Page 17

NAEVA

I rise before dawn, the torchlight in my chamber still flickering against stone walls as I splash cold water onto my face.

My new quarters are a far cry from the cell they dragged me into weeks ago—there’s a small bed, a battered table with a half-empty jug of water, and a narrow window that admits the first pink threads of morning.

It’s enough to keep me from feeling caged, even if I remain under lock and key after nightfall.

My arm aches. The brand Saru left on me is healing, but every time I catch sight of the swirling crest, my stomach clenches.

I haven’t forgiven him. But life has forced me to accept that living under his roof—under that scorching emblem—beats dying in the arena.

That’s how I start each day: stifling the urge to curse him and reminding myself that survival matters more than pride.

I dress in serviceable clothes: a simple tunic over sturdy pants.

The linen is coarse, but at least it’s clean.

Today’s schedule is printed on a parchment that Captain Davor slipped under my door: quartermaster duties in the supply yard, inventory tasks in two separate wings, and a final review of the newly arrived crates.

Since my assignment began, I’ve been up to my neck in Bastion logistics.

Odd how quickly a person can adapt—just a moon ago, I half-expected to die in the arena, and now I’m balancing ledgers and mediating squabbles.

A low knock signals the guard assigned to me this morning. I open the door, and a tall minotaur stands there, spear in hand, expression neutral. “Ready?” he asks.

I nod, stepping out into the corridor. He falls into place, trailing me down the winding staircase that leads to the main yard.

The fortress is already stirring; a cluster of minotaurs hustle past with rolled parchments, and the distant clang of a blacksmith resonates from the eastern tower.

I smell hot metal and old stone, a combination that reminds me of dark elf forges.

Yet here, there’s a strange order—like gears meshing in a well-tuned contraption.

I can’t decide if that order comforts me or makes my skin crawl.

Reaching the courtyard, I confirm the day’s tasks with Captain Davor, who awaits by a large wooden table set up near the supply yard.

He’s methodical, listing the shipments that need my attention, the guards assigned to help me.

While he talks, I notice Saru observing from a short distance.

Even when silent, the Warden commands attention: tall, broad-shouldered, horns that curve with imposing grace.

It’s impossible not to feel his presence—a heavy weight in the air that pinches my breath.

He studies me for a moment. Our eyes lock, and I swear some electric current flickers between us. Neither of us speaks. Eventually, he turns away to speak with an officer. I exhale, chest burning. Heat lashes across the mark on my skin, a cruel reminder of who owns my fate.

When Davor finishes explaining the tasks, I gather a quill, ink pot, and ledger.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s check the morning distribution.

” My guard—today named Krav—follows me to the row of stacked crates.

A group of prisoners stands there, two humans and three minotaurs, each wearing chain manacles.

They’re assigned to heavy lifting, and I see wariness in their eyes when they notice me.

I straighten my spine. “We need to move these crates to the southern wing,” I say, voice calm. “The logs show a shortfall in rations there. You, you, and you—grab that cluster. The rest, handle the smaller barrels.”

One of the minotaurs scowls. “I don’t take orders from a human.”

I glance at Krav, who steps forward, expression grim. But I hold up a hand. “It’s not about me. This is the job. The faster we move these crates, the sooner you return to your block and can rest.”

He snorts, but his posture relaxes. Begrudgingly, he and the others heft the boxes. The humans glance at me, uncertain. I nod in acknowledgment, trying to convey that I won’t be an unreasonable taskmaster. They shuffle off, muttering under their breath, but they comply. A small victory.

Once they’re gone, I check the ledger, verifying each crate’s label. Krav stands nearby, quietly observing. “You handle them well,” he remarks.

I shrug. “They don’t want me here. But I’m not here to punish them. Just do the job.”

He nods. “Better that than a riot.”

I can’t argue with that. The Bastion’s tension is thick enough to taste. Word travels fast in these halls: a human wearing the Warden’s crest is telling them what to do. Some resent me, others are curious. I just want to stay alive and keep the fortress from swallowing me whole.

With the morning distribution underway, I head to the supply yard’s interior, a wide enclosure lined with torches, even in daylight.

The Bastion’s architecture is imposing—great pillars of pale stone, archways that tower overhead.

Workers flow through, hauling sacks of grain or rolling barrels of salted fish.

The smell of brine churns my stomach, but I keep calm, grabbing a sheaf of notes. Another day, another inventory.

