Page 3

SARU

M orning light cuts across the high towers of the Ivory Bastion, illuminating the polished walls that have stood for generations of my people.

I stand on one of the fortress’s upper terraces, letting the salted wind hit my face.

From here, I can see the main courtyard far below, where fresh arrivals are processed.

Most enter quietly, determined to finish their indenture or wait out a smaller charge.

Others come through in chains, designated for the arena—sentenced to repay their crimes with blood.

My chest feels tight as I consider all the men and women who shuffle into the Bastion with empty eyes.

I once believed the system was straightforward: break our laws, face the consequences.

But my time as Warden has taught me that lines blur in the real world.

Honor can be tainted by politics; mercy can be overshadowed by the need for spectacle.

I’ve tried to run this prison as fairly as possible, but in a place like the Ivory Bastion, fairness is shaped by stone walls and ancient traditions.

A messenger approaches, panting from running up the steep flights. He’s a Zotkak guard with broad horns etched by minor decorative carvings—markings that signal he’s fought at least once in the arena. After a quick salute, he hands me the day’s prison manifest on a rolled parchment.

“Warden Saru,” he says, voice quivering from exertion. “Here’s the updated list of arrivals.” He hesitates, eyeing the silent vantage point behind me. “Some new cases might...require your attention.”

I nod and motion for him to leave. These days, I prefer reading these documents alone. Within these pages lurk names that might threaten the Bastion’s balance or stir the Senate’s anger. That’s the reality of a fortress that houses political prisoners alongside violent offenders.

I unroll the parchment. The script is crisp but rushed, listing each arrival by name, race, alleged crime, and recommended classification.

My gaze skims over half a dozen minor thieves.

I linger momentarily on an orc sentenced for fighting in a Minotaur port—he’ll probably serve forced labor. Then my eyes catch a particular entry:

Name: Naeva Viren

Race: Human

Crime: Sabotage of Dark Elf trade vessel, multiple fatalities, including a noble heir.

Recommended Classification: Arena Fodder

She arrived yesterday. I remember noticing her in the corridor—short for a human, but with a presence that cut through the space. She had black hair in ragged waves, scarred forearms, and a stare that refused to drop. Her defiance radiated so strongly that I felt it in my chest.

Arena fodder, the manifest says. Usually, that sentence stays unless I see a compelling reason to intervene.

But a flicker of recognition sparks in the back of my mind.

I scan further to find a small notation scribbled next to her name: Vessel ID—Therathel.

That’s the dark elf ship that nearly claimed the life of my sister, Vira.

My jaw clenches as memories strike: five months ago, Vira traveled to negotiate a delicate trade arrangement with allied merchants.

She never made it on board because the vessel went up in flames, rumored to be sabotage.

The official story said a human saboteur caused the ship’s engines to explode.

The dark elves lost one of their minor nobles in the fire.

Vira, running late to the port, escaped the disaster by a breath.

She wrote me soon after, explaining her narrow miss.

If the saboteur had waited even an hour, Vira would have been on that deck.

I clutch the parchment, grappling with conflicting emotions.

This woman is directly responsible for multiple deaths, but she might also be the reason my sister is alive.

If Vira had boarded the ship, she could’ve died alongside those dark elves.

The thought sends a strange chill through me.

The Bastion’s official stance is that sabotage of a recognized vessel—dark elf or otherwise—is a serious offense.

The Senate demands strict justice because such sabotage disrupts trade, tarnishing Milthar’s maritime law.

I recall the glimpse I had of Naeva. Fierce eyes, bruised wrists, a posture that suggested she’d battle to her last breath.

She didn’t cower even when guards circled her.

The standard procedure is to throw her into the arena.

Let her earn her fate or die in the pit.

It should be a simple decision: the Senate has already labeled her a major threat.

I sense something more about her, a presence that’s difficult to ignore.

Part of me, the ex-General who served in multiple campaigns, sees potential—someone with cunning, someone who can adapt under pressure.

I also have a personal stake: she saved Vira’s life.

Indirectly, yes, but still. I pinch the corner of the parchment, pressing it between my thumb and finger.

The Senate would have my head if I show leniency.

