Page 18

A hush falls. Everyone in the Bastion knows that forging official records leads to harsh consequences—if not a sentence in the arena, then forced labor or worse.

For a moment, the tension sizzles, but it’s no longer directed at me.

They see I’m willing to handle the problem fairly, not just point fingers or shrug it off.

Haktor’s shoulders drop an inch. “All right,” he says, voice grudging. “I’ll wait.”

Gray-muzzle scowls but nods, seemingly mollified that we’re investigating.

Krav strides off to find the ledger keeper, leaving me with a crowd of watchers.

A faint sense of triumph flickers in my gut: I diffused a potential brawl with logic, not brute force.

That might be how Saru would handle it too, but I’d rather do it without threats.

“Get back to your tasks,” I say. “I’ll send word when the ledger keeper arrives.”

They disperse, whispering among themselves.

Some side-eye me warily, but there’s less hostility in the air.

I rub the back of my neck, tension draining as the group thins out.

A flicker of heat stirs beneath the sigil etched into my skin—a quiet whisper that freedom remains a fantasy.

Still... there’s strange comfort in settling a fight without blood.

In dark elf lands, this would've ended in blades or spellfire. Here, words are currency.

I return to the main yard, continuing my rounds.

Next up: inventorying newly arrived crates from a distant port.

The boxes smell of salted fish, strong enough to make my nostrils burn.

I note each label: “Dried cod,” “spiced eel,” “barley flour.” A gloved guard helps me pry open the lids to verify the contents.

He coughs at the pungent odor, but I just keep scribbling. This is my job, after all.

As midday sun beams over the fortress, I pause to accept a tin bowl of stew from a ration station.

My appetite is lackluster, but I force down a few mouthfuls.

I’ll need energy for the afternoon tasks: finishing the supply count, then meeting with a guard who claims to have new crates missing from the logs. Another headache.

While I eat, I sense a shift in the courtyard’s atmosphere.

People give me a wider berth, not out of fear but cautious respect.

A couple of times, inmates or lower-ranked minotaurs nod in recognition rather than spitting at my feet.

It’s not acceptance, not yet. But it’s less pure hostility.

Perhaps they see I’m not just Saru’s brand, nor do I crave bending them to my will.

I’m trying to keep the wheels of this fortress from grinding them into dust.

After lunch, I cross paths with Saru again—he stands at the far end of the yard, speaking with a cluster of guards.

My gaze drifts to him without meaning to.

He’s so distinctly minotaur: towering frame, horns with silver-etched tips, dark fur over rippling muscle.

Yet it’s not just his appearance that draws attention—there’s a quiet authority about him.

He doesn’t shout, doesn’t posture. He just occupies space like a mountain.

He looks my way, and that spark flares again.

I freeze, heart thudding. We’re separated by a throng of workers, but it feels as if no one else exists for a split second.

Then a prisoner carrying a heavy crate stumbles between us, and the moment snaps.

I focus on my ledger, pretending I wasn’t staring.

When the afternoon grows hot, I find my last assignment for the day: the southern corridor, near the ring that leads to the Bastion’s training yards.

Davor asked me to verify how many weapons racks are left there.

The corridor is dimmer, the stone walls slick with condensation.

I follow a narrow passage that echoes with the sound of distant shouting—someone sparring, perhaps.

Krav points to an iron door. “That leads to the old weapon store. You sure you want to go alone?”

I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. Let’s just check it quickly and get out.”

He unlocks the door, revealing a cramped storeroom with dusty racks along the walls. Old spears, chipped swords, battered shields—relics of past battles. The place smells of rust and neglect. I run a finger over a spear’s edge and find it dull as a spoon.

While Krav stands watch, I count each weapon, matching the list pinned to a board. It’s hopelessly outdated, so I scrawl fresh notes. That’s when I notice a set of footprints in the dust leading to the far corner, where a stack of crates stands partially hidden. My pulse quickens.

I glance at Krav. “Did anyone tell you about crates in here?”

He shakes his head. “No. Why?”

I approach carefully, the stale air making me cough.

The crates bear no markings, which is unusual in the Bastion—someone always stamps them.

Squatting, I lift one lid. Inside, I find old scraps of metal, some tools, a few sealed jars.

I open a jar to discover a thick, tar-like substance. My stomach churns.

