Page 5

I study her. The shape of her face is sharp, accentuated by hollow cheeks.

There’s a scab near her jaw that must be from a guard’s baton.

Scars crisscross her forearms in patterns suggesting repeated burns—like she once labored near forge fires or arcane contraptions.

A part of me wonders how many injuries are hidden under her clothes.

“Why am I here,” she says, voice tight. It’s not phrased like a question; more like a challenge.

I step closer, my hooves scraping softly on the worn floor. “I’m told you have knowledge that might be useful. Sabotaging a dark elf ship is no small feat. And I’ll be direct—the Bastion values knowledge.”

She tilts her head, a dark gleam in her eyes. “You mean the Bastion values saving its own hide. The Senate’s brand of ‘justice’ wouldn’t mind letting me rot if I couldn’t be of use.”

My nostrils flare. She’s not entirely wrong. “I need answers,” I say at last. “How did you cause that ship to explode?”

She shrugs, wincing a little as if the movement irritates a sore muscle. “Trial and error,” she answers. “I broke the engine’s wards, tampered with vital components. Lit the place up from inside. If they were carrying contraband, it made everything go up in flames faster.”

Contraband. She must mean the illicit cargo that dark elf nobles sometimes smuggle—a mixture of chaos-forged weapons or experimental potions.

That might have explained the quick, violent destruction.

And it’s news the Senate could exploit. My mind whirls with the potential.

If we can confirm that dark elf shipments pose a risk, it strengthens Milthar’s position to renegotiate certain trade terms.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You realize if you keep to the official story—murdering a dark elf noble—that law condemns you to the arena.”

She doesn’t flinch. “I never thought I’d get out of here alive. So yes, I’m aware.”

There’s a subtle tremor in her voice when she says that, though she tries to hide it with biting sarcasm. I regard her for a moment, remembering Vira’s letter. This woman’s sabotage saved my sister’s life, even if unknowingly. And I’d be lying if I claimed it means nothing to me.

“You have two choices,” I say carefully, ignoring the flicker of doubt gnawing at my gut. “Either you remain in the standard track for the arena or you cooperate. If you cooperate, I can assign you to tasks within the Bastion. You’ll still be a prisoner, but you may live a while longer.”

A dry laugh escapes her. “Cooperate. You mean become a lackey in your fortress of minotaurs?”

My lips press into a thin line. “You think me a tyrant?”

“I think all of you have horns and walls high enough to keep out the sky. I’ve been in chains half my life. This is just one more prison, dressed up in white stone.”

She stares at me, and for an instant, I see raw pain behind her harsh gaze. I recall that many humans—especially from dark elf-controlled regions—endure unimaginable cruelties. The Bastion might actually feel less brutal compared to some experiences. Yet it’s still a cage.

I inhale slowly, forcing my tone to remain level. “Our courts dictate that sabotage of a recognized vessel is punishable by death. That’s not my personal invention. I’m offering a means to stay that sentence, at least temporarily.”

Her mouth twists. She looks away, refusing to let me see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. It’s the first time she doesn’t hurl a retort, and it tells me more than any words could.

Stepping back, I nod to the guard. “Unchain her ankles as well. But keep a close watch.” I meet her gaze again. “You’ll start with the armory’s inventory tomorrow. A guard captain named Davor will oversee your tasks.”

She narrows her eyes. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you go to the arena at dawn. I’m certain you’ll fight well…but a single human can’t outlast the Bastion’s champion.”

Silence. Her shoulders slump a fraction, though her defiance remains. “This is a devil’s choice,” she says at last.

“Call it what you like. But it’s all you have.”

I turn to leave, the torchlight casting my shadow along the stone floor. As I approach the door, her voice stops me.

“Why keep me alive, Warden?” she asks quietly. “You said knowledge is valuable, but is that the only reason?”

I pause, not turning around. My pulse gives a peculiar jump. Memories swirl: Vira’s letter, the day I read that manifest, the guilt of letting the Senate’s laws overshadow my personal debts. “We never know when an enemy might become an ally,” I reply softly. “That’s reason enough.”

She doesn’t respond. I step into the corridor, letting the door close behind me with a heavy thud.

Davor stands outside, arms folded. He glances at me with curiosity. “She’s secured?”

“Yes. Unchain her, but keep her under watch. She starts tomorrow in the armory.”

A small frown creases his brow. “Understood. Sir, if you don’t mind me asking…did she tell you anything of use?”

“She hinted at contraband on the dark elf vessel. Potentially dangerous cargo.”

He nods, apparently satisfied by that explanation.

We walk together down the corridor, the torches flickering overhead.

“You know the Senate might demand to see her in the arena anyway,” he adds in a lower voice.

“Even if she’s informative. They’ve invested a lot of political credit in convicting saboteurs who threaten trade. ”

I clench my jaw. “They can wait. I’m the Warden. I have the authority to extract any intelligence I see fit. If the Senate doesn’t like it, they can come here themselves.”

