Page 41

Hours pass, or so it feels. My eyes blur from reading. Each breath feels heavier, aware that the Bastion might announce the challenge at any time. Abruptly, a commotion stirs outside in the corridor. Boots on stone, raised voices. I abandon my search, rushing out.

The guard looks tense. “They’ve called an assembly in the arena,” he says. “Word is Thakur demands it happen now. They’re preparing the stands.”

My stomach drops. “Now? Saru’s still—” I can’t finish. If they’re hustling him into the ring with no time to recover, it’s stacked.

The guard’s expression is grim. “Yes, ma’am. The Warden insisted you remain guarded, but I suspect you’ll want to see him before the match.”

Terror and resolve war inside me. I nod firmly. “Take me to him.”

We navigate through throngs of murmuring minotaurs and a scattering of humans.

The fortress buzzes with uneasy excitement, as if bracing for a spectacle.

I catch glimpses of Thakur’s retinue, smug faces whispering about Saru’s downfall.

Fury roils in my gut. Saru might be stepping into the biggest fight of his life, weakened by poison. All for me.

At last, the guard leads me to a side corridor near the arena’s entrance, where Saru stands conferring with Davor and two other loyal officers.

He wears partial armor, polished but not as pristine as usual.

Tension lines his brow. When he sees me, his horns angle slightly, relief flickering in his gaze.

The officers slip away, giving us space.

I rush up, heart in my throat. “They’re forcing you in now?”

He nods. “Thakur demanded it. The Senate sanctioned an immediate challenge. No time to gather your evidence or petition. I said yes.”

My chest aches. “But you’re not even fully recovered.”

He holds my gaze, determined. “No alternative. If I refuse, they brand me unfit and order your execution. If I fight, at least there’s a chance. I won’t let them kill you.”

My vision blurs with tears. “You can’t do this. Please. Don’t risk your life again.”

He exhales, stepping closer so we’re almost chest to chest. “Listen,” he says quietly, voice like steady thunder. “I’d rather fight than watch them drag you away.”

I grasp his arm, desperation surging. “And if you lose? Then what?”

He sets a hand on my cheek, ignoring the passersby who pretend not to stare. “If I die, let my name shield you. My brand stands, even in death. They can’t legally harm you without the Rhek’tal line’s blessing.”

Anger and grief tear at me. I shake my head. “I don’t want a shield if it costs your life.”

His horns tilt, eyes flicking over my face. “I fight for both of us. Don’t beg me to yield. I can’t.”

Trembling, I meet his unwavering gaze. I sense the weight of centuries-old codes on his shoulders. My brand itches, reminding me how far we’ve come. Last night, we were fused in love or something close to it. Now, Senate laws might rip him away.

I swallow, tears streaking my cheeks. “At least promise me you’ll do everything to survive. Don’t throw your life away just to keep me breathing.”

He nods. “I promise.” A grim softness in his voice. “I’ll fight to win. But if fate stands against me… you must live.”

I can’t speak, emotion tangling in my throat.

He lowers his head, pressing his forehead to mine, ignoring the hustle around us.

My tears drip onto his chest plate. We linger like that, a fragile moment of intimacy in the swirl of the Bastion’s mania.

Then he straightens, bracing his shoulders.

“They’re calling me. Stay with your guard in the stands. Watch, if you can.”

I want to protest. But he’s already stepping away, a silent figure of stoic resolve. Davor motions him toward the arena’s gate. I remain rooted, tears burning, the brand scab throbbing. A guard gently touches my arm. “Come. The stands are filling. He’d want you to be safe.”

I let him guide me. The corridor leads into a wide archway that opens onto the arena’s spectator rows—rows of stone seats ringed around a central sandy pit.

The midday sun glares overhead. A swirl of minotaurs, some humans, a few senators, all gather, hungry for spectacle.

Thakur sits in a reserved section with his retinue, smug satisfaction etched on his face. My blood boils.

I find a seat near the lower row, as close as permitted.

The guard stands behind me, arms folded.

My heart slams with every breath. The arena’s sand stretches out, a circle of dust that has seen countless duels.

A hush falls as Saru emerges from one tunnel, clad in minimal armor, a large war axe in hand.

He walks with the faintest limp, a leftover from poison or bruises.

My stomach roils. Thakur’s champion emerges from the opposite side—a massive minotaur with spiked pauldrons and a cruel grin.

The crowd stirs, murmurs of a legendary fighter once loyal to Thakur.