Krav frowns. “What is that?”

I dip a fingertip near it, sniffing. My eyes water. “Smells like some kind of pitch or black oil.” Possibly flammable if exposed to heat or a spark. My mind flashes to the sabotage I pulled on that dark elf ship. Something like this could have fueled a massive fire.

Why is it here, hidden and unmarked? Contraband, maybe. Or leftover war supplies. I replace the lid, wiping my hands on a rag. “We should tell the Warden,” I say, though bitterness seeps through me at the thought. “He needs to know there’s unmarked stock in a disused storeroom.”

Krav nods. “Agreed. Could be from an older era, but best to be safe.”

I finish noting everything, then we lock the room.

My stomach simmers with unease. This fortress is full of secrets.

If someone is stashing flammables or other contraband, it might tie into the missing crates I’ve been tracking.

Each day, I uncover more puzzles. I clench my bandaged arm.

If I can unravel this, maybe I’ll prove my worth enough that the Senate can’t just sign my death.

As we head back to the courtyard, commotion erupts near the edge of the supply yard.

Raised voices carry through the air. Another dispute.

I hurry forward, ledger tucked under my arm.

A group of five stands in a half-ring, two humans and three minotaurs.

A pair of them are inches from trading blows.

Their expressions are twisted with anger, and tension surges like a wave.

I call out, “Hey! What’s the problem?”

One of the humans, a wiry fellow with pitted scars along his cheeks, hisses, “They took our space in the queue. We’ve waited to collect rations, but these brutes shoved us aside.”

A minotaur with striped fur curls a lip. “We don’t take orders from the likes of you. Move along, human.”

The ring tightens. My heart pounds. If they start throwing punches, we could have a full-blown riot. Guards cluster nearby, uncertain whether to wade in. I swallow my frustration. The Bastion’s threat of punishment might quell this, but I sense pride fueling both sides.

“Look,” I say, voice firm. “No one’s cutting the line. We have an established queue. You two humans were next. Let them get their rations, then the rest can follow. That’s the rule.”

The striped-fur minotaur snorts. “You dare talk about rules?” His gaze drops to the sigil scorched into my flesh. “Your entire presence is a sham.”

Anger flares under my skin. I step closer, ignoring the squeak of protest from Krav behind me. “You want to challenge the Warden’s brand? Fine. Let’s see how that ends for you.”

He bares his teeth, but behind him, another minotaur grips his shoulder, whispering caution. The humans watch me with a mix of wariness and curiosity. My pulse thrums at the near confrontation, but I hold my stance.

“Queue remains first come, first served,” I say, forcing an even tone. “Anyone defying that will face Bastion discipline. You know what that involves.”

Silence. Then, grudgingly, the striped-fur minotaur backs off, letting the two humans pass. The tension breaks, replaced by mutters and averted glares. The queue resumes, and a small crisis is averted. I let out a silent breath.

One of the humans tosses me an almost-friendly nod. “Thanks...quartermaster.”

It’s a fleeting acknowledgment, but my heart stumbles.

Some faint sense of trust flickers in the crowd.

I glimpse Saru at the perimeter, watching.

Our eyes meet, and there’s a pulse of understanding that runs deeper than words.

He dips his chin, almost imperceptibly. I break the gaze, forcing myself to focus on the tasks at hand.

By the time the sun sinks low, my legs ache from constant pacing across the yard.

Yet the day hasn’t ended in chaos. I might even call it success.

Once the final rations are distributed, I reorganize the logs, storing them in the small administrative kiosk.

A hush blankets the Bastion’s open courtyards, tinted orange by the waning light.

I turn, and there he is: Saru, standing a few paces away, arms folded across his broad chest. The same quiet power emanates from him, as though the fortress itself bends around his presence. Something flutters in my stomach—annoyance, wariness, something else I don’t want to name.

“Warden,” I say, voice curt. “Need something?”

He studies me, those amber eyes reflecting the sunset’s glow. “Heard you settled multiple disputes today without an incident.”

I shrug. “It’s what the quartermaster does.”

His gaze drops to the fresh bruise on my forearm. “You took a punch?”

I exhale, recalling the scuffle with the striped-fur minotaur. “Just a graze,” I lie. My arm stings, but it’ll heal. “No big deal.”