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NAEVA

I ’m wide awake before dawn, curled against Saru in his bed for the last moments of quiet before the Bastion’s chaos stirs.

The embers of last night’s tenderness linger between us, warm and bittersweet.

His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, reassuring me that he’s alive—no lingering aftereffects of the poison that nearly claimed him.

Outside, I hear the faint shuffle of guards changing shifts.

My insides twist, uneasy. Each day in the fortress brings fresh threats, and Thakur looms over us like a blade poised to descend.

I ease myself up, careful not to jostle Saru.

My ribs throb, but the pain has dulled. His brand remains on my arm, the scab healing but still visible.

It’s become more than forced protection.

After everything we’ve shared—his life in my hands, my secrets in his—this crest feels like a vow.

Yet the outside world sees it differently.

If Thakur has his way, I’ll be forced into a trial or executed.

Worse, he might try to cast Saru aside, claiming him unfit.

Gently, I slip from the blankets. Saru stirs, eyes flickering open. His horns shift as he focuses on me, a silent question. I manage a small smile. “I just need to stand up. My side hurts if I stay still too long.”

He nods, pushing upright in bed. The soft lamplight catches the silver edges of his horns and the lingering bruise across his chest from the convulsions. “Better?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

I stretch, ignoring the twinge under my ribs. “A little,” I murmur, smoothing down my tunic. “But we should check on the fortress. Thakur won’t rest after what happened.”

He nods, exhaling. “Then we’ll face it. Together.”

The promise in his tone calms me. I cross the cold floor, slipping on my boots while Saru dresses.

We barely speak, exchanging glances loaded with unspoken understanding.

Yesterday, we faced near tragedy. Last night, we clung to each other.

Now, we venture into a world that might tear us apart.

The Bastion can be merciless, and Thakur even more so.

We exit the room, greeting the guard posted outside.

He bows, reading the tension in our features.

Saru leads the way through the corridors, each step echoing in the hush of early morning.

I keep close to his side, scanning for any sign of sabotage or unexpected watchers.

My heart flutters with worry. Thakur might have minotaur allies or Senate supporters lurking around. We can’t let our guard drop.

At the main intersection near the supply yard, Captain Davor intercepts us with a grim expression.

“Warden,” he says to Saru, then turns to me.

“Naeva. You should know: Thakur summoned a formal hearing with the lower Senate. He arrived late last night, claiming he has proof of your treason, and that the Warden is unfit.” His tone drips with contempt.

“He demands your immediate execution, pending a Bastion review.”

My stomach twists. Treason? “What proof?” I manage, voice tight.

Davor scowls. “Fabricated evidence. Some nonsense about you conspiring with dark elves, forging contraband. Possibly linking you to the poison that nearly killed the Warden. He claims Saru’s blind to your ‘true nature.’” He lowers his voice. “He’s come with official Senate backing this time.”

Saru’s jaw sets, horns angling in anger. “So he means to corner us. That’s no surprise.”

I fold my arms over my sore ribs. “If the Senate backs him, do we have any recourse?”

Davor lifts a battered scroll. “He’s invoked ancient minotaur law.

If the Senate sees Saru as unfit, they can depose him—unless he challenges it in the arena.

A champion’s duel. Win, and you keep your rank.

Lose, and you forfeit your claim, leading to your prisoner’s execution.

” He gives me a sympathetic look. “That is, your execution.”

My pulse hammers. The old ways say a Warden can defend his position through a formal arena challenge. But this is monstrous. If Saru loses, I’ll be condemned. A wave of dread washes over me. “We can’t let him fight. That’s madness.”

Saru’s horns tilt toward me, eyes grim. “Madness or not, it’s the only path if Thakur has enough Senate clout. I won’t stand by while they brand you a traitor.”

I reach for his arm, voice shaking. “You almost died from poison. You’re still recovering. This is exactly what Thakur wants— push you into a rigged arena fight while you’re weak.”

Saru glances at Davor. “We have no other option?”

Davor shrugs, frustration etched in his face. “Unless you’re willing to let them drag Naeva to the gallows. Thakur demanded an immediate execution order. The Senate accepted, but they included the ancient challenge clause. Possibly because some within the Senate want to see if you’ll fold.”

I grit my teeth, turning to Saru. “Don’t do it. Don’t risk your life for me again.”

