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My throat tightens. “They won’t threaten you again.

” I let that promise hang in the air. The breeze cools my fur, tension throbbing beneath the surface.

We walk slowly along the path, each step echoing on stone.

She’s not exactly comfortable by my side, but neither does she recoil. It’s a careful truce.

I notice how the sunlight glints on her hair, highlighting the scars that lace her forearms—burn marks from forging, or from punishments inflicted by cruel hands.

My gaze shifts away, respecting her privacy.

A swirl of guilt prods me, recalling how I branded her.

I keep those feelings hidden, forging calm outwardly.

She breaks the silence, voice careful. “What will happen to them in the arena?”

I exhale, recalling the savage realities of that sand. “They’ll be given basic armor, a set of standard weapons. Then they fight in a ring for the public. If they win three consecutive matches, they can rejoin labor or have a reduced sentence. If they lose…” I let the words trail off.

She nods grimly. “A harsh fate.”

“Harsh but fair.” I struggle not to recall my brother’s final moments. “Without that system, we’d drown in vendettas.” I glance at her. “Why ask?”

She shrugs, wincing a bit. “Curiosity. I’ve seen the dark elf approach to punishment—no chance to fight or appeal, just torment. Here, you give them a sliver of possibility. Doesn’t make it gentle, but it’s…less monstrous.”

A faint tension eases in my chest at her acknowledgement. “We try.”

She halts near the fountain, resting a hand on its edge.

The water trickles, lapping at a stone basin, softening the fortress’s ever-present hush.

She stares into the water’s surface, reflection wavering.

“I heard talk you nearly ended them on the spot,” she says quietly.

“Some said you considered killing them outright.”

I tense. “I was furious. But that’s not how I handle justice. Even traitors get a hearing in the Bastion.”

She glances up. “You keep surprising me.”

I swallow hard, sensing the shift in her tone. Less anger, more puzzled respect. “That’s good, I hope.”

Her mouth quirks, a hint of wry humor. “Maybe.” Then she hesitates. “I can’t pretend this brand is forgotten, but I see you’re not the same as the masters I knew. You’re not…a sadist.”

I incline my head. “No. I have enough ghosts. No need to add more.”

A hush falls, thick with unspoken understanding. She turns from the fountain, eyes scanning the courtyard. “You do realize the Bastion won’t react well if they catch us alone like this. They love gossip.”

I gesture around at the deserted space. “We’re in plain sight, technically. Anyone can approach.” The corner of my mouth lifts in a nearly playful smirk. “Besides, they already gossip.”

She huffs a faint laugh. “True enough. Let them gossip.”

We linger a moment longer. Then the reality of our day presses in—she has quartermaster tasks, and I have a fortress to oversee. I clear my throat. “This evening, I’ll be in my office. There’s a stack of supply issues we need to resolve. If you’re well enough, come. We’ll review them together.”

Her eyes narrow. “An official meeting?”

I shrug. “Yes, but…we can share a meal while we work. Davor can have something brought up.”

She regards me, suspicion and curiosity warring in her expression. “A meal, not in the mess hall?”

I nod. “If you like. We need an hour or two to handle these logs thoroughly. Better to do it in private than with half the Bastion eavesdropping.”

She cocks her head. “Fine. But if this is some ruse to corner me?—”

“It’s not,” I interject, tone firm. “Strictly business. My door stays unbarred.”

She crosses her arms, scanning my face for signs of trickery. “All right. I’ll come by at sundown, after final distribution.”

I release a small breath. “Agreed.” Then I step aside, gesturing for her to return.

She moves slowly, favoring her bruised ribs, but strides with more confidence than I expect.

I linger behind a moment, letting her vanish into the corridor.

My heart beats faster than usual, a reminder of how each exchange with her sparks new friction in my chest.

The day passes in a blur of duties: checks on the prison blocks, a brief argument with a merchant captain complaining about dock tariffs, a conversation with Captain Davor regarding Thakur’s probable next move.

Whispers swirl that Thakur might challenge my decisions in the Senate, but no direct message arrives.

By late afternoon, my horns ache from tension, though I press on, meeting with the armory staff to ensure no further contraband seeps in.

As the sun dips, I finally retreat to my office.

The space is cramped with shelves of Bastion records, a heavy desk, and a window that overlooks the southwestern courtyard.

Outside, the sky glows with the hues of evening: purples and golds streak across the horizon.

