Page 7

I slam the ledger shut and face him. My head tilts back just to meet his stare.

“Do you want a confession?” My voice grows sharper.

“Yes, I set a slave ship ablaze because I’d rather see it burn than let it carry innocent people to chains.

And if that puts me on the Senate’s death list, so be it. I regret nothing.”

His gaze flickers, something unreadable stirring there. “I’m not asking for remorse,” he says quietly. “But I wonder if you know what that vessel carried. It wasn’t only slaves, was it?”

My heart thuds. Memories rush in of contraband magic stored in the hull. “No,” I admit, words bitter, “it held other dangerous cargo. Did you want me to wait while they shipped it off for profit?”

Saru doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his gaze roams my face, as if he’s searching for cracks in my armor. I hold steady, refusing to break.

“Your intentions might have been noble,” he says at last, “but you still killed a noble heir—someone with ties to the Senate. There are consequences.”

“That’s your way of telling me I’m doomed anyway?”

He doesn’t nod, doesn’t shrug. Just stands there, large arms folded. “If you choose to see it that way.”

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll do this inventory. It doesn’t change the reality that I’m a prisoner—and the Senate wants my head.”

A soft rumble emerges from his chest, like a resigned sigh. “I know what the Senate wants. For now, you’ll work under my watch. That’s all.”

He pulls away, returning to the front table. This time, I watch him for a moment before turning back to the swords.

His form is distinct among the weapons: tall, powerfully built, horns curved with subtle engravings near the base.

A short pelt covers his shoulders, blending into the well-defined muscle.

He moves with careful precision, not a single wasted motion.

Every time he shifts or speaks, the room adjusts around him.

It’s more than mere authority—it’s something in his bearing that demands acknowledgment.

I tear my attention away and focus on the swords. The tension swirling inside me won’t fade. I hate how my gaze drifts toward him when I think he isn’t looking, how I’m quietly aware of every time he glances in my direction.

The day drags on. I tally short swords, crossbows, even a handful of exotic curved blades presumably obtained in wars or trade deals. Occasionally, I call over a guard or wave Saru off to check an item. Despite my scorn, I’m thorough in my work. Pride, or stubbornness, keeps me from slacking.

As midday approaches, one of the guards hands me a water flask. I gulp it down, pushing past the scratch in my throat from hours spent muttering and tallying. The Bastion might be carved into the cliffs, but the interior gets stifling, especially in rooms filled with iron and steel.

Saru takes note of my break, but he doesn’t comment.

Instead, he walks around, reorganizing an open crate of spear tips.

From time to time, he instructs a guard to retrieve something from another wing.

There’s an unspoken system here—everyone quietly obeys, but I sense a tension.

They’re all uncertain why I’m being spared from the arena.

I press on, determined to show no sign of weakness.

My scars itch, a reminder of how many times I was forced into labor in dark elf forges.

The memory leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

But the Bastion’s brand of captivity is different.

I can’t decide if it’s better or simply another form of control.

Eventually, I finish recording the swords. I set the ledger down, rubbing at my strained wrists. Saru notices, stepping closer once more. “Done with that section?”

I give a curt nod. “Yes. Swords match the ledger except for one that’s out of place—looks like it belongs in a different classification.”

He arches a brow. “Show me.”

I bring him to a display near the back of the chamber.

A single curved blade rests in a rack among straight longswords.

“This one,” I explain, pointing. “It’s labeled in the records as a standard longsword, but obviously it’s not.

The shape is different, the handle’s all wrong.

I’m guessing it’s from an eastern region or possibly a commissioned piece. ”

Saru grips the sword’s hilt and lifts it.

My chest tightens involuntarily. Not because I fear he’ll swing it at me, but because there’s something compelling about watching him handle a weapon with such ease.

He studies the curve, then nods. “You’re correct.

This is a Kiraen blade, probably mislabeled. ”

A faint smile ghosts across his features, there and gone too fast. “You have a keen eye.”

My lips press together in an effort not to snap. I don’t want his approval, but some part of me bristles at the possibility of compliments. “I told you I spent time around forging. I recognize quality steel.”