They want to maintain stable alliances with any non-dark-elf partners, and they certainly don’t want to provoke the dark elves right now.

Still, an urge I can’t ignore gnaws at me.

Vira is all I have left of my immediate family after—No.

I won’t dwell on that. I reach a decision, one I’ll cloak under a pretense of “tactical advantage.” If I place this woman under controlled duty, I can monitor her actions.

If she’s truly a threat, I’ll see it firsthand.

But if she’s more than just a saboteur, maybe I can glean the truth of what happened on that ship.

I let out a slow exhale, then descend into the corridors below.

My footsteps echo on stone floors engraved with runic patterns that date back centuries.

Torchlight reveals worn tapestries along the walls, depicting scenes of minotaur heroes battling monstrous sea creatures.

I follow a path that leads to a wide archway—the administrative hall where guard captains gather for the day’s updates.

Inside, Captain Davor stands by a large table spread with maps of the Bastion’s wings.

He’s a broad-shouldered minotaur with amber fur and an old scar across his left horn.

The other guard captains sit in chairs around the table, discussing rotations, contraband checks, and new arrivals.

Davor sees me approach and straightens, saluting. The others follow suit.

“Warden,” he says, voice measured. “We have the updated rosters for the next arena matches. Some names on the docket seem…unusual.”

He glances down at the parchment in my hands. I tilt my head and offer it. “You’re referring to the human woman, Naeva Viren?”

“Yes. She’s scheduled for the pit tomorrow, but the Senate’s notice is that she mustn’t survive.”

His words make me bristle. It’s not unusual for the Senate to issue hush orders, especially in cases involving dark elf nobles. Still, hearing it stated so plainly irritates me.

I set the parchment on the table. “Reassign her from the immediate pit schedule. Place her under controlled duty.”

A few captains exchange perplexed glances. One, a younger minotaur named Galot, wrinkles his muzzle. “Sir, the Senate wants her executed quickly. Are we?—”

“You have your orders,” I say, voice cool. “If the Senate questions us, we’ll explain we want to verify her involvement in that sabotage. She may have information about how the dark elves tampered with trade routes. Could be valuable for Milthar’s naval defense.”

It’s not a lie. The Senate does love intelligence that can be used to strengthen our maritime hold. But the real reason is the memory of Vira’s near-disaster. Perhaps the knowledge that a single human’s sabotage saved her is worth investigating.

Davor clears his throat. “Sir, how do we handle her day-to-day?”

“She won’t roam free. Assign two guards to watch her every move.

She’ll be given small tasks—inventory in the armory, cleaning, nothing involving direct contact with other prisoners.

” I tap the parchment. “Document everything. If she tries to escape, we put her down. If she cooperates, we keep the arrangement. Simple enough.”

The captains nod, though tension vibrates through the room.

I’m well aware that some believe I’m going soft.

They remember me as the general who once commanded fleets, who upheld discipline with an iron code.

They also know the scandal that chained me to this position, the rumors that swirl around my killing a family member in the arena.

Some avoid meeting my eyes, uncertain how far my convictions extend.

I can’t show uncertainty. So I maintain a stony gaze, ignoring the flicker of discomfort in my gut. “Dismissed,” I say. The captains salute and disperse. Davor lingers, his tail swishing across the floor in cautious arcs.

“Warden,” he murmurs, “I’ll see to her reassignment personally.”

“Do that,” I reply, turning on my heel and striding out.

I wind my way down a series of stone passages, each lined with iron sconces that hold flickering torches.

At intervals, narrow vents let in fresh air, carrying the tang of the sea.

The deeper wings of the Bastion always feel claustrophobic: heavy doors, reinforced gates, the echo of distant voices.

My hooves strike the ground in a deliberate rhythm as I recall the day Vira sent me that letter.

She’d scrawled a quick, urgent message explaining how a human saboteur’s destructive act inadvertently saved her life.

At the time, I cursed the saboteur for blowing up a trade vessel that could have kept tenuous peace with the dark elves.

Yet I silently thanked them for sparing Vira.

Now that person sits within the Bastion’s walls, marked for a swift death. It feels like fate is pushing me to weigh honor against gratitude.