Page 6

NAEVA

I wake to the clang of iron doors and the low snort of a minotaur guard outside my cell.

Dawn light filters through a narrow slit in the wall, but the corridor torches still burn.

My wrists ache from yesterday’s rough handling, and a dull throb in my side reminds me that this prison doesn’t value comfort.

If it’s not bruises from guards, it’s the constant strain of wearing chains meant to keep me compliant.

The cell door creaks open, and two guards enter.

One is a short minotaur—if such a term applies to anything that stands nearly a head taller than me.

The other has golden-brown fur and an old scar carved across his muzzle.

They carry themselves with that rigid discipline I’m beginning to associate with the Bastion.

“On your feet,” the scarred one says, voice gruff.

I glare for a moment but push off the straw pallet. He might be bigger, but I’ve never been one to cower. My hair clings to my face in tangled strands as I stand.

He nods once. “Warden’s orders: You’re to assist with inventory in the private armory.”

A humorless laugh escapes me. “Didn’t realize you needed a human prisoner to count your shiny weapons.”

His brow twitches. “Don’t make this harder. Move.”

They lead me through a series of corridors that twist around the fortress’s heart.

The Bastion is so large, it feels like a city within walls—each section has its own unique atmosphere.

Some halls echo with distant clangs of blacksmiths at work, while others remain tomb-still, as though centuries of secrets lurk in the stone.

We pass a group of Kimtivkuz—indentured workers lugging crates of supplies. A few glance at me with curiosity, but none linger. Everyone here sticks to their duty, including me now, apparently.

My stomach churns with tension. I’m not new to forced labor, but the notion of being assigned to Saru’s personal domain sets my nerves on edge. I don’t care if he’s Warden or some old war hero—he’s still part of the system that keeps me locked away.

The guards pause before a tall iron-banded door.

One unlocks it with a thick key. Beyond, the private armory opens like an expansive chamber carved from stone.

Lamps dangle from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over racks of spears, swords, war hammers, and crossbows.

Worktables stand in neat rows, each topped with velvet pads for holding or repairing gear.

The space smells of oiled steel and old leather.

I take it in, unsettled by how organized it looks. Everything gleams under the light, each weapon meticulously polished. It reminds me of a dark elf forge—minus the chaotic pulses of arcane energy I once despised.

Standing near a broad table is Saru himself.

He looks up as we enter, his amber eyes briefly settling on me.

My gaze fixes on him, marking every detail.

His horns curve in an almost symmetrical twist, black at the tips, silver edging highlighting faint scratches.

The large shoulders covered in dark sable fur remind me that minotaurs are built for war.

Yet there’s a particular grace in how he stands, balanced and quiet, like a warrior who has seen countless battles and refuses to be taken by surprise.

Even from this distance, I sense a calm that could either be discipline or cold detachment.

He’s wearing partial armor—simple leather bracers and a chest plate that’s molded to fit his towering frame.

There are scars along his arms and a deeper set carved across his collarbone, visible where the armor doesn’t fully cover.

His presence fills the armory, as if everything else is overshadowed by his silent authority.

Saru acknowledges the guards with a brief dip of his chin. Then he focuses on me. “You came,” he says, and though it sounds neutral, I catch a faint current under his words—like he’s taking note of my mood.

I shrug. “Wouldn’t call it a choice.”

He gestures for the guards to wait near the door. “She works here today. Keep an eye on her, but don’t interfere unless necessary.”

The scarred minotaur scowls but nods. He and the other guard position themselves against the wall, arms folded, while I stand rooted, glaring at Saru.

He picks up a small ledger and scans it. “I assume you can read numbers.”

“Surprise,” I retort. “I’m not a mindless savage.”

His expression remains impassive, though I see a flicker in those amber eyes. “Then you can do this job without complaint,” he says softly. “Start with the spear racks. Each slot has a tag. Count how many are filled, compare with the ledger, note any discrepancies.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I didn’t realize we were in a competition for best-kept inventory. You’re putting a condemned prisoner to work like some loyal scribe. Why bother? I’ll end up dead eventually, right?”

