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My throat is raw, memories stirring. “I obeyed. He wouldn’t yield. The crowd—” I force a breath. “They celebrated a resolution, but I left that ring in chains of shame. Some said it was a matter of honor, but I can’t see it that way.”

She sets the scrap blade aside. “Why do you stay in the Bastion, then, if it haunts you?”

A wry laugh escapes me. “Because leaving would mean betraying the vow I made. My father built a legacy here, and my sister still holds a seat in the Senate. If I run, I desert them. If I remain, I carry guilt. The Bastion is where I can keep my honor...or what’s left of it.”

She presses her lips together, studying my face. “And part of that honor includes branding me so the Senate can’t kill me?”

I nod once, heart pounding with conflicting emotions. “Yes. I might not have handled it delicately, but letting them bury you without a fight would’ve been worse.”

She’s silent, flicking her gaze to the embers. The harsh lines of her posture soften marginally. “I hate the brand, but it’s kept me breathing.” She says the words quietly. “I don’t know what to make of that.”

I sigh. “Nor do I.”

A hush falls, broken only by the slow crackle of burning coal.

The hush allows me to notice small details: the burn scars mapping her arms, each telling a story of forges or punishment.

Her clothes cling to her lean frame, damp with sweat from the heat of the brazier.

I sense her vulnerability here, forging a clandestine blade in the depths of the fortress.

And for reasons I can’t fully articulate, I’m not angry. I might even admire her resilience.

At last, she crouches again, picking up the chunk of iron she uses as a hammer. “If you’re not stopping me, are you going to help?”

I blink. “You want me to?”

She lifts a shoulder. “You were a general once. You must know a bit about forging weapons, or at least shaping metal to your advantage.”

I hesitate. The idea of forging a secret blade with her is madness. But I can’t deny the odd pull in my chest. “We’ll keep this quiet,” I say at length, voice low, “but we need a better approach.”

Her brows lift. “I’m listening.”

I scan the chamber, eyes landing on a heavy anvil half-buried under debris. “That anvil. Clear it.” I stride over and push aside broken planks and dusty armor scraps. Beneath them lies a solid chunk of iron. With some effort, I heave it upright, the squeal of metal on stone echoing.

Naeva steps up, the corners of her mouth twitching in gratitude. “Better than a rock slab.” She sets her half-finished blade on it. “Now what?”

I grasp a battered smithing hammer from the clutter. “You hold the piece steady. I’ll strike where you show me. We heat it in the brazier between strikes.”

She quirks a skeptical look. “Coals might not be hot enough for a perfect forging.”

“We’ll manage. This is just an improvised solution.” I gesture for her to bring the glowing scrap from the brazier. “Here.”

She positions the metal. Our arms brush as I stand behind her, hammer raised.

The contact sends an unbidden spark up my spine, an immediate reminder of the tension that’s become so familiar between us.

We ignore it, focusing on the metal. I exhale, bringing the hammer down in measured blows.

Clang. Clang. Each strike resonates in my bones, a rhythmic echo reminiscent of the old forging days.

Naeva braces the piece, sweat collecting at her temple.

She murmurs corrections, telling me where to shape the edge.

I follow her direction, staying mindful of her fingers near the sizzling scrap.

With each strike, the blade’s outline grows clearer, the metal bending to our joint effort.

The hush of the Bastion seems distant, overshadowed by the clang of hammer on steel.

Eventually, she pulls the piece away. “Cool it,” she says, nodding to a bucket of water. I plunge it in with a hiss of steam. For a fleeting moment, we share a look—her gaze is charged, appreciation flickering through her guarded expression. My own chest tightens with an odd sense of camaraderie.

We repeat the cycle: heat, hammer, shape.

I’m acutely aware of how our movements align, each step methodical.

She stokes the brazier, I handle the hammer.

She sets the angle, I deliver the blow. The synergy is unexpected, two very different people forging something small but potent in the Bastion’s shadows.

Time warps. When I finally set the hammer aside, my arms ache from the repetitive strikes.

She tests the blade’s edge, brushing away flakes of slag.

It’s still crude, but it has a sharper line, a faint curve that could slice if handled well.

