Page 25

SARU

I wake at dawn, the Bastion’s chill clinging to my fur.

Sleep came in fragments—visions of Naeva pinned against crates, the impact of my horns slamming into her attackers, and Thakur’s hidden hand pulling the strings.

It leaves a taste of iron on my tongue. I push aside the tangled blankets, crossing to splash water on my face.

The reflection in the metal mirror shows tension in my jaw.

Last night’s events still burn in my mind.

Today, I carry out the sentence for those rogue guards.

My authority might stir another wave of controversy, but they attacked a marked prisoner.

This fortress demands accountability, no matter a guard’s rank.

The memory of how she looked after that ambush—breathing hard, bruised but unbowed—spurs me to act.

I can’t allow Thakur’s supporters to undermine me, brand or not.

I dress in my usual partial armor, checking each strap with care. The grooves on my horns ache faintly, a reminder of how close I came to losing control last night. Yet I’d do it again without hesitation. My guards wait outside the door, saluting as I emerge.

We walk briskly through winding corridors, passing other minotaurs who lower their heads in respect.

Some exchange glances—they’ve no doubt heard the rumors.

The Warden battered three fellow guards to protect a human he branded.

Whispers follow me wherever I go, but I ignore them, focusing on the day’s grim task.

The open-air forum sits near the western wing, a wide courtyard ringed by stone columns.

Here, disputes are heard, punishments declared, and lesser sentences pronounced.

Beyond it, the coliseum looms, a place for major crimes or official challenges.

For these three traitors, I’ve decided a punishment that isn’t execution but still severe enough to deter others who might conspire with Thakur.

They wait in chains, each kneeling, flanked by loyal guards.

Their injuries remain visible—bruises, a limp, fresh bandages from the infirmary.

Many onlookers gather, curious to witness the Warden’s brand of justice: a handful of prisoners, plus off-duty minotaurs, hush as I step onto the raised platform.

The morning sun pierces the courtyard, casting stark shadows across stone.

I scan the crowd. My horns tilt. I spot Naeva at the fringe, leaning against a column, her arm bound in linen from her bruised ribs.

Captain Davor stands beside her. It’s good she’s here to see the Bastion’s process, though I can’t guess her reaction.

She has no reason to trust our laws, yet I want her to witness how we handle traitors.

I clear my throat, letting silence fall.

The three kneeling guards glower, their resentment undisguised.

My tail swishes in controlled arcs. “These men violated the Bastion’s code.

They attacked a prisoner under my crest, conspired with an outside force to commit murder, and tarnished our uniform.

” My voice resonates, each word clipped.

“By the Bastion’s law, they face sentence today. ”

One tries to spit a retort, but a guard knocks him silent.

Another braces his shoulders, refusing to speak.

I address them calmly. “You have a choice: forced labor for five years, or the arena.” A ripple of unease stirs the crowd.

The arena is no small matter, but forced labor under the watchful eyes of the Bastion is also grueling.

Typically, minor offenses get short stints in labor, but attempted murder is serious.

I’m offering them a chance to fight for freedom, or toil away under guard.

They exchange fearful looks. Then the ringleader, the one who pinned Naeva against the crates, bares his teeth. “We won’t submit,” he grates.

I tighten my jaw, scanning his features. He’s still bruised, but defiance seethes in his eyes. “Then you choose the arena.” My voice is unyielding. “You’ll face three fights. Survive them, and your sentence can be reduced. Fail, and you die.”

A hush spreads. Even among this fortress, talk of fighting in the arena is always sobering. The other two guards keep silent. One nods once, bleak acceptance in his face. The ringleader spits to the side. “We’ll see you burn for this, Warden.”

My expression never wavers. “Take them.” Loyal guards haul the trio to their feet.

The crowd parts, letting them pass. When they vanish into the corridor that leads to holding cells, I shift my attention back to the silent watchers.

“Let it be known,” I say evenly. “No brand, no rank, no gold from the Senate can override Bastion law. Attack a marked prisoner, face justice.”

Murmurs ripple through onlookers, who soon disperse.

Some head to their duties, others linger in small knots, discussing the harshness of the punishment or the spectacle of the Warden defending a human.

I step down from the platform, scanning for Naeva.

She remains by the column, posture guarded. Her eyes flick to me.