He fixes me with a steady gaze, ignoring the uncertain guards around us. “I can’t let them kill you, Naeva. I’d fight an army if that’s what it takes.”

My chest tightens. Heat prickles beneath the branded skin—echoes of the past. I saved his life once, but an arena duel is a different beast. “This is exactly the trap Thakur set.”

He nods grimly, tail flicking once. “Then let him set it. I’ll break it.”

Saru glances at Davor, voice terse. “Prepare the challenge. I’ll face whomever Thakur nominates as champion. We do it by the old code.”

Davor salutes, though worry flickers in his eyes. “Yes, Warden.”

Saru looks back at me, jaw set. “I want you safe. Stay near your guard. Don’t listen to Thakur’s lies.”

I can barely speak past the lump in my throat. “This is insane,” I whisper, stepping closer so only he can hear. “You’re not fully healed. You’ll bleed out if that champion strikes true.”

His expression softens, tension in his horns easing for a moment. He lifts a hand to my cheek, ignoring the handful of watchers who pretend not to stare. “If I die, let my name shield you. The Bastion can’t kill someone under House Rhek’tal crest unless all the line is gone.”

My stomach roils. “That’s your plan? Sacrifice yourself to keep me breathing?”

He doesn’t flinch, voice low and fierce. “I’d rather live. But if it comes to that, yes. Your life is worth it.”

Tears threaten my composure. I scowl, half in anger, half in desperation. “I don’t want your name without you. Don’t do this.”

He leans in, pressing a brief, heated kiss to my brow. “No more debate,” he says softly. “I’ll see this done.” Then he steps back, turning on his heel. Davor motions for him to follow, presumably to finalize challenge details. The tension in the corridor hums with dread.

I stand there, fists clenched, heart pounding.

The brand itches as if in protest. My entire body shakes with the desire to run after him, drag him away from this suicidal plan.

Instead, I sag against the stone wall, breath uneven.

Guards pass, trying not to stare at my tears.

My assigned escort hovers uncertainly until I wave him off.

I slip away, needing air, needing to quell the panic that threatens to consume me.

I find a quiet corner near a set of high-arched windows overlooking the Bastion’s outer courtyard.

The early morning sun spills across the stones, but it does nothing to warm the chill inside me.

Saru. The memory of his near death from poison, and now an arena challenge?

If he’s not at full strength, Thakur’s champion could kill him easily.

A swirl of memories floods me: the hush of last night’s closeness, the forging of trust beyond brand or vow, how we gave ourselves to each other so completely.

And now, the Senate might tear it all away in a single, brutal match.

My ribs twinge with each ragged breath. The reckless part of me yearns to storm the Senate hall, shout my truth, watch their smug faces twist in fear.

But that’s exactly what Thakur wants—a chaos-born monster for his lies.

A distant clang from below signals the fortress preparing for some official event.

My stomach clenches. The Bastion’s arena stands at the center of the fortress, an ancient structure of towering stone seats and a sandy pit.

The idea of Saru stepping into that ring, bleeding from a wound that’s barely healed from the poison, makes me sick.

But if I try to stop him, I might doom us both.

I push away from the window, ignoring the sting in my eyes.

I need to do something. Maybe gather any leverage we have—notes on Thakur’s contraband deals, the pitch crates we uncovered.

If we can prove Thakur’s corruption, we might circumvent the challenge.

But that would take time, and the Senate might push for a swift fight.

I roam the corridors, searching for any ally who might help.

Davor is locked in with Saru, finalizing details.

The only name that comes to mind is Vira Rhek’tal, Saru’s sister who holds a Senate seat.

She might sway some votes. But contacting her is tricky.

She’s not always in the Bastion, traveling for Senate duties.

My chest knots with frustration. The fortress brims with watchers and Thakur’s spies, and Saru might not last if forced into a fight too soon.

My assigned guard trails me, warily observing my agitation.

Finally, I relent, telling him I’ll wait near the old records room— a modest chamber lined with dusty scrolls.

He stands outside as I slip in, rummaging through documents, hoping for a legal precedent that might override the champion’s duel.

The room stinks of old parchment and stale air.

My ribs ache from leaning over the wooden table, scanning text after text. But none of it offers a quick escape.