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SARU

I ’m halfway through reviewing the day’s discipline reports when a runner bolts into my office, panting hard as if he sprinted across the entire Bastion. My quill stills over the parchment, ink threatening to blot. The young minotaur tries to speak, gulping air.

“Senator Thakur,” he manages. “He’s here, Warden, at the main gate. He demands an audience.”

Annoyance flares, but I keep my tone level. “A surprise visit. Of course.” I set the quill aside. “Tell him to wait in the outer hall. I’ll be there shortly.”

The runner salutes, hurrying out. I stand, shrugging into my chest armor with practiced efficiency. Each buckle’s click grounds me. Thakur rarely shows up in person. If he’s come now, it’s with renewed pressure about Naeva. I sense another attempt to tear her from the Bastion.

At the door, two loyal guards join me. We navigate corridors thrumming with latent tension.

Whispers swirl: Thakur marches in with an entourage, likely hoping to exploit any weakness.

I refuse to give him one. My hooves echo on stone as we round a final corner, entering the wide chamber known as the outer hall —tall pillars, torches guttering in iron brackets. There he is, in all his rigid poise.

Thakur stands near the center, wearing a finely tailored robe of dark blue trimmed with gold.

It’s a formal statement of his senatorial rank.

Six guards flank him, each armed and radiating arrogance.

Minotaurs working nearby keep their distance, uneasy.

I let my own guards fan out at the edges of the space, ensuring I’m not alone.

He turns at my approach, lips curving into a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Warden Saru,” he says, voice edged with condescension. “You’ve been avoiding the Senate’s requests.”

I keep my face impassive. “I’ve received your letters. I see no reason to alter the Bastion’s decisions.”

He gives a low laugh. “Your branding of that human was a grave step outside tradition. The Senate demands you relinquish her to our care. Or do you fancy yourself above due process?”

“I fancy nothing,” I reply coolly. “Bastion law stands. No prisoner under a Vakkak crest can be seized without a full hearing. Your so-called demands do not override that.”

His brow furrows, horns glinting in torchlight. “You cling to ancient codes. Meanwhile, the Senate’s patience wanes. That mortal is a threat. You know she destroyed a vital trade route.”

My horns tense at his brazen tone. “She destroyed a dark elf vessel smuggling contraband. I see no reason to penalize her further. She’s under my watch, serving the Bastion. If you want her, present a formal challenge in the Senate chambers.”

He steps closer, ignoring the subtle bristle of my guards. “Then hear me plainly: the Senate has grown tired of your coddling. This brand you gave her will not hold forever. I can gather allies to demand you stand down.”

My tail flicks once, a tight motion. “You are welcome to try. The Bastion’s law is older than your alliances. Naeva remains here, protected.”

He exhales, a faint snort. “Perhaps you’ve grown soft, Saru. Time in the Bastion has dulled your edge. You once fought your own brother in the arena—some said you killed him with ease. Now you shelter a human? Curious.”

My fists clench at the mention of my brother’s death, but I keep my voice even. “I do what’s right for the Bastion. This conversation is over.”

His eyes narrow, frustration flickering. “We shall see. I’ll call upon Senate authority soon, and you’ll regret your stubbornness.”

Without waiting for a dismissal, he turns, his guards moving in unison.

They stride away, arrogance trailing like a pungent scent.

My men watch them go, tension etched on their faces.

I remain still, forcing a slow breath. Thakur’s threat is clear: gather Senate support to undermine me.

Fine. Let him scurry behind bureaucratic walls.

I have the Bastion’s code and House Rhek’tal behind me.

After a moment, I signal my guards to disperse. One steps forward, brow creased. “Warden, do we fortify her security?”

I nod. “Double the watch near her quarters. Keep loyal eyes on every corridor. Thakur’s men might try a covert snatch.”

He salutes, hurrying off. I remain in the hall, ignoring the onlookers who scurry away now that the confrontation is done.

My rage simmers. I loathe how Thakur dredges up my brother’s death, twisting it as if I’m some savage beast. I might have taken his life, but that fight haunts me daily.

I channel the fury inward, letting it sharpen my resolve.

Naeva is under my brand, and I’ll fight the entire Senate if I must.

At last, I stalk away from the hall, heading to where I suspect Naeva is—likely in the supply yard or checking inventory.

I want her to know Thakur arrived. She deserves to understand how the stakes have risen.

