Page 27

“It’s standard minotaur remedy. Rub it where you ache.”

She nods, setting it in her lap for later. We linger, the meal done, ledgers half-forgotten. My tail flicks, that underlying tension reemerging. She glances around the dim office, noticing the older battle reports on a side shelf. “So, you keep records of your campaigns here?”

I stand, crossing to a shelf. “Yes. Some documents detail the old arena wars, the ones that shaped our traditions.”

She steps up behind me, careful not to brush too close. “You read them often?”

I let out a breath. “Sometimes. To remember what we overcame, or where we failed.”

She lifts a hand toward one scroll, then lowers it. “I used to think minotaurs were all brute force. Now I see you have a system—harsh but structured.”

I face her, noticing how the lamplight plays across her features.

The mark on her forearm is scabbed over, no longer raw, but I recall the day I seared it.

Guilt mingles with the faint hum of closeness.

“We’re not simple beasts.” My voice is quiet.

“We fought hard to end internal slaughter. Now we hone conflict in the arena or through codes.”

She looks up, meeting my gaze. “It’s more than I expected. I guess I owe you some respect for that.”

My chest tightens. “I never wanted your servitude. Just your survival.”

Her eyes flick to my horns, then back. “You got both. For now.”

A thrumming silence hangs between us. She’s so close, her breath gently stirring the air.

My instincts war with reason: we are Warden and marked prisoner, a brand forcibly placed.

Yet we’ve fought side by side, hammered metal together, shared pain.

That synergy sparks through the tension.

I sense she feels it too, but we remain locked in place, each uncertain.

At length, I step back, gesturing to the desk. “We should finish. The supply logs won’t rewrite themselves.”

She blinks, as if shaken from a trance. “Right. Let’s…

do that.” The words come out softly. She slips back to her chair, drawing her satchel closer.

I exhale, returning to my seat. We bend over the ledgers, methodically sorting data on shipments, cross-referencing contraband possibilities.

The closeness remains, but we channel it into work, letting practicality anchor us.

Time drifts. The lamplight gutters as we wade through page after page, scribbling notes. At one point, her voice cracks the hush: “We need to check if last month’s logs match any of these missing crates.” She points to a line item referencing a certain storage bay. “I suspect there’s an overlap.”

I nod, scanning the mention of pitch. My memory stirs—she found a stash in a hidden storeroom. “We’ll verify tomorrow. If it’s part of Thakur’s infiltration, we can use it as leverage.”

She cocks her head. “Leverage to do what?”

My grip on the quill tightens. “Expose him. Or at least corner him enough that he can’t orchestrate more attacks.” I pause. “If you find proof, it may buy you further protection from the Senate. They’ll see your worth in uncovering corruption.”

Her eyes narrow. “You think the Senate values truth over politics?”

A bitter laugh almost escapes me. “Not always, but if Thakur threatens others’ profits or stability, they might sacrifice him to maintain equilibrium.”

She sets her quill down, focusing on me. “And what if that fails?”

My chest constricts. “Then I’ll keep you alive, brand or not.”

She stares, the weight of that promise thick in the room.

Eventually, she nods, gaze dropping to the ledger.

The quiet that follows is charged but no longer suffocating.

We continue working until we’ve organized the data.

At last, I close the final ledger, rubbing the bridge of my snout in fatigue. “That’s enough for one night.”

She yawns, wincing at the motion. “Agreed.”

I stand, stretching out stiff limbs. “You should rest. Those ribs need recovery.”

She gathers her notes, moving slowly. “Right.” Then her mouth twists with faint humor. “Thanks for the meal.”

My tail flicks. “My duty.”

A moment passes, neither of us sure how to end this night. She fiddles with the salve jar. “I’ll use this. Might help me sleep.”

I nod. “Good. If you need anything, let Davor know. We’ll keep more loyal guards by your quarters.”

She grimaces. “Fine. Better loyal than turncoats.”

I walk her to the door. She lingers, looking up at me with an expression I can’t fully read. The hush is almost tender. Then she clears her throat, stepping away. “Good night, Warden.”

I bow my head slightly. “Good night, quartermaster.”

She exits, boots echoing down the corridor.

My heart thumps in the silence. I remain by the door, resisting an impulse to call her back.

Instead, I close it gently, leaning against the wood.

The lamplight flickers, casting shadows across the desk where two empty plates remain.

We hardly labeled it a meal at all, but for a few hours, we shared more than forced interactions—no direct hostility, just conversation and the sense that we’ve stepped over a threshold toward cautious understanding.

I blow out the lamp, letting darkness wash over me.

My horns ache, my body weary, but my mind refuses to settle.

Each time we meet, something shifts between us—an unspoken bond forged from necessity and sharpened by defiance.

I recall her battered face from that corridor, how her eyes narrowed when I arrived like a thunderclap of violence.

And later, in the garden, the brush of sunlight on her hair, the hesitant curve of a half-smile.

This fortress remains a crucible of tension.

Thakur’s schemes, the Senate’s demands, my own haunted regrets.

Yet tonight’s quiet collaboration with Naeva soothes some of the weight on my chest. We might never rid ourselves of the brand that started this, but for now, we manage. We adapt. We survive.

Slipping from my armor, I drop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling’s worn arches.

My horns rest against the pillow, throbbing with the day’s exertion.

If someone told me a moon ago I’d share a meal with the human I branded, treat her injuries, defend her from traitors, I’d have laughed in disbelief.

Now, the memory of her determined gaze makes my heart pound in ways I’m not ready to name.

Sleep hovers, elusive. My thoughts wander to the open courtyard, the new punishments in place, the quiet of the Bastion at night.

No matter how many battles I fight, I’m never fully at ease in these walls.

But if I can protect her from Thakur, if I can channel justice without drowning in bloodshed, maybe I’ll find a measure of redemption.

The brand that binds us might serve more than politics—it might be the spark that leads us both out of our past shadows.

Exhaling, I close my eyes, letting exhaustion drag me under.

The echoes of her voice float through my mind, that final moment when she hesitated at the door, unsure but not afraid.

The Bastion stands silent around me, and I sense we’ve taken one careful step toward bridging the divide.

How many more steps remain? I don’t know, but for the first time in years, I drift toward sleep with a touch of cautious hope.