He returns the blade to its place. “We’ll fix the entry. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Then move on to the crossbows. You know the system by now.”

I give a mocking salute. “Yes, Warden.”

His gaze lingers a second longer, but he doesn’t respond. When he turns, the broad line of his back shifts under his armor, the worn leather revealing nicks that tell stories I doubt I’ll ever hear. I tear my focus away before anyone notices.

The rest of the afternoon slips into a tense routine.

I record, he instructs, guards hover, and an invisible thread of pressure builds between us.

Each time I find a mistake, I tell him. Each time, he acknowledges it without praise or blame.

That subdued approach only stokes my frustration.

I want to see him slip—show anger or scorn.

Instead, he’s as calm as a statue, holding everything under tight rein.

By the time I finish the primary catalog, my back aches, and hunger gnaws at my stomach. The armory door creaks open, and another guard steps in, carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle.

“Warden,” he addresses Saru. “Midday rations, as you requested.” He sets the bundle on a side table and leaves.

Saru turns to me. “You’ll eat.” It’s not a question.

I roll my eyes. “Because you’re so generous?”

“Because I’m not interested in having you faint on my watch,” he replies. Then he gestures for the guards to allow me to approach the table.

I reach the bundle and find flatbread, some slices of dried meat, and a chunk of cheese. My appetite flares, and I tear into the bread. While I chew, Saru stands a few meters away, arms folded.

“Don’t you minotaurs eat more than this?” I mutter around a mouthful. “Or am I just the low priority?”

He regards me levelly. “We eat plenty. You’ll have your share when you’ve earned it.”

I snort. “You’re such a beacon of hospitality.”

Silence. I notice the guards exchanging sidelong glances. One looks like he wants to chastise me for my insolence, but a tiny shake of Saru’s head stops him. It’s as if Saru tolerates my sarcasm for his own reasons, not out of kindness.

When I finish, I wipe my fingers on the cloth. “There. Fed and watered. Back to the chain gang?”

He steps closer, overshadowing me. “You are determined to push.”

I tense at his nearness. “That’s what happens when someone tries to put me in a cage.”

A flicker of something darkens his eyes, maybe memory. “I understand more than you think.”

My throat constricts. No, I doubt he does. But part of me wonders if that line carries a personal truth—some locked memory behind his stoic shell. I huff. “Sure. Because living as a revered Warden in your fancy fortress must be exactly like rotting in chains. We’re practically the same, you and I.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he gestures to the last few racks of crossbows. “Finish the job.”

I bristle, turning away from him, determined not to let his measured calm unravel me further.

The crossbows vary in size, from small hand-held models to large siege variants that can fire iron bolts capable of piercing thick armor.

As I sort them, counting each carefully, I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting to his presence.

Something about him stirs my anger, but not in the way open cruelty does.

He’s not an unhinged tyrant, sneering at my pain.

He’s a looming force, a mind of iron discipline, forging decisions with a detached clarity.

That might be worse, in its own way. Because I can’t find a crack in that armor to seize.

No matter how I prod, he remains unreadable, except for occasional flickers of emotion he quickly smothers.

When I finally close the ledger, the lamplight has shifted, a sign that dusk draws near. My shoulders scream with tension, and I’m covered in a fine sheen of sweat from the cramped work. I stride over to Saru, dropping the ledger on the table with more force than necessary.

“It’s done,” I say. “Unless you have another pointless chore.”

He opens the ledger, flipping through pages, scanning the neat columns I’ve updated. One hand rests on the table, the other tapping a quill against a page. I watch the flex of muscle under his fur, that endless calm. He reaches the final page and nods.

“Well done,” he says, voice low.

That’s it, two words? No condemnation, no real praise, just a curt acknowledgment. My jaw tightens. “What happens now?”

He shuts the ledger and sets it aside. “You return to your cell.”

“Of course.” I cross my arms. “Wouldn’t want me wandering around, seeing the majestic Bastion that might tempt me to break free.”

A faint exhale escapes him. “You wouldn’t get far if you tried.”

I lift my chin. “Maybe not, but I’d still try.”

