Page 32

NAEVA

D awn’s glow filters through the narrow window of my quarters, rousing me from a restless sleep.

I lie still for a few moments, the old straw mattress crackling beneath me.

There’s a peculiar tension humming in my muscles, leftover echoes of yesterday’s clash with Senator Thakur’s demands and the unexpected closeness I experienced with Saru during our sparring session.

I can still feel the phantom weight of his hand guiding my stance, the way his voice dropped when he corrected my balance.

I push up to sit, ignoring the soft pull of bruised muscle. Light glints off the healing mark on my arm—Saru’s crest, once a symbol of fury, now tangled with feelings I can’t untangle: reluctant gratitude, uneasy longing, something deeper I refuse to name.

Shaking off lingering emotions, I dress in a fresh tunic and trousers, wincing when my arm tenses.

The bruises remain stubborn, but I won’t let them slow me.

There’s always more to do in the Bastion: inventory checks, supply runs, diplomatic headaches.

Thakur might have left, but his threat lingers like a dark cloud.

The fortress hums with speculation that he’ll return soon with Senate support, demanding my handover.

I force my mind away from that possibility and exit my room, meeting the guard Saru assigned me.

He dips his head in a silent greeting, and we head off into the winding corridors.

The morning routine whisks me into a flurry of tasks, verifying that every ration crate is where it should be and that no further sabotage has emerged in the southwestern storehouse.

My mind drifts more than once to the memory of Saru’s unwavering stance in the hall, refusing to yield me to Thakur.

Perhaps I should be grateful for that unflinching protection, but it also leaves a strange warmth in my chest. I’m not used to anyone choosing me over politics or personal gain.

The supply yard bustles with activity when I arrive.

Workers stack crates in neat rows for distribution.

I do a quick pass, scanning the logs and crossing references.

A wave of mild relief washes through me—no glaring discrepancies.

Once done, I set out for the narrower courtyard where Saru occasionally meets me for further training.

My heart thrums a little faster at the thought of seeing him, though I tell myself it’s just for self-defense.

When I turn a corner, I spot him standing near a stack of practice weapons, arms folded, horns angled in that stoic posture.

Two guards linger at a respectful distance, but drift off when I approach.

He’s wearing partial armor, the chest plate and arm bracers that complement his imposing build.

For a moment, I let myself admire the way the morning light highlights the subtle silver lines on his horns.

He nods as I approach. “You’re here early.”

I shrug, ignoring the odd flutter in my stomach. “Better than letting the day slip away. Ready to show me another stance?”

His gaze flickers over me, eyes lingering on the fresh bruises visible above my tunic’s collar. “We’ll see how far we go before your side protests.”

I exhale. “I can handle it.”

He moves to the small rack where wooden practice swords and spears rest. He selects two short wooden swords, handing one to me. “We’ll refine transitions from guard to strike.”

I hold the practice sword, stepping into the middle of the courtyard.

The ground is packed dirt, ringed by carved pillars that offer sparse shade.

The air tastes of dust and faint morning dew.

My guard stands watch near the entrance, but otherwise, it’s just me and Saru.

A subtle undercurrent of tension crackles, left over from the closeness last time.

He stands opposite, sword raised. “Stance first. Remember the wide base.”

I do as instructed, letting my feet slide into the posture he showed me.

Knees slightly bent, one foot angled for balance.

My ribs protest a bit, but I steady myself.

Saru nods once, his expression set in calm focus.

We cross swords with a soft clack, beginning a slow dance of moves.

My breath hitches at the quiet intensity.

Each step we take, each parry, resonates in my bones, like a conversation beyond words.

He corrects me gently when I overextend my elbow. “Guard your side. That bruise isn’t healed yet.”

I grimace. “I’m fine.” But I tighten my stance, acknowledging the strain. We continue, speeding up incrementally.

He feints, and I stumble, heart pounding.

I recover quickly, whipping my sword in an arc that nearly grazes his shoulder.

He blocks with a solid blow, sending a jolt up my arm.

I set my teeth, refusing to yield. We fall into a cycle of strikes and counters, dust swirling around our feet.

My heart thumps with exertion, sweat beading along my temples.

