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SARU

T he Bastion roars with the stomping of hooves, the thunderous chant of the crowd echoing off ancient stone.

I stand beneath a high, arched gate, the arena’s sandy pit stretching beyond the shadows.

The midday sun pours in from above, blinding in its intensity.

My grip tightens on the massive war axe in my hand, each breath a reminder of the bruises and half-healed wounds lacing my body from the last confrontation.

But this is the final stand—my ultimate challenge to protect Naeva from the Senate’s cruelty and Thakur’s schemes.

I hear the muffled voice of a herald announcing my name, a formal recitation of titles and accusations.

My heart thuds, horns pricking with pent-up energy.

Each word the herald speaks hurls me back to the day’s events: Thakur demanding my removal from leadership, labeling me unfit, claiming I can’t be Warden while harboring a “traitorous” human.

All lies. But the Senate, inflamed by Thakur’s manipulations, agreed to one final measure: a duel in the grand arena.

If I lose, they declare me stripped of rank, free to condemn Naeva as a traitor.

If I win, Thakur’s claims vanish, and the brand stands unchallenged.

My lungs expand with a practiced inhalation, ignoring the burning ache in my side.

The poison scars have not fully healed. But we have no choice.

I clench my jaw, recalling the sight of Naeva weeping that I shouldn’t fight again, that it’s too great a risk.

Yet I can’t let the Senate toss her life aside. I will fight until my last breath.

A guard behind me mumbles that it’s time.

With a sharp nod, I step forward, emerging from the gate into blinding sunlight.

The stands erupt in noise—thousands of voices, stamping hooves, raucous cheers or jeers.

My tail flicks once in tension. I stride to the center, forced to raise a hand against the glare.

The wide, circular arena is packed, layered with seats that climb high, each row brimming with minotaurs wearing expressions that range from awe to bloodlust.

In the highest box sits Thakur, flanked by a retinue of Senate supporters.

A smug tilt lines his jaw as he leans forward, anticipating my downfall.

My blood surges at the sight of him. I spot other senators too, including some who remain stoic, watching whether I can uphold the Bastion’s code.

My entire life, I’ve served that code, even when it cost me my brother. Now it demands I risk everything again.

My gaze drifts to a lower section where Naeva stands, guarded by two loyal Bastion officers.

She’s tense, brand visible on her forearm.

Her face ashen, lips parted in dread. Our eyes meet.

A wave of warmth floods me. She is the reason I do this.

If I fall, they’ll brand her a traitor, and Thakur’s sentencing could be swift.

But I intend to survive. I dip my horns in silent promise.

Her expression tightens, tears brimming, yet she nods once, steel in her gaze.

A hush descends as a herald steps forward.

He lists the charges Thakur has leveled: that I’m unfit, that my prisoner—Naeva—committed treason, that only an arena challenge can settle the dispute.

He proclaims I champion my own cause, refusing to yield my rank, and that Thakur’s champion stands for the Senate’s verdict.

The hush rises to a collective murmur when the champion emerges from the opposite gate.

He’s massive—a towering minotaur draped in spiked pauldrons, horns tipped with silver.

The crowd mutters his name: Korsa, a famed pit fighter who once slaughtered six criminals in a single match.

My stomach clenches. He moves with a predatory grace, brandishing a broad-bladed glaive.

In the stands, Thakur smiles, anticipating my defeat.

The herald raises an arm, voice carrying. “Combatants, state your cause.”

I grip my war axe, stepping forward. “I fight for the Bastion’s code, for the rightful brand I placed on my prisoner, and against Thakur’s false charges.” My voice resonates, calm but unyielding. “I do not yield. And I will not let the Senate condemn Naeva.”

A rumble passes through the stands—some cheers, some curses. Korsa snorts, pounding his glaive against the sand. “I fight in the Senate’s name,” he declares, voice a thunder. “Your brand is a farce. The Bastion deserves a stronger Warden.” He angles his horns, eyes glinting with cruel challenge.

The herald lowers his flag, stepping back. An instant hush. My muscles coil, horns buzzing. I cast one last glance at Naeva’s section—her face is a portrait of fear. Then the horn sounds, and the fight begins.

Korsa lunges first, swinging that glaive in a wide arc.

I duck, bracing my axe to deflect. Metal clashes on metal in a resounding clang that sends vibrations through my arms. He’s strong—each blow pulses with brute force.

