Page 15

She gives a curt nod and heads off, her posture tense.

My gaze lingers on the scars beneath that bandage.

I recall how I noticed similar burn marks on her shoulders.

She must have endured intense heat in some forge or chaotic environment.

A primal urge to ask about them gnaws at me, but I hold my silence.

We’re not at a place where such questions would be welcomed.

When she disappears into the flow of workers, I stand a moment longer, ignoring the curious stares of a few minotaurs.

They watch me as if expecting me to crush her spirit any second or hoist her up as some revered figure.

I do neither. Instead, I walk away, heading to the northern section where the guard headquarters is located.

I must keep the Bastion’s daily operations running smoothly, even with half the fortress gossiping about the brand.

By midday, I’ve dealt with two more minor disputes.

Some orcs who arrived last week refuse to share space with human inmates, claiming old grudges.

One confrontation ended in shouts but no blood spilled.

My staff is exhausted, half expecting an outbreak of major violence.

I issue orders for additional guards to patrol the corridors connecting the main yard to the living blocks.

The Bastion thrums with tension, but so far, it’s not boiling over.

I return to the courtyard. The sun hovers overhead, and my shadow stretches across the paving stones.

I spot Naeva bent over a table, updating a ledger while Davor points to a stack of crates.

She scribbles, tucks a quill behind one ear, and marches over to direct a pair of minotaur inmates who shuffle uncertainly under her watch.

A bruise along her jaw—likely from earlier scuffles—stands out against her tanned skin, but she doesn’t seem bothered.

She moves like someone determined to see the job done, ignoring side glances or muttered insults.

I drift closer, arms folded. Davor spots me and nods, stepping aside so I can observe.

Naeva addresses the inmates, calm but firm, telling them which crates need to go to the southern wing.

They balk at her instructions, but she stands her ground, chin raised.

She’s half their size, yet she radiates a defiance that hushes their complaints.

Eventually, they mutter curses and haul the crates away.

When she turns, she catches sight of me and narrows her eyes. “Here to supervise me, Warden?”

I resist the urge to bristle. “Observing the quartermaster at work. I see you’ve adapted quickly.”

She lays down her quill, rubbing her sore wrist. “I’ve managed a forge before, sorted cargo. This is similar.” She glances around, noticing the restless crowd. “The real problem is no one trusts me.”

I incline my head. “They trust you enough to follow orders.” Or at least, they comply out of fear of crossing me. But I don’t say that out loud.

She doesn’t smile. “They’d rather spit in my face, but you’re looming behind them. That’s all.” She shrugs, then lifts a ledger, scanning the pages. “I found two crates unaccounted for. Might be a scheduling oversight.”

My gut tightens. If crates are missing from the official log, we could have contraband slipping in. Or perhaps it’s just a lazy record keeper. “Which crates?”

She taps the entry, handing me the ledger.

Our fingers brush, and an odd spark jolts through me.

Her eyes flick up, showing surprise, but we both ignore it.

I read the note—two crates labeled “grain reserves” unlisted in the Bastion’s main inventory.

A small discrepancy, yet it could be significant.

I pass the ledger back. “Good catch. Investigate. Report to me personally if you suspect anything illegal.”

She sets her hand on her hip. “I will.” Something in her voice suggests she takes a small pride in uncovering mistakes. Her gaze lingers on me, as though she has more to say, but she pulls back. “Davor, let’s check the supply yard again.”

He nods, and they head off, leaving me standing in the courtyard, strangely unsettled by that fleeting spark of contact when she handed me the ledger. I shake off the sensation. We have bigger concerns than a stray jolt of awareness.

The day presses on, duties piling up. I handle a dispute between two guard captains, each claiming the other withheld supplies. By the time I circle back to the yard, the sun is dipping toward the horizon. The sky burns orange, and torchlight flickers from sconces on the Bastion walls.

Naeva leans against a table, scrawling final notations into the quartermaster ledger.

Sweat gleams on her brow, her sleeves rolled up to reveal the bold lines of my crest on her forearm.

The brand is healing, though the skin around it remains red.

She moves gingerly, occasionally wincing if her arm brushes something.

I approach, placing my hands behind my back. The yard is calmer now—most prisoners have returned to their blocks, guards patrolling in small clusters. “You’ve been at this all afternoon,” I say quietly.