Eventually, he surges forward in a mock charge.

I pivot, but the motion snags on my sore ribs, making me wince.

My sword arm falters. He lowers his blade just enough that we don’t collide violently, but the momentum pushes me off balance.

I almost topple, gasping. His free hand darts out, gripping my waist to steady me, the warmth of his palm searing through my tunic.

“Careful,” he mutters, horns angled close. “Your side?—”

“I know,” I snap, half from pain, half from the surge of something else.

Anger, attraction, frustration—I can’t name it.

My cheeks flush. He’s so close, his breath a soft rumble.

I can’t help noticing the powerful line of his neck, the brand on his shoulder that marks him as House Rhek’tal.

The faint scars crossing his chest plate reflect in the early sunlight, each telling a story I’ve only glimpsed.

I push away gently. He releases me, though his expression darkens with concern. “We should slow,” he says.

“No,” I insist, voice sharp. “I want to learn. Thakur’s threats haven’t vanished. I can’t be a weak link.”

His jaw tightens. “Fine.” He steps back, stance guarded, raising his sword again. “One more sequence, then we stop.”

We resume the spar, adjusting for my bruises.

The pace is measured, but my heart still pounds.

Each time I meet his eyes, a flicker of tension ignites, leaving me breathless.

Our swords tap, wood vibrating. I see the subtle shift in his footwork, warning me of an incoming strike.

I block, and for an instant, we lock eyes again. My grip trembles.

On a whim, I swerve aside, letting my instincts guide me.

He swings low, I jump back. The momentum places me behind him.

Before he recovers, I reach out to brace myself—my hand lands on his left horn.

Time slows, my fingers curling around that curved shape.

It’s a raw, intimate contact among minotaurs, I recall him once mentioning.

Realization strikes like lightning, but I can’t pull away fast enough. His entire body goes rigid.

For a heartbeat, we stand frozen in that stunningly personal moment.

My hand on his horn, the wooden sword still in my other.

His breath hitches, amber eyes darkening with a flash of something primal.

I sense the seismic jolt inside him. Warmth flares in my chest, mingled with a spike of alarm.

I never intended to cross that line. Yet here we are, locked in a hush so thick it steals the air.

He pivots abruptly, dislodging my hand. The wooden sword in his grip drops an inch, leaving him open.

I see the tension rippling through his neck and shoulders as if warring with an instinct to draw me closer or fling me away.

My heart pounds, cheeks hot. I open my mouth, searching for words, but none come.

In a single swift motion, he steps toward me, eyes locked on mine.

Our faces hover inches apart. I glimpse the swirl of conflict in his gaze—desire, confusion, that fierce protective streak.

My pulse roars in my ears, tears prickling behind my eyes from sheer intensity.

He leans in, breath brushing my cheek. My entire body quivers with a longing so sharp it steals reason.

For a split second, I think he’ll kiss me.

The possibility sends sparks through my blood, my heart screaming yes and no all at once.

He tears himself away, staggering back a full step, horns trembling with contained turmoil. “We… we’re done,” he rasps, voice uneven, fraying at the edges. He won’t look at me. He shoves the wooden sword onto the rack, grabbing his chest plate’s strap as if searching for an anchor.

I stand there, pulse thunderous, my hand still tingling from touching his horn. My mind reels, a swirl of shock and burning awareness. I find no words. He glances at me once, expression clenched with regret or fear, I can’t tell. Then he strides off, tail lashing, leaving me alone in the courtyard.

I let out a shuddering breath, knees weak.

The dust around my feet settles. The sun overhead feels too bright, too exposing.

My chest tightens with a potent mix of shame and longing.

I touched his horn—an intimate gesture in his culture—and nearly triggered something we’re not prepared for.

My entire body still buzzes from that near-contact with his lips.

I clamp a hand to my chest, struggling to steady my frantic heartbeat.

Why did I do that? My rational mind scolds me for being reckless.

But in that moment, something deeper guided me—curiosity, an inexplicable pull toward him.

We’ve been dancing around unspoken attraction for days, maybe weeks, forging reluctant respect out of forced alliance.

Now I can’t deny how fiercely I’m drawn to him, or how terrifying it is to want someone with the power to shape my fate.