I spot a commotion near a cluster of stacked barrels.

A pair of minotaurs, each bristling with hostility, are locked in a heated argument.

One shouts about a missing ration, the other accuses him of theft.

Two guards hover, uncertain whether to intervene.

I sigh, stepping closer. If a fight breaks out, the entire yard might descend into chaos.

“Hold on,” I call, raising my voice just enough to draw attention. My guard accompanies me, eyes shifting warily. “What’s the problem?”

A dark-furred minotaur with a broken horn scowls. “My ration was short. He claims I signed for it. I say I never saw it.”

His opponent, a gray-furred minotaur with a savage scar across his muzzle—huffs. “We have records. Your name is on the distribution list.”

The broken-horn jabs a finger. “I can’t read. My brand might be there, but I didn’t get that ration.”

This is exactly the type of dispute that could blow up if not handled carefully. I eye the guards, but they wait for me to speak. It occurs to me that my role as quartermaster extends beyond just counting crates—I’m also the face of the Bastion’s order. Strange.

“All right,” I say, keeping my voice even. “We have a ledger for that. Let’s confirm who collected what.”

The broken-horn glowers. “Easy for you to say. You expect me to trust some numbers on a page I can’t read?”

I set my jaw. “The Bastion’s logs aren’t perfect, but it’s what we rely on. If your brand was used to sign, I need to see it.”

He bares his teeth. “Don’t toy with me.”

My guard shifts behind me, tension radiating from him. I step around a barrel, lifting the ledger Davor gave me for the day’s ration distribution. Flipping through, I find the block of entries for these two minotaurs. “Name?”

The broken-horn crosses his arms. “Haktor.”

I scan the pages. “Here—there’s a mark for Haktor, but no second sign for the same ration. Could it be someone forged your brand?”

Gray-muzzle growls. “He’s lying. Trying to get extra rations.”

Haktor clenches a fist, steps forward. “Keep your mouth shut. I don’t lie about my food. I work for every scrap in this fortress.”

A crowd gathers, drawn by raised voices. No one wants to intervene yet, possibly hoping I’ll fail. My chest tightens. I can’t let them see me hesitate, or the situation might erupt.

I exhale. “Haktor, if you swear you never signed, we’ll check the supply. I won’t punish you for an unclaimed ration. Let’s confirm if the number of rations matches what’s left.”

Gray-muzzle’s eyes flash. “What if he’s faking ignorance? The logs say brand used. That’s official.”

I force a small, tight smile. “Official can still be tampered with. Let me do my job, or we’ll let the Warden handle it.”

That mention of Saru quiets them. Even if they scoff at me, they won’t risk the Warden’s wrath.

With a curt nod, I signal them to follow me to the ration stack.

We walk in tense silence, the ring of onlookers trailing behind.

My guard keeps close, hand resting on the hilt of his weapon in case fists fly.

Reaching the ration stacks, I scan crates, cross-referencing with the ledger.

Then I physically count each sealed package.

The crowd shifts, muttering. My heart thumps faster with each tally.

This must appear petty to them, but it’s exactly these small issues that spark bigger fights.

If I can settle this fairly, maybe it’ll ease some friction.

When I finish, my brow furrows. “We have one extra ration in the list that isn’t here physically. The total is off by one, meaning someone signed for a nonexistent ration.”

Gray-muzzle’s face contorts. “What are you implying?”

I tilt the ledger, showing him the precise tally. “It means your records claim one more ration was given out than actually exists. Haktor’s brand is on that line, but no physical ration was accounted for. Either someone forged it, or the ledger keeper made an error.”

Haktor looks ready to snap at Gray-muzzle, but I hold up a hand. “Calm. We need the ledger keeper to verify the signature. That’s the only way to figure out if Haktor was cheated or if someone scammed the system.”

The onlookers murmur. A few nod grudgingly, acknowledging a method to the madness. I glance at Krav, who steps forward. “I’ll fetch the ledger keeper,” he offers.

“Wait,” Haktor says. “If you realize my brand was misused, do I get my ration or not?”

I tap the crate. “We can’t conjure an extra one from thin air. But I’ll mark your name for a replacement from the next shipment. That’s the best I can do right now.”

Gray-muzzle seethes. “And who takes the blame for forging brand usage?”

My tone hardens. “Whoever did it will face minotaur punishment. You know what that means.”