A Senate herald steps forward, reciting formalities: Saru Rhek’tal, Warden of the Bastion, challenges the Senate’s champion to defend his rank and the life of the branded prisoner, Naeva.

If he wins, Thakur’s charges are null. If he loses, Thakur’s word stands, leading to my execution and Saru’s removal from leadership.

The crowd hums with anticipation. My chest feels hollow.

The duel begins, no preamble. The champion lunges, swinging a massive hammer. Saru blocks with his axe, arms straining. Even from my seat, I see his face tighten, horns angled in fierce concentration. Dust kicks up as they circle, weapons colliding in thunderous blows. My heart leaps at each clash.

The champion is cunning, pressing Saru’s weak side where the poison aftermath might linger.

Saru staggers once, nearly losing grip on his axe.

I choke on a scream. He recovers, slashing upward, forcing the champion back.

Blood seeps from a cut on Saru’s left arm—he grits his teeth, pressing on.

The stands erupt with cheers or jeers, some for Saru, some for Thakur’s champion.

Thakur himself watches with a predatory smirk, arms folded. My nails bite into my palms.

Time warps. The duel rages, blow after blow, dust swirling around them. Saru’s breath heaves, sweat darkening his fur. He takes a hit to the shoulder, staggering. The crowd gasps. I lurch upright, wanting to run down and shield him, but the guard restrains me gently. My eyes blur with tears.

A brutal exchange ends with both minotaurs locking horns—literally. The champion roars, forcing Saru back. My gut twists, remembering how Saru once fought in that arena. This champion must be well-versed in exploiting weaknesses. If Saru’s not careful, a single blow might end it.

Suddenly, Saru pivots with surprising agility, hooking his axe under the champion’s hammer.

He yanks upward, disarming him for a heartbeat.

The crowd gasps as the champion’s hammer flies free, skittering across the sand.

Saru attempts a killing blow, but the champion ducks, retrieving a hidden blade from his belt.

He slashes low, slicing into Saru’s thigh.

Saru roars in pain, staggering. Blood stains the sand.

A hush of horror washes over me. If he collapses now, it’s over.

My heart pounds so hard I can’t breathe.

He wavers, but with a furious snarl, he grips his axe in both hands, ignoring the blood.

The champion lunges again, blade angled at Saru’s chest. Saru sidesteps, though not fully— a fresh line of blood appears on his side.

Time seems to slow. The champion rears back, preparing a final strike.

Saru roars, horns angled, slamming forward with unstoppable force.

I see the champion’s eyes widen in shock.

Saru’s axe descends in a brutal arc that collides with the champion’s blade.

For a heartbeat, both weapons lock. Then Saru twists, forcing the champion’s blade aside, and buries his axe in the champion’s torso with a sickening crunch.

The crowd explodes in noise—some cheering, some shrieking.

Blood spatters the sand. The champion collapses, weapons clattering away.

Saru wrenches his axe free, staggering to his knees.

The entire arena seems to freeze, awaiting the verdict.

The champion lies motionless, eyes glazed. It’s over. Saru won.

Relief slams into me so hard I almost sink to the ground.

The guard at my side exclaims in joy. Many in the stands cheer, acknowledging a victory.

Thakur leaps up from his seat, face thunderous.

He storms off, retinue scrambling. My chest heaves, tears flooding down my cheeks.

Saru is alive. Wounded, but alive. I push through the throng, ignoring the guard’s warnings, rushing down the steps to the arena’s edge.

A gate stands between me and the bloodstained sand.

Guards gather around Saru, who struggles to rise, leaning on the handle of his axe.

His entire left leg glistens with red, chest heaving.

I call his name, voice breaking. He hears me, lifts his gaze.

The relief in his eyes is overwhelming. Davor and a few others hurry to support him, half-carrying him from the arena.

I scramble after them, my guard clearing a path.

We find ourselves in a narrow corridor behind the stands, a swirl of healers rushing in with bandages and water. Saru collapses onto a bench, horns drooping. I kneel beside him, tears streaming. He tries to speak, but only a ragged cough comes out.

A healer curses, pressing cloth to his thigh wound.

Another minotaur cleans the slash on his side.

Blood seeps over the stone floor. I hover, wanting to help, but they wave me off.

Saru clenches his jaw, not making a sound despite obvious agony.

Finally, he grabs a corner of my tunic with shaking fingers.

“Alive,” he rasps, voice like broken gravel. “You… safe.”