesn’t extend to anyone else.” I glance at the officers, each wearing a guarded expression.

“Spread the word: the Bastion’s discipline remains unchanged.

If they test me, they’ll find no leniency. ”

A couple of them nod. One ventures, “We understand, Warden, but the rumor runs deeper than normal chatter. They’re calling her your ‘human bride.’ They think you might elevate her above the rest.”

I inhale slowly, keeping my composure. “That rumor ends now. She’s a quartermaster under my orders, that’s all. The brand ensures her survival until the Senate decides otherwise.”

They exchange uncertain looks. Even Davor, loyal as he is, frowns. “So you want to give her an official position?”

“That’s what I said.” My voice is measured but firm. “We’re short-handed. Assign her as quartermaster. She’ll handle ration logs, supply distribution, and oversight. Her status will keep certain prisoners from challenging her too openly—assuming they value their lives.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Davor’s face. He nods, then scribbles on a parchment. “Yes, Warden. We’ll formalize that. Should I gather a few guards to escort her around the Bastion?”

“Yes. Two assigned to her at all times. Don’t leave her alone in the corridors.

” My tail swishes, betraying the tension that churns inside me.

I still feel that moment when I pressed iron to Naeva’s skin, the hiss of flesh searing under my crest. The guilt weighs heavily, yet I keep my features calm.

“I’ll inform her of these duties myself. ”

A subordinate rushes in, saluting with a fist to his chest. “Warden, trouble in the western courtyard. Prisoners refuse to move crates unless they receive some guarantee of better conditions.”

I grit my teeth. “I’ll deal with it.” Before I leave, I eye Davor. “Bring Naeva to me once you’ve prepared the official logs. I want her on the job by midday.”

Davor salutes again. “Yes, Warden.”

I stride out, a couple of guards close behind. The swirling gossip in the corridors feels tangible, like a stale air clinging to the walls. Every minotaur I pass flicks an ear or casts a sidelong glance, trying to catch any sign of hesitation from me. I give them nothing.

The western courtyard bustles with activity: crates and barrels waiting to be hauled.

A group of prisoners stands defiantly, arms folded, while a few guards pace in agitation.

The prisoners mutter about the brand, about favoritism.

When I arrive, they fall silent, but hostility crackles like a drawn bowstring.

One, a middle-aged minotaur with deep scars across his horns, steps forward. “Warden, we demand equal privileges. If a human can earn your crest, why not the rest of us?”

I plant my hooves and fix him with a stare. “You misunderstand. She’s under my crest to prevent an unjust execution, not to grant her special rank.”

A scoff ripples through the prisoners. Another speaks up, voice thick with scorn. “Could have fooled us. She walks around without chains while we sweat and labor. Didn’t she kill minotaur allies on that dark elf ship?”

I clench my jaw. The Senate’s propaganda has twisted her sabotage into an attack on minotaur trade routes. “The Bastion’s law stands. You follow your assigned tasks, or you face consequences.”

That stirs curses from the group. They start to spit arguments about hypocrisy, about me protecting a human. I meet each glare with unwavering calm. “You have an issue? Take it to the open forum next week. Until then, the Bastion’s work continues.”

None dare to directly defy me, but their grudges simmer. With a snarl, the lead prisoner stalks off to begin hauling crates, the others follow, muttering. I look to the guards. “Keep an eye on them. If they cause unrest, notify me immediately. No brutality unless necessary.”

A guard dips his head, stepping aside as I walk deeper into the courtyard.

My horns ache with the tension of holding the Bastion together under the weight of these rumors.

The brand was the only way to save Naeva’s life, but it’s become a wedge in the fortress’s fragile stability.

Still, I’d do it again if it means preserving her from Thakur’s blade.

I take a moment to scan the bustling yard: the scaffold where new shipments arrive, the archway leading to the southern wings.

This place has been my domain for years, a fortress of stone and iron that’s shaped me as much as I’ve shaped it.

Now, a single brand threatens to fracture the order I’ve fought to uphold.

Or perhaps it only reveals the cracks that were always there, fueled by Senate corruption.

A commotion draws me to an impromptu ration station.

A few minotaurs and humans wait in line for their midday meals.

They look uneasy, glancing every so often at the armed guards.

Word must have spread that the Warden is bestowing tasks on a branded human, fueling confusion over how the old rules apply.

I say nothing, just observe. Some flinch at my presence, others bare their teeth in half-hearted attempts at intimidation.

I keep my posture composed, reminding them I’m no stranger to conflict.

When the line clears, I catch sight of Davor entering the courtyard with Naeva in tow.

She’s wearing plain trousers and a slightly oversized tunic.

The bandage on her arm is smaller now, revealing a glimpse of the crest. My crest. The sight knots my gut.

She notices me across the yard, eyes narrowing.

There’s a flicker of challenge in her expression, as if bracing for another confrontation.

I stride over, ignoring the prying eyes around us.

The midday sun glares overhead, casting sharp shadows on the ground.

Davor salutes. “Warden, as you requested, I’ve outlined the tasks for her quartermaster role.

She’ll handle inventory logs, supervise distribution, and manage supply requests from the guard captains. ”

I nod. “Understood.” My gaze shifts to Naeva. “Follow me. We’ll talk in a quieter space.”

She tenses, but walks beside me, two guards trailing at a discreet distance. I lead her toward an alcove off the courtyard, a narrow space framed by tall columns. When I stop, she crosses her arms. “This better not be another brand session,” she says, voice bristling.

I hold my ground, keeping my tone calm. “No. It’s your job. This fortress needs a quartermaster who can read, write, and keep track of details. You proved you have those skills.”

She scowls. “I suppose I should thank you for the opportunity?”

“That’s not required.” My horns feel hot under the sun’s glare. “But if you sabotage the Bastion’s records, you only hurt yourself.”

She studies me, jaw clenched. The bandage on her forearm draws my eyes again, recalling the memory of her trembling when I pressed the iron to her skin.

I force the image away. “Davor has your schedule,” I continue.

“You’ll handle the main supply yard in the mornings, then move to smaller distributions in the afternoon.

Guards will be present. If anyone harasses you, report it. ”

She shifts her weight. “Right. Because I’m your brand, so that makes me your responsibility.” Her tone is scathing, but there’s a note of resignation beneath it.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “I didn’t do that brand for sport. I did it to keep you alive. If you despise me for it, fine. But we have a problem here. The Bastion is on edge. We need stability. Your role helps that.”

Her expression tightens. “Your precious order. And if I don’t comply?”

I exhale. “Then you go back to the cell. Thakur eventually finds a way to push for your execution. I’m trying to give you a path that doesn’t lead to your death.”

She stares, eyes dark and conflicted. I sense her rummaging for a cutting reply, but something stills her tongue. Finally, she jerks her chin in grudging acceptance. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

I step back, gesturing toward the courtyard. “Then get started. The quartermaster station is next to the ration tables. Captain Davor can show you where the logs are kept.”