I circle to the left, searching for an opening.

Dust swirls around our hooves. The crowd’s roar crescendos.

He feints high, then thrusts low. I sidestep, though not as smoothly as I’d like. My battered thigh from the prior battle throbs, reminding me of my vulnerability. Still, I grit my teeth, returning a fierce slash that Korsa only just parries. Sparks fly where our blades connect.

We exchange several brutal strikes, each tested by the other’s cunning.

My chest tightens with each movement, sweat trickling down my brow.

Despite my injuries, I push forward, refusing to show weakness.

Korsa senses a chance, pressing the advantage.

He batters at my axe, forcing me to retreat a step. The crowd cheers his aggression.

But I won’t yield. With a sudden roar, I pivot, hooking my axe beneath his glaive to knock it aside.

He grunts, staggering, and I drive the haft of my weapon into his armored shoulder.

He stumbles, but recovers faster than I expect.

A spiked gauntlet rakes across my chest plate, the force jarring me.

Pain lances through my old poison-wounds.

I bite back a hiss, horns tilting forward.

The stands vibrate with frantic cries, some chanting my name, others chanting Korsa’s. Thakur leans over his box, eyes gleaming with delight at my labored breath. My mind flashes to Naeva—her tears, her vow not to let me stand alone. Her presence propels me onward.

We lock weapons again, horns practically colliding.

A savage dance of steel and sand. He tries to spin behind me, but I pivot, slamming my shoulder into him.

His blade grazes my side, scoring a shallow cut that stings.

Blood trickles down my flank. The crowd gasps.

My vision darkens momentarily, battered by old injuries.

But I can’t falter. I roar, swinging the axe in a wide arc. Korsa stumbles back, scowling.

We separate, breathing hard. Dust coats our fur, the air thick with tension. My ribs ache with each inhale. He smirks, catching his breath. “Your brand cost you your edge, Warden,” he taunts. “You fight like a wounded bull.”

I glare, refusing to speak. Trash talk won’t rattle me.

Instead, I circle him, searching for a crack in his armor.

He lifts the glaive overhead, charging in a display of raw ferocity.

I brace, crossing my axe to block the overhead strike.

The impact numbs my arms. He rams into me, horns locking with mine.

For a moment, we strain, muzzle to muzzle, the crowd’s cheers deafening. My injured thigh nearly buckles.

He capitalizes on my stumble, hooking the glaive’s handle behind my knee to topple me.

I crash onto the sand with a grunt, my axe pinned.

The stands erupt in a collective roar. My skull rings from the blow, vision swimming.

Korsa roars in triumph, about to deliver a finishing slash.

Panic surges. If I die here, Naeva is doomed.

I recall her eyes brimming with terror, her broken whisper not to fight for her again.

But I had no choice. I can’t let Thakur claim victory.

If I fall, all is lost. Summoning the last dregs of strength, I twist aside, letting his blade slam into the sand.

He curses, yanking it free. I roll, ignoring the searing pain, and kick out with both legs, slamming his ankle. He staggers, cursing.

That opening is all I need. I scramble up, driving my axe’s blade at his exposed flank. He spins, but the edge catches him, carving a bloody line. He bellows in rage, hooves stamping. Our weapons meet again, locked in a lethal grid. My arms strain, muscles trembling.

The crowd stands in a frenzy, chanting. My breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhalation shooting pain through my chest. But the memory of Naeva’s face fuels me.

I push aside the agony. Korsa tries to bash my horns aside, but I tear free, slashing at his midsection.

He blocks with the butt of his glaive, nearly knocking my axe from my grip.

Sparks fly, the clang of steel sending shockwaves up my arms.

Blood seeps from multiple cuts along my side.

My head swims. Korsa sniffs my weakness, grinning savagely.

He lunges, locking horns with me to keep my axe at bay.

The force sends me skidding backward, knees nearly giving out.

My arms quake, vision blurring. The crowd’s roar fades to a distant thunder in my skull.

Korsa grinds forward, trying to pry the axe from my hands. I sense my doom.

But then I see her. Amid the stands, a flash of dark hair, that brand on her arm, and an anguished cry, “Saru!” She’s leaning over the barrier, tears streaming, face contorted in desperation. My chest clenches. I refuse to let that anguish end in tragedy. I won’t let Thakur devour her life.