She exhales softly, a kind of contentment in her voice. “This will do.”

We share a moment of quiet triumph. She sets the blade against the anvil, blinking back exhaustion. My own heart thuds with a mixture of pride and unease. What we’ve made is far from perfect, but it’s enough to keep her safer.

Still, the rational side of me stirs. “You know if any guard finds this, you’ll be questioned. Possibly thrown in the arena.”

She drags her thumb along the metal, testing its edge. “If it comes to that, I’ll say it’s for quartermaster duties—cutting ropes, opening crates. A tool, not a weapon.”

I grunt. “That might fool them. Or maybe not.”

She shrugs. “I’ll take the risk. Better than walking these halls unarmed.” Her eyes flick to mine, a spark of defiance mingling with a strange, reluctant trust. “Thanks for not reporting me.”

I swallow the knot in my throat. “I’m not here to punish resourcefulness.”

Her gaze dips to my chest plate, then lingers on the brand etched into my right shoulder—a testament to House Rhek’tal. Her own brand on her arm is healing, the scab less angry now. “You talk a lot about rules, Warden. But you break them when it suits you.”

A faint huff leaves me. “I choose which battles matter.”

An ironic smile twists her lips. “We might have that in common.”

A flash of memory stabs me: my brother’s defiance in the arena, his stubborn grin as he challenged me. He believed he’d show the Senate that House Rhek’tal was unstoppable, that the old ways demanded a victor. Instead, we both lost. My chest tightens.

Naeva shifts, noticing my expression. “I’m not your brother,” she says quietly, as if sensing the swirl of pain I can’t fully hide.

I push aside the old ache. “No. But you have a similar spark. Stubborn. Resourceful. That’s why...he insisted on the duel.” I grimace. “He thought only one of us could stand at the apex.”

She lowers her gaze to the newly forged blade, absorbing the confession. “The Senate forced your hand.”

“Yes. I didn’t see a way out.” The memory tightens my throat. “He died, and I was named Warden, an honor-bound role to pay my debt for the chaos the duel created.”

She gently sets the blade aside. “You keep telling me how the Bastion runs on rules, but I see it’s also shaped by regrets.”

Her words strike deep. “Regrets that I live with daily.”

She eyes me with a flicker of empathy. I realize we’re standing close—too close.

The brazier’s fading warmth mingles with our combined heat.

Her hair, damp with sweat, falls across her brow, and I notice she’s trembling faintly from exhaustion.

Or perhaps from the emotional weight of this conversation.

An urge rises to reach out, to brush back that strand of hair. Instead, I tighten my posture, reminding myself of the boundaries that keep us from calamity. “Let’s get you back to your quarters. It’s late.”

She nods, scooping up the crude blade. She tucks it under a scrap of cloth, a half-smile on her lips. “I won’t brandish it unless I have to.”

“See that you don’t,” I murmur, stepping aside.

We exit the chamber, navigating the dim corridors.

I lead, listening for any sign of patrolling guards.

Twice we pause as footfalls draw near, but the guards pass by an adjacent hallway.

My heart pounds heavier with each careful step.

The secrecy of what we’ve done leaves me torn: if the Bastion discovered I aided her in forging a blade, it could be seen as betrayal.

I feel oddly liberated though, as if I’ve given her a shield I never managed to give my brother.

Eventually, we emerge into a better-lit corridor, connecting to the main living block. The flicker of torches announces we’ve reached safer territory. She cradles the cloth-wrapped blade against her side, eyes scanning for eavesdroppers.

A guard stationed at the far end glances our way. I assume a neutral expression. “Escort her to her room,” I command him, voice clipped. “I’ll speak with you tomorrow, Naeva.”

She meets my gaze, something unspoken passing between us. Her jaw flexes, and I see the conflict in her eyes: a swirl of gratitude, defiance, and confusion. Finally, she just nods. “Tomorrow.”

The guard leads her off, and I remain, watching until she disappears around a bend.

My own breath comes out shaky. I rub my horn, the older scars etched there telling tales of battles survived.

I can’t remember the last time I broke protocol for a prisoner.

