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Her eyes flick with a spark of challenge. She lunges, blade angled. I parry, shifting side to side. Our wooden swords meet with soft thuds. She grits her teeth, trying a low strike. I pivot, returning a controlled tap to her blade. Each connection vibrates in my arms.

She curses lightly when I disarm her with a neat flick, sending her sword clattering.

Then she staggers, nearly losing her balance.

I lunge forward, catching her around the waist before she hits the ground.

Her hands grip my forearm, eyes wide as she regains footing. We freeze, breath mingling in the hush.

My pulse pounds. Her body is slight against mine, the brand on her arm a silent reminder of forced ties. Yet standing here, it feels less like bondage and more like a tenuous bond we’re forging day by day. She stares up at me, shock and a flicker of something else in her gaze.

I help her straighten. She clears her throat, stepping away, cheeks flushed. “Thanks.”

I nod, voice gruff. “Watch your momentum. You’re overextending.”

She rubs her bruised side, nodding stiffly. “Right.”

A wave of awkwardness descends. We retrieve the wooden swords, continuing a few more controlled exchanges.

Each time we clash, I sense the tension—part hostility, part attraction, part shared determination.

She’s learning swiftly. After several passes, sweat beads on both of us, the courtyard’s heat stifling. At last, I lower my practice weapon.

“That’s enough for today. You’ve improved.”

She stands there, chest heaving, eyes gleaming with reluctant pride. “I might survive if someone tries to corner me again.” She sets the wooden sword down, massaging her wrist. “I appreciate the lesson, even if it’s… complicated.”

“Complicated,” I echo, letting the word hang. Everything about us is complicated—the brand, Thakur’s threats, her ambiguous status. “We do what we must.”

She nods, crossing her arms. “I won’t let Thakur drag me away.” The raw determination in her voice resonates with my own vow to protect her. I sense a fierce synergy, overshadowing the chafing brand.

Footsteps echo along the courtyard entrance, and we turn to see a lone minotaur guard approach, bowing. “Warden, urgent matter in the west corridor. A scuffle among prisoners.”

I sigh, tension returning. “All right. I’ll handle it.” I glance at Naeva. “You can come if you want, or rest.”

She squares her shoulders. “I’ll see if I can help. Quartermaster duties might be involved.”

We head out, practical concerns reclaiming the moment.

As we walk, I can’t shake the warmth in my chest from that fleeting closeness—my hands on her hips, her breath hitching.

Thakur might loom over our heads, brand or not, but for a few minutes we found a rhythm.

The Bastion’s halls bustle as we pass, but I keep a watchful eye.

Double guards aside, I sense danger lurking, Thakur’s presence rattling the fortress.

We reach the west corridor, finding two orcs in a heated shouting match with a minotaur guard.

A few onlookers linger. I bark an order, and the tension deflates under official scrutiny.

While I arbitrate the argument, Naeva stands at my side, arms folded.

She cuts in with a pointed remark that quells the orcs from further aggression, citing supply records that show they’ve already received their rations.

I hide a small smile at how smoothly she wields her authority, refusing to be cowed by species or rank.

When the dispute settles, we part ways—she returns to finalize daily logs, I to handle more Bastion affairs.

My mind drifts again to Thakur’s threat and the unstoppable friction of politics.

But overshadowing that is the memory of her posture in the courtyard, her spine taut, our stances locked in a teacher-student dance that felt oddly intimate.

I bury the feeling in routine tasks, aware it will resurface the next time we spar.

By nightfall, I exit my office into a corridor dimly lit by torches.

The Bastion quiets, staff rotating to the evening watch.

I catch sight of a few guards saluting, stepping aside.

My shoulders feel heavy from the day’s strain.

Thakur’s visit lingers in every hush, as though the fortress itself is waiting for the next blow.

I find myself walking toward the southwestern courtyard again, as if drawn.

The moon hangs low, bathing the training ground in silver.

My chest plate clinks softly, reminding me I never removed it since our spar.

The empty courtyard holds only the faint echoes of earlier practice, the dust of scuffed earth underfoot.

A swirl of memory arises: her in my arms, nearly falling, the press of her body. My horns ache with conflicting urges.

I stand in the moonlit space, letting the night wind brush my fur.

Thakur might bring the Senate’s wrath, but I’ll stand firm.

For her. For the vow I made when I branded her.

Each day I see her push forward, forging her path in a fortress that once threatened to break her.

Each day I sense her forging cracks in my own walls.

The dance between us grows more complex—dangerous if we lose control, but I can’t turn away.

Exhaling, I bow my head, silent in the moonlight.

Tomorrow might bring more conflict, more Senate demands.

We’ll meet them head-on, step by step, from the arena if need be.

And if training in these stances helps her survive Thakur’s next strike, I’ll teach her everything I can.

Because in the swirling chaos of politics and regrets, the single unambiguous truth is my resolve: I won’t let her be taken.

I won’t let her fight alone. And if that means standing against the entire Senate, so be it.