His stare narrows, and for a heartbeat, the tension between us spikes. My pulse drums in my ears, half expecting him to lash out or bark an order. Instead, his voice comes out steady:

“Captain,” he calls to the scarred guard, “escort her back.”

The guard steps forward, taking hold of the chain attached to my wrist manacles. As he does, I glance at Saru again. Something about his expression suggests he’s not entirely indifferent to my anger. Maybe he’s wary of it, or intrigued by it.

I can’t let him see any weakness, so I sneer. “Same time tomorrow, Warden?”

He meets my gaze. “We’ll see.” Then he picks up the ledger, turning away, already immersed in whatever organizational duty remains.

The guard tugs, forcing me to follow him out of the armory.

I grit my teeth as I depart, the echoes of my footsteps following me down the corridor.

My mind replays every moment of tension with Saru, the stoic set of his features, the fleeting flicker in his gaze when I confronted him.

Sparks flew between us, though they ignited more frustration than anything else.

I despise that part of me notices how he moves with controlled power.

I hate that he’s not the typical brute I expected.

It’d be simpler to face an outright monster.

But the Bastion gave me a Warden who keeps his distance, letting me see only the faintest glimpses of something beyond that wall of composure.

I’m left disoriented, oddly keyed up, bracing for a threat that hasn’t come.

By the time we reach my cell, the corridor is dim with torchlight.

The guard unlocks the door and shoves me inside.

The heavy metal slams behind me, the bolt sliding into place.

I stand in the darkness for a moment, feeling my breath catch.

The day’s labor has drained me, yet adrenaline still sings in my veins.

I sink onto the straw pallet, pressing a palm to my chest. My heart thrums, a mixture of residual anger and something else—an uneasy flutter I don’t want to name. I trace a finger over the raised scar on my forearm, remembering all the times I fought to stay alive in places worse than this.

I’ve faced men who beat me for sport, overseers who barely treated me like a living being.

Saru’s brand of captivity is different. He wields authority without savage displays.

It’s unsettling, because I have no clear way to fight back.

I can’t read him, can’t force him into a confrontation that might tip his hand.

The day’s tension pools in my muscles, too fierce for me to relax. I let out a shaky breath, forcing my shoulders to unknot. Tomorrow, I’ll do the same task—or maybe a new one. As long as I’m useful, I stay alive. That’s the arrangement. Survive by degrees. That’s all I can hope for right now.

I think of Saru’s unwavering face, that giant form wrapped in disciplined silence, and my teeth clench. He wants me to obey, to be a piece of his fortress machinery. He thinks I’ll slot into place just because it’s better than the arena.

But I won’t be tamed. No matter how many times I have to count his spears, no matter how many disapproving stares I earn, I won’t let him or any other minotaur muzzle my rage. If this fortress tries to break me, I’ll snap first and take down whatever I can.

Something in that promise anchors me. I ease myself upright on the pallet, pushing past the throb in my ribs, pushing past the tide of thoughts that echo the Warden’s voice. Maybe I’m just worn thin. Maybe the day drained more from me than I thought.

After a time, I hear a faint commotion in the corridor—guards changing shifts, talk of tomorrow’s tasks. Eventually, the noise fades. My cell is quiet. The small slit in the wall reveals a dusky sky that might soon cradle the stars.

I lie down, letting exhaustion creep into my bones. Tomorrow, I’ll be back in the armory or some other station, forced to cooperate if I want to keep breathing. And Saru will be there, looming and unflinching, testing the boundaries of my defiance.

I close my eyes, and just before sleep claims me, I wonder how far I can push him. If I keep pulling at the edges of his composure, will something beneath that stoic exterior flare to life? Would I even want to see it?

One thing is certain: I refuse to be docile, no matter how well he organizes his fortress or how calmly he meets my fury.

He saved me from immediate slaughter, but that doesn’t mean I belong to him.

I decide again that I’d rather face the arena than surrender my spirit.

I whisper to myself the same vow I made on the deck of that doomed ship: I’d rather burn free than live caged.

Then darkness swallows my thoughts, and I drift into restless dreams, the scent of steel and the flash of amber eyes seared into my mind.