I can’t recall ever forging something for someone who might one day use it to kill.

Yet I’m not sure if I regret it. She’s forging her path. I see in her that raw determination I once had—before the arena forced me into a role I never wanted. She’s an ember that refuses to be extinguished, and part of me respects that so fiercely it almost hurts.

I leave the corridor, treading a route back to my quarters.

The Bastion’s corridors feel emptier, though flickers of torchlight cast dancing shadows on every wall.

My mind churns with the day’s events and the revelations of tonight.

Images of my brother’s final moment weigh heavily, but so does the memory of how Naeva’s eyes lit with fierce focus at the anvil.

That same unwavering spirit, teetering on a knife’s edge between life and death, driven by necessity.

When I reach my chambers, I latch the door and lean against it, exhaling.

The thick walls offer little solace from my swirling thoughts.

I picture Naeva holding that blade, feeling some measure of security.

I picture the Senate’s reaction if they discover this.

My stomach knots. I know the risk, but I can’t bring myself to regret letting her arm herself.

I strip off my chest plate, chest muscles aching from hammering.

The memory of forging resonates through my arms, as though my body still vibrates from each strike.

The brand on my shoulder stings, reminding me that everything I do here is bound to House Rhek’tal—my father’s name, my brother’s memory, my sister’s place in the Senate.

Protecting a human forging contraband is the last thing tradition would expect.

I cross to the low table near the window, pouring water into a clay cup.

The taste is metallic and lukewarm, but I gulp it down, trying to soothe the dryness in my throat.

My reflection in the window glass is ghostly.

I see the carved lines on my horns, etched for those I’ve lost. That day in the arena left a mark that no brand can overshadow.

She’s not your brother, I remind myself.

Her fate doesn’t have to end in your blade.

I close my eyes, recalling how she stood at the brazier’s glow, forging her own destiny.

If I had allowed my brother to yield, if I had fought the Senate’s demand more fiercely, would he still be alive?

The question gnaws at me. Perhaps I see a second chance in her, a chance to choose differently and protect a life instead of snuffing it out.

I move to my bed, dropping onto the edge.

My horns feel heavier than usual, as though burdened by revelations that keep piling up.

In the hush of the night, I let my mind drift, replaying the forging session in that abandoned chamber.

The synergy of our motions, the clang of metal meeting metal.

The flickers of unspoken understanding that bridged the chasm between warden and prisoner.

What am I becoming, forging an alliance with the one I forcibly branded?

The question resonates. Duty demands I maintain distance.

But every day, she erodes my barriers by showing a tenacity that mirrors my own.

My chest tightens when I recall her eyes, bright with purpose.

Maybe I need that spark to combat the numb weight of my guilt.

I collapse onto the mattress, eyes unfocused as the ceiling blurs overhead.

What was meant as a sterile tactic—a seal burned into her skin to override the Senate’s kill order—has become something far messier.

With each passing moment, she carves a place for herself here, not just with steel, but with purpose.

And with each strike, she cracks open something in me I thought long sealed.

I remain awake, letting these thoughts swirl until the Bastion’s torches burn low.

Outside, a guard calls out to another, the echo carrying through stone halls.

Darkness presses at the windows. My mind replays the final moments of my brother’s life in the arena: the sun glaring overhead, the crowd chanting, his blood on my hands.

I recall the vow I made never to fail someone again if I could save them.

Perhaps that vow led me to brand Naeva, despite every rule.

Tomorrow, the Bastion will continue its ceaseless demands.

The Senate might send new threats. Prisoners will test us.

Yet a small, secret corner of me holds onto the memory of forging metal with Naeva tonight, crafting a dangerous shard.

The guilt remains, but for the first time in ages, I sense something other than regret.

A quiet, simmering hope that I can choose differently than I did in the arena. That I can shield instead of slay.

I close my eyes, the night’s weariness at last claiming me.

My dreams are scattered: glimpses of the Bastion’s corridors lit by flaming braziers, the clash of metal in a distant ring.

And amid that swirling haze, an image of Naeva turning to me, holding out a blade we forged together, as though offering a truce we both crave and fear.