I approach, maintaining a measured pace. She stands straight, arms crossed over her bandaged ribs. Captain Davor nods in greeting and quietly slips away, giving us space. We stand a moment in the courtyard’s hush, the sun casting shadows across the stones.

Her voice emerges softly. “So that’s your version of justice.”

I keep my tone calm. “They chose the arena. Forced labor would’ve been safer.”

She exhales, gaze flicking to the corridor where the guards were taken. “They’d rather risk death than toil for years. That’s quite a statement.”

I nod. “The arena can be a quick end or a path to redemption. It depends on a fighter’s skill and will to survive.”

Her brow knits. “Does it ever feel wrong? Making them fight for freedom like it’s some game?” There’s no mockery in her voice, just genuine curiosity.

I absorb the question, recalling the day I spilled my brother’s blood in that same arena. “Sometimes,” I admit, each syllable weighed. “But minotaurs nearly destroyed each other through constant war in the past. The arena is how we channel disputes now.”

She studies me, silent for a beat. “I see. You give them a chance, at least, though it’s brutal.”

My chest tightens. “Brutality is carved into our history. This is the system we built to prevent endless civil war.”

She rubs her arm where my brand marks her skin. “Better than no recourse at all, I guess.”

I sense she’s still uneasy. The Bastion’s methods must remind her of dark elf cruelty, yet there’s a difference: we keep an element of choice.

Her expression softens, though tension remains.

“You let me witness that sentence for a reason,” she murmurs.

“Wanted to show me how your fortress handles traitors?”

I meet her eyes. “Yes. I also wanted you to see that your life holds weight here. Attacking you has consequences.”

A flicker of surprise. “My life, or your crest?”

I pause, considering how to respond. “Both,” I say at last, voice low. “They’re tied. But it’s more than that. If I let them attack you without repercussions, the Bastion crumbles from within.”

She nods, acceptance laced with wariness. Her hand drifts to her bandaged side, a slight wince crossing her face. “My ribs still ache,” she mutters. “But at least I can stand.”

I gesture to a quieter passage off the courtyard. “Walk with me. Gently. I’d prefer the infirmary, but I assume you’d refuse.”

She snorts softly, letting a hint of humor rise. “I’m not going back to the infirmary unless I’m dying. The smell of antiseptic is worse than charred steel.”

A reluctant smile teases my lips. “Come on.” I lead her away from the forum, ignoring the curious glances of a few stragglers.

We cut through a side corridor that overlooks a small garden courtyard—one of the few bright spots in this otherwise austere fortress.

It’s mostly ornamental, a place for minotaur officials to find a moment’s peace.

Hardly used, thanks to the Bastion’s ceaseless demands.

We step beneath an archway, entering the courtyard. Sunlight spills across trimmed shrubs and a modest fountain that gurgles softly. The stone path is worn but clean, ringed by columns carved with ancient runes. I glance around, confirming it’s empty.

She pauses, taking in the greenery. “Never thought I’d see a garden in a fortress. Where I come from, everything was metal and smoke, no room for plants.”

I watch her quietly. The mark on her arm stands out—stark, unflinching, a reminder of vows neither of us chose.

And yet she looks strangely at ease here, surrounded by hedges and calm.

“We keep it for visiting dignitaries, or those who need a breath of peace,” I murmur. “I come here sometimes to think.”

She turns, arms folded lightly over her midsection. “It’s odd. This fortress feels so militant, but then there’s a garden, and a system of law that doesn’t revolve purely around fear. I’m still getting used to it.”

I nod, hearing the faint confusion in her tone. “Minotaurs balance discipline with honor. At least, that’s the ideal. We fail at times—like those guards did.”

A breeze rustles the leaves, carrying a hint of floral scent.

We stand close enough that I notice the faint bruise along her jaw from yesterday’s attack.

My fists clench at the memory of her pinned down, breath ragged.

I step back, controlling the surge of anger that bubbles within.

“How are your injuries beyond the ribs?”

She lifts a hand to her bruised jaw, fingertips grazing the tender skin. “Achy. Nothing worse than what I’ve dealt with before.”

Relief washes through me. “Good.” A pause. “I’m sorry you had to face that.”

Her eyes flick to me, searching for honesty. “You didn’t put the blade to my throat. But I appreciate the intervention.”