His eyes flick to the scars on my horns. I know what he’s thinking. I’ve faced the Senate once before, in a public trial for the life of my brother. I survived that crucible, so they can’t intimidate me easily. Not anymore.

We reach a branching intersection where a flight of stairs leads to the upper levels. Davor salutes. “I’ll see to it, Warden. The prisoner will be guarded at all times.” Then he heads off, leaving me alone.

My footfalls echo on the steps as I ascend.

The weight of the Bastion’s stone seems heavier than usual today.

The entire fortress is a testament to minotaur might, a statement that we stand unbroken on our island.

At times, though, I wonder if the real prison is the honor code that keeps me bound here, repaying a debt that can never be erased.

Reaching the next landing, I allow myself a moment to gaze through a narrow window overlooking the sea.

Pale daylight glitters on rolling waves, the coastline jagged and formidable, just as the minotaurs prefer.

We’re not a soft people. We thrive on conflict, forging solutions in the arena.

But not every conflict is solved by bloodshed.

There are shadows in politics that can’t be cut down by a blade.

Somewhere below, Naeva Viren is likely pacing in her cell, wrestling with frustration. She came here expecting to be thrown into a ring, and now she’s offered a twisted reprieve. I wonder if she even believes it’s real, or if she assumes it’s some elaborate cruelty.

I see that last flash of her eyes in my mind.

A mixture of rage and something deeper—hope, maybe, or confusion.

Either way, it stirs a strange resolve within me.

She saved my sister’s life, whether by chance or design.

It’s no small debt. Yet I can’t compromise the Bastion’s laws simply to repay her.

The best I can do is walk this razor’s edge, keep her breathing, and glean what knowledge she has.

In return, I’ll see if we can bend the rules enough to spare her from a pointless death.

As I turn from the window, a guard hurries past, calling out that the next wave of arena challengers is being assembled for training.

An unfamiliar heaviness tugs at my chest. Each day I watch men and women fight in that sandy pit, carrying bruises and fear.

But I’ve never allowed sentiment to interfere with justice.

Now, my stance wavers, challenged by a single name on a manifest.

I make my way to the training yard, ignoring the swirl of complicated thoughts. The sun glares down on the wide expanse as a group of guards drills with short swords, their strikes echoing. One or two glances in my direction, but they refocus quickly, aware the Warden tolerates no laxity.

A swirl of dust and sand stings my nostrils.

I fold my arms and survey the yard. Over by a row of weapons stands, a handful of potential fighters practice with battered equipment.

Some will enter the arena tomorrow, unprepared for the brutality that awaits them.

Others are half-resigned to their fate, numb after weeks of captivity.

Naeva won’t be among them if my orders hold.

Instead, she’ll be in the armory, forced to count blades and secure the racks while guards hover at her shoulder.

It’s not freedom, but it’s better than an immediate pit sentence.

That’s the best I can give her right now, until I gather enough ground to negotiate with the Senate—or until she gives me a reason to trust her more.

As the clang of metal resonates through the yard, I inhale the tang of sweat and steel.

My horns feel weighted down than usual, etched with names I cannot forget.

The memory of my brother’s face in the arena flashes through my mind, gone as quickly as it appeared.

I force it down. That pain won’t help me here.

The sun dips lower, turning the sky a pale gold.

Another day in the Bastion. Another day overseeing a fortress that holds criminals, spies, and unfortunates in its jaws.

My role is to maintain order, preserve minotaur honor, and deliver justice.

Yet justice no longer feels straightforward when I recall Naeva’s unwavering stare.

I exhale, lifting a hand to rub the lines cut into my horns.

Each line marks a vow or a memory. The last vow I etched was after my brother’s downfall: to protect what remains of my family and never again allow politics to stain my conscience.

Whether I want it or not, protecting Naeva—for a time—serves that vow.

Vira’s letter weighs on my heart. If not for this human, Vira might be gone.

I’ll repay that debt in the only way I can: a postponed sentence, an uncertain reprieve.

Tomorrow, I will see if Naeva can follow orders. If she can keep her anger from sparking a brawl in the corridors. If she can do more than sabotage and fight. The Senate can protest all it wants, but so long as I hold the keys to this Bastion, I make the rules inside these walls.

My tail sweeps across the dusty ground behind me.

My gaze drifts to the armory doors tucked against the outer wall, shadowed by the fading light.

Yes, tomorrow is a test—one she might fail or might pass.

Either way, I can’t pretend I’m indifferent anymore.

That single name on the manifest has opened a path I didn’t expect.

I watch the last of the day’s sunlight slip over the battlements, painting the Bastion in a fleeting glow.

The clang of weapons dulls as the guards wind down drills.

In the gathering twilight, I allow myself one final lingering thought: perhaps this is not just a matter of debts or intelligence.

Perhaps it’s the first time in years I’ve felt a spark of something besides duty or regret.

Then I shut that door in my mind and stride off to prepare for tomorrow’s routine.

I remain the Warden, after all. And I refuse to fail my post or my people.