She looks up from the parchment. “Had to reorganize half the supply logs. Some were a disaster.” She sets down her quill. “Done now.”

I glance over the piles of notes. “Efficient.”

She lifts a shoulder. “I prefer the word thorough.” Then her lips tighten, expression dimming as if remembering she’s still a captive. “Anything else you need from me, Warden?”

I hesitate, noticing a sliver of weariness in her eyes. “Have you eaten?”

She snorts. “Had a bite earlier. Don’t worry, I won’t starve on your watch.” She shuffles the parchments together. “I guess I should bring these to your office?”

I take them from her grasp, ignoring the prickle of awareness when our fingers collide again. “I can read them later. For now, rest. But remain in your quarters once the evening bells sound.”

She nods. “Don’t worry, I won’t wander. You have guards posted outside my door anyway.”

“That’s to protect you,” I say, sharper than intended. She arches a brow but stays silent. I sigh, controlling my temper. “I’ve heard rumors that certain inmates resent you enough to plan violence. The presence of guards deters them. That’s all.”

She exhales, gaze flicking away. “Fine. Let’s not argue about it.”

I notice a new bruise peeking above her collar—probably from a scuffle we never saw. My insides twist. “If someone attacked you, you can tell me.”

She brushes it off, setting a hand over the mark. “Minor scrap. I won.” Her voice is tight. “I’m used to fending for myself.”

A complicated ache stirs in my chest, but I keep my tone steady. “You don’t have to fight alone. Not here.”

She gives me a look that blends sarcasm with something softer. “Easy to say when you’re the Warden with half the fortress at your beck and call.”

I swallow a retort, stepping back. My body pulses with conflicting urges—duty, guilt, and a strange protective impulse I can’t quite name. “Return to your quarters. I’ll review these logs.” I gesture with the stack of papers.

She nods once, posture stiff. “Lead the way.”

We leave the yard, walking side by side through corridors lit by flickering torches. The air is thick, scented with hot stone and old iron. Guards step aside as we pass, eyes darting curiously. The two assigned to her follow at a respectful distance, vigilance plain on their faces.

When we reach the hallway leading to her room, I stop outside her door. The torches cast dancing shadows on the walls. “Here,” I say. “Stay inside after the bell. The Bastion can be unpredictable at night.”

She unlocks the door with a key the guard hands over. “I know. Thanks for the reminder.” Her tone is neither grateful nor mocking. It’s something in between, a reluctant acceptance of her reality.

Before she disappears into the room, I speak more softly. “You did well today.”

She grips the doorway, tension flickering in her knuckles. “If you’re expecting me to bow in gratitude, you’ll be disappointed.”

“I expect you to survive,” I reply, voice a notch above a whisper. “That’s all.”

Her eyes flick to mine, a sudden hush stretching between us. I catch the faint trace of her breathing, the flush along her neck, the mark on her arm that ties our fates in a way neither of us chose. A heat coils in my stomach, potent and confusing. I push it down.

She steps inside, closing the door with a firm click.

I linger in the corridor for a long moment, ignoring the curious guard who stands watch.

My heart beats faster than it should. The exhaustion of the day weighs on me, but some part remains electrified by our exchange.

There’s friction in every look she gives me, a spark that sears more than any brand.

I turn abruptly and make my way to my office, the stack of supply logs under my arm.

I can’t let personal entanglements cloud my role as Warden.

Yet I can’t deny the primal protectiveness that flares whenever I see her threatened, or the jolt of awareness every time we’re close.

Perhaps it’s guilt, or maybe something deeper that I’m not ready to name.

In the quiet of my office, I settle at the desk, the lone lamp casting warm light on the parchment.

A swirl of thoughts tumbles through my mind as I scan Naeva’s notes.

Her handwriting is steady and precise, listing missing crates, daily rations, and distribution times.

She’s done more in one day than many quartermasters accomplish in a week.

The Bastion needs that diligence right now.

I brush a hand across the brand etched into my own shoulder decades ago, the emblem of House Rhek’tal.

It’s different from the fresh one I pressed onto her.

Mine is old, a mark of heritage. Hers is an unasked-for chain.

I wonder how she copes with that forced bond each time she sees it. She must resent me more than she shows.