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Sighing, I sift through the logs, focusing on the missing crates.

Two labeled as grain reserves never appeared in the official records.

That might be an oversight, or it might point to contraband.

If it’s contraband, the Senate could use it to further undermine me.

Or worse, some unscrupulous faction inside the Bastion might be running a covert operation.

Time slides by, measured by the guttering lamp flame. I piece together each detail. No firm conclusion emerges. I’ll have to ask more questions tomorrow, check storerooms personally. My eyes burn from reading. Leaning back, I roll my shoulders, letting the day’s tension weigh them down.

A faint knock on the door drags me from my thoughts. Davor steps inside, face drawn. “Warden, sorry for disturbing you.”

I wave a hand. “Speak.”

He sets a small parchment on my desk. “Another report. Guards found a prisoner beaten in the laundry wing. He’s alive, but badly hurt. He claimed it was retaliation for speaking out about the brand.”

My lips press into a hard line. “Which prisoner?”

Davor sighs. “A minotaur named Revat. He was complaining that you favor a human over your own kind. The rumor is he insulted you, and someone decided to silence him in your name.”

Cold fury stirs in my stomach. “In my name? I never ordered such a thing.”

“I know, but the rumor remains. He’s unconscious, can’t identify his attackers. Some inmates are calling it your brand of vengeance.” Davor grimaces, tail lashing. “This is getting out of hand.”

I surge to my feet. “Lock down that area. Question everyone. This fortress runs by law, not covert beatings. Whoever thinks they’re doing me a favor is wrong.”

“Yes, Warden.” He hurries out, leaving me alone again.

I stand there, fists clenched. The brand was meant to save a life, not spark vigilante brutality.

Now some fanatic might be punishing those who speak ill of me or Naeva.

My temples pound with the realization that controlling the Bastion is like gripping water—no matter how tight I hold, some always slips through.

Snuffing out the lamp, I leave my office and patrol the corridors, checking a few late-night guard stations.

The silence of the Bastion after dark is heavy, the torches casting shadows that seem to flicker with suspicion.

Each cell block I pass, I sense the tension, the unrest that hums just below the surface.

At last, I retreat to my quarters, shoulders aching. I shed my chest armor and sink onto the edge of my bed, horns practically throbbing with the day’s stress. Outside my door, I hear the steady shuffle of guards changing shifts. I close my eyes, breath ragged.

Images swirl: Naeva’s furious glare, that ephemeral spark when our hands brushed, the bruises on her skin, the fresh brand.

My duty is to keep her alive, preserve order, and undermine the Senate’s corrupt aims. Yet the Bastion’s balance feels more precarious than ever, teetering under rumors and resentments.

And beneath it all, a part of me is drawn to her fire—an ember that defies every rule.

I grit my teeth, forcing such thoughts away.

She’s a prisoner under my protection, not a partner.

My chest constricts at the memory of her defiance.

The day ended without a major riot, but tomorrow will bring fresh challenges.

The missing crates, the anger in the cell blocks, Thakur’s quiet machinations—none of it rests.

Pulling a thin blanket over me, I dim the lantern.

Darkness closes in, except for a faint glow from the corridor.

The Bastion’s stones seem to breathe around me, steeped in centuries of conflict.

Perhaps the fortress itself senses the brewing storm.

I recall how Naeva looked at me when we parted—wary, resentful, yet not entirely dismissive.

It’s a small thread of uneasy connection. For now, that must be enough.

I lie back, exhaustion tugging at my limbs.

My mind churns with images: the battered inmate in the laundry wing, the malicious rumors, the two unlogged crates, and Naeva’s bright, challenging gaze.

The mark etched into her skin binds us in ways I never foresaw.

As sleep drags me under, one truth cuts through the haze: I can’t let the Bastion consume her, but I also can’t let her unravel the order I’ve fought to maintain.

Keeping both intact may very well break me.

Tomorrow, I will continue this precarious dance, stepping between the Bastion’s demands and my own convictions—protecting a human who wants nothing from me but survival, while ensuring the fortress remains intact.

The tension is potent, a live wire crackling beneath every step.

And in the midst of it all, I feel a tug—an unspoken connection—that beckons me closer to the flames even as I command myself to keep my distance.

Sleep creeps over me at last, though my dreams spark with images of swirling shadows and the echo of Naeva’s defiant voice.

The Bastion stands tall in my mind’s eye, its walls blazing under an unforgiving sun, while the brand I placed on her arm glows like a beacon in the night—a vow I can’t ignore, yet hardly understand.