He sets the ledger on the table. “We’ll see.”

“Pathetic,” I mutter. “If you think I’ll bow and scrape, you’re mistaken.”

A muscle in his jaw tightens. “Do the job, or the arena awaits you immediately. I’m not interested in your groveling.”

My breath hitches. There’s something about his refusal to rise to my taunts that annoys me more than outright cruelty would. At least with open brutality, I’d know where we stand. But Saru stands tall, calm, detached, giving me nothing to rail against except a stoic wall.

I exhale and move to the first rack. The day is young, but I can already tell it’ll be a trial.

I crouch to check the bottom row, counting spears by brand and length.

The ledger is half-filled with neat lines of minotaur script, which I can read enough to match the symbols with the physical weapons.

For a while, the only sounds are the scratch of a quill on parchment and my own muttered remarks.

Occasionally, I stand and glance over my shoulder, noticing Saru in quiet conversation with one of the guards.

He doesn’t speak much—just short, measured instructions.

Another guard enters, bringing a battered shield, and they discuss repairs in low tones.

Sparks of irritation dance in my chest. Something about the Warden unsettles me, not because he’s monstrous, but because he’s so reserved.

He’s physically imposing, yes—a giant covered in fur and scars—but the bigger issue is the way he can silence a room with a single look.

I prefer open conflict over this tense calm.

It feels like he’s analyzing me from behind that unreadable stare, waiting for me to slip.

Eventually, I finish cataloging the first section. While noting the tally, I notice a mismatch in the ledger. The recorded count for a particular style of spear doesn’t match what I see. I chew my lip, debating whether to call attention to it or ignore it out of spite.

In the end, I decide it’s best to see how he reacts. Maybe this is a test. I walk back to the main table, ledger in hand. Saru turns from a conversation with the guard captain.

“What is it?” he asks, voice low and even.

“Your ledger’s off,” I say, tapping the page. “These spears—here.” I point to a line referencing a row of short-bladed javelins. “You’ve got two fewer than recorded.”

He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of worn leather and faint metal polish on him. Being near him magnifies just how large he is—he could lift me one-handed if he wanted. Yet he leans in with precise control, scanning the notation.

“Show me,” he says.

I spin on my heel, leading him to the rack. My boots scuff the stone floor, and I feel his presence just behind. When I crouch to indicate the slots, he stays standing, arms folded as if he expects me to demonstrate the difference.

“See?” I count the javelins. “We’re short.”

He studies them, then shifts his attention to me. “You read minotaur script well enough. Where did you learn?”

I swallow, not ready to divulge my entire history. “I had time to pick up a few skills.”

He exhales softly. “Good.” He straightens, glancing at the guard captain. “Send someone to check if the missing javelins are in the training yard. They might have been borrowed but not logged out.”

The guard nods and leaves at once. Saru lingers, his gaze still on me, one brow lifting. “Any other discrepancies?”

I shrug. “Not yet. But I’m sure I’ll find more flaws in this brilliant system.”

A corner of his mouth tightens, though not in anger. “Keep looking.”

He walks away, each step a measured thud of hooves on stone, returning to the main table. I remain behind, a surge of restless energy coursing through me. Something about our exchange feels charged, as if we’re testing boundaries in a dance neither of us wants to acknowledge.

I resume my task, half-hoping to spot more errors just to prove I’m valuable enough not to kill.

Despite my resentment, I know it’s a lifeline.

If I can prove they need me, maybe I can buy time.

I’m not naive enough to think Saru is my champion.

But if he wanted me dead, the Bastion’s arena would have already swallowed me.

I move on to the sword racks next, flipping pages in the ledger. That’s when I notice movement in my peripheral vision—Saru approaching again, quietly.

He stands close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from his body. “This is the private armory,” he says. “Some of these weapons belong to my personal collection. Handle them carefully.”

I snort, eyes locked on the swords. “You think I’m going to sabotage your precious gear?”

He’s silent for a moment, then replies, “You’ve done it before—to a ship.”

My spine stiffens. “That was different.”

“I’m sure it was.” He’s so calm, so infuriatingly calm, that it flares my temper.