Along the route, a messenger confirms she’s finishing a distribution near the armory.

I pick up the pace, tail flicking with pent-up frustration.

I find her in a wide corridor stacked with crates, ledger in hand, surrounded by a few minotaur laborers. She glances up, noticing my approach. Something in my expression must warn her. She dismisses the workers with a curt nod, stepping forward. My guards linger discreetly.

She tilts her head. “Thakur’s here?”

I exhale through flared nostrils. “He demanded your handover. I refused. He threatened a Senate move to remove you forcibly.”

Her features tighten, tension flickering in her jaw. “So he’s doubling down. Great.”

I run a hand over my horns, trying to calm. “Yes. He’s pressing the Senate’s authority. We must be ready for anything.”

She sets aside the ledger, crossing her arms. “So what now? We wait for them to storm the Bastion with official writs?”

I grunt. “I’d like to see them try. But let’s not be reckless.” A pause. “We can’t have you undefended. Thakur might attempt covert means or incite conspirators.”

She curses under her breath, gaze flicking to the crates. “You’re doubling my guard?”

I nod. “Yes. And there’s another matter: your combat readiness. If a cornered confrontation arises, you must handle yourself.”

She narrows her eyes. “I can fight well enough.”

I keep my tone firm but not unkind. “Well enough for standard brawls, yes. But minotaur combat is different. Let me show you more advanced stances.”

She hesitates, recalling last time. Then she sighs. “I guess it can’t hurt.”

I give a short nod. “Good. We’ll train in the southwestern courtyard. It’s quieter there.”

We finish her current distribution checks, ensuring the crates match the logs.

Then we slip away, accompanied by two loyal guards who keep a respectful distance.

The southwestern courtyard is a modest expanse of packed earth and old stone pillars—a favored spot for those who prefer privacy.

Late-afternoon sunlight slants across the space, casting long shadows.

I gesture to a weapon rack at one edge, retrieving two wooden practice swords.

She stands a few paces away, scanning the courtyard.

A gentle breeze ruffles her dark hair. The day’s tasks have left her with a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, bruises from earlier scuffles still visible on her arms. Yet she stands with quiet determination.

I hand her one wooden sword. “We’ll refine footwork. That’s key in minotaur styles. Firm stance, but flexible enough to pivot.”

She grips the practice blade, testing its balance. “Fine. Show me.”

Stepping back, I lift my own blade in a neutral guard. “Stand wide,” I say. “Ground your weight. Let your knees bend slightly so you can move quickly if the opponent shifts.”

She mimics my posture, and I circle her. She’s improved since last time, though her left side remains stiff from bruises. I prod her stance, adjusting her foot angle. “Shift your left foot out. Good. Keep your shoulders aligned.”

She nods, biting her lip in concentration.

Her posture locks into place. I step in front, demonstrating a basic slash pattern.

She imitates me, the wooden sword swishing through the air.

Our guards watch from a distance, but I sense their mild surprise—seeing the Warden instruct a human prisoner in minotaur techniques is unusual.

I ignore them, focusing on her progress.

We trade light blows, wood clacking. She moves well, though occasionally wincing at a sudden motion that strains her healing ribs. Each time, I pause to let her catch her breath. She refuses to complain, forging ahead with fierce resolve. My respect for her tenacity grows.

Eventually, I raise a hand. “Stop a moment.”

She halts, panting. “What is it?”

I approach, setting my wooden sword aside. “Your upper stance is decent, but your foot placement drifts. Let me correct it.”

She tenses as I step behind her, but doesn’t protest. Gently, I rest my hands on her hips, adjusting her angle. My heart thuds. The moment crackles with unexpected intimacy. She goes still, breath hitching. “You see how your feet align? Center them under your shoulders, not off to the side.”

She swallows, nodding. “Got it.”

I move one hand to her shoulder, easing it back so her posture straightens.

My fingers brush the warm skin just above her tunic’s seam.

A faint tremor courses through me. We’re alone in this quiet courtyard, dust swirling in the late-afternoon light.

Her scent—sweat, faint soap, a hint of tension—fills my senses. I struggle to remain composed.

She inhales, voice tight. “I see. So my stance is more stable?”

I clear my throat. “Yes.” I step away, reclaiming my sword before I do something reckless like linger in that closeness. “Now, lunge at me.”