I exhale, rearranging a stack of ledgers, ensuring we have everything needed for the supply review.

My mind drifts to Naeva, wondering if she’ll actually come.

The subtle spark in her eyes earlier suggests she will, albeit grudgingly.

A knock at the door disrupts my thoughts. “Enter,” I say, voice even. Captain Davor steps in, carrying a covered tray. A faint aroma of roasted meat and fresh bread wafts from it.

He sets it on a side table. “As you requested, Warden. A meal for two.” He glances around, curiosity flickering. “Shall I remain outside?”

I nod once, ignoring the twinge of awkwardness that tries to surface. “Yes. That’s all.”

He salutes, slipping away. I wait, restless, each passing minute amplifying the sense of crossing an invisible line. This isn’t a date. But it’s more personal than standard protocol.

At last, another knock—quieter, hesitant. My pulse quickens. “Come in,” I say, forcing calm.

The door opens, revealing Naeva. She stands with a satchel slung over one shoulder, presumably containing additional logs or notes.

She’s still bruised, but she’s changed into a clean tunic, her hair loosely braided.

Her marked arm is exposed. She scans the room—the lamp-lit shelves, my desk cluttered with papers, the untouched tray.

Then she steels herself and steps inside.

“Are we truly working,” she murmurs, “or did you lure me here to read me Senate propaganda?”

I give a faint snort. “Supplies and distribution, I promise.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Sit. You’re still healing.”

She sets her satchel on the floor, settling gingerly. The faint catch in her breath betrays her rib pain, but she squares her shoulders. “I’ve had worse,” she says in that clipped tone, half defensive, half proud.

I pull out a ledger. “Then let’s begin. We have two shipments unaccounted for in the southwestern storehouse, plus those missing crates of pitch you mentioned.”

She nods, resting her forearms on the desk.

Her expression shifts into focused mode, scanning the parchment I hand her.

We talk logistics for a while—how the crates might tie into an older ledger, or if certain smugglers are exploiting the Bastion’s sprawl.

Our conversation flows smoothly, each question answered with precise detail.

Her competence impresses me more each day.

Eventually, her stomach growls softly, and she flushes, pressing a hand to her side. I stand, retrieving the tray from the side table. “We should eat.”

She tenses. “All right.”

I remove the cover, revealing roasted fowl, a modest portion of grilled vegetables, and fresh bread.

Two simple plates rest beneath. There’s also a pitcher of water, no wine—I decided to keep our minds clear.

She watches me distribute the food, apprehension flickering in her eyes. I pass her a plate. “Dig in.”

She glances at it, hesitant. “Seems I’m well-fed for a prisoner.”

I arch a brow. “You’re quartermaster now. Besides, you need strength to do your job.”

She picks at the food, tasting a bite of the roasted meat.

After the first nibble, she tears more from the bone, appetite piqued.

I settle across from her, eating quietly.

The aroma calms some of my tension. This might be the first time we’ve shared a meal in private, not a forced ration line or a corridor scuffle. The silence feels heavier for it.

Between bites, I break the quiet. “How’s your side?”

She shrugs, exhaling slowly. “Sore. The wrap helps. I’m still wearing it under this tunic.”

I nod. “Good. The Bastion’s healers might not be gentle, but they’re thorough.”

She smirks. “I noticed.” A pause. “Thank you for letting me rest earlier. Sometimes I think you’d rather have me working nonstop.”

“Not at the expense of your health,” I murmur.

Silence settles again, but it’s less hostile than before.

We finish most of the meal, exchanging occasional remarks about supply routes and the potential tie to Thakur’s contraband.

At one point, she speaks of how certain shipments from dark elf territories contain hidden compartments.

Her knowledge of sabotage is invaluable.

I record her insights, realizing she’s more vital to this fortress than the Senate will ever admit.

When the plates are nearly empty, she sets hers aside, leaning back with a slight wince. My gaze flicks to the bandages peeking from her tunic’s edge. Concern wells in me, though I keep it curt. “Pain returning?”

She presses her lips together. “It’s manageable.”

I reach for a small jar of herbal salve on the desk, one I keep for muscle aches. “Try this. It helps with bruising.”

She eyes it warily, then takes it. “No hidden poisons, right?” Her tone is half-joke, half-genuine caution.

I shake my head, lips curving faintly. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t need a jar of salve.”

A faint grin pulls at her mouth, then fades. She uncaps the jar, sniffing. “Strong stuff.”