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SARU

D awn arrives with a hush over the Ivory Bastion, the cold light tracing every tower and buttress.

I stand on an upper balcony, watching the courtyard below wake to a new day.

Kimtivkuz laborers haul crates from the supply wagons; a guard drills a row of prisoners marked for the next arena bout.

Normally, I’d review the day’s schedule, ensuring each wing runs smoothly.

But today, my mind weighs heavy with the knowledge of what the Senate demands.

A thin official scroll in my hand bears the High Senate’s seal.

I’ve read it three times already, but each word cuts deeper: an expedited order for Naeva Viren’s execution.

Signed by Senator Thakur, one of the more influential voices in Milthar’s upper chamber.

The timing is no accident. Word must have reached them that I’ve delayed her arena sentence—my attempt at gleaning information about the sabotage.

They want her gone before any potential revelations can surface. Perhaps they fear she’ll expose their own secrets about dark elf trade. Or maybe they resent that a single human scuttled a vessel tied to noble families. In the Senate’s eyes, if she isn’t silenced fast, she remains a liability.

I run a hand over the scars carved into my left horn.

Each represents a vow or a life lost under my watch.

I’d hoped for more time—an opportunity to find a legitimate reason to protect her.

But the Senate has forced my hand. The only way to prevent an immediate execution is to invoke an archaic law that I never thought I’d have to use.

The law states that a human claimed by a Vakkak noble cannot be put to death without a full High Senate hearing, effectively granting her a stay from any local sentence.

It’s a centuries-old clause left over from the era when humans fought in the Minotaur Rebellions.

Rarely used, it allows a noble to brand a human as a betrothed, placing them under house protection.

It’s not marriage outright, but close enough in the eyes of the law.

And it will scandalize half the Bastion, possibly even provoke the Senate into a more direct attack.

Still, I see no other path. If Naeva is executed, not only does it weigh against the debt I feel for my sister’s survival, but I sense something else stirring in me—something that bristles at the idea of letting a flame like hers be snuffed out for political convenience.

My reasons are tangled: duty, guilt, something intangible that flickered in me each time we crossed paths.

I stride inside and make my way down to my office. Guards salute as I pass, curious about my rigid posture. I say nothing, gaze fixed forward. Once inside, I bolt the door and summon Captain Davor. He arrives promptly, shoulders squared.

“Warden,” he says, meeting my eyes.

“Bring Naeva to the main courtyard,” I reply, tone clipped. “Have at least four guards accompany her, but do not harm her. Understood?”

He furrows his brow. “She’ll fight this, sir. Especially if we force her out in public.”

“I know.” I place a hand on the official scroll. “The Senate wants her executed today. I refuse.” My voice tightens. “I’m invoking the Vakkak crest law.”

Davor’s eyes widen. He was a soldier before he joined the Bastion, so he’s familiar with obscure statutes. “Claiming her publicly as your…intended?” He lowers his voice. “That’s a permanent mark, Warden.”

“It’s the only way.”

He gives a terse nod, no argument offered. “I’ll fetch her.”

When Davor leaves, I sink onto a wooden chair, trying to steady my thoughts.

Invoking this law means binding her to me.

She’ll see it as another prison. And in many ways, it is.

We’ll both be tied to a vow that neither of us wants.

But it’s better than letting Thakur’s goons kill her in the night.

I close my eyes, hearing the distant clang of the Bastion’s gates.

A day that began in quiet tension will end in chaos if this goes wrong.

Eventually, I rise and make my way toward the courtyard.

The morning sun highlights every crack in the limestone walls.

Crowds of prisoners gather behind barred walkways for their routine work assignments.

Guards stand in clusters, conferring over rosters.

At the far end of the yard, an arena officer drills a group of potential fighters, each wearing battered leather armor.

A hush spreads when I appear, not because I’m overtly cruel or flamboyant, but because the Bastion knows my name—Saru Rhek’tal, once a general, now the Warden who answers to no one but the Senate itself. Or so the rumor goes.

I take my position near a raised platform used for public pronouncements.

Two minotaur scribes spot me and scurry to set up a short table with ink and parchment.

They assume I’m here to finalize an execution or announce sentencing.

They aren’t far off, though today’s announcement turns that on its head.

A commotion stirs near the eastern gate.

Davor and four guards escort Naeva inside.

Even from a distance, I catch the tension coiling in her posture.

Her black hair tumbles around her shoulders, framing those sharp green eyes that glint with defiance.

She’s still wearing the Bastion’s plain garb—a rough linen tunic cinched at the waist by a rope belt.

Chains bind her wrists, but she walks as though they’re not enough to break her stride.

They push through the crowd, and Naeva shoots a glare at any guard who dares look at her too long. A flicker of admiration sparks in me. Even surrounded, she refuses to shrink. The surrounding prisoners stop their tasks to stare. Whispers ripple across the courtyard.

“Bring her forward,” I command, voice low but carrying.

She’s forced up onto the stone dais. Davor stands to one side, watchful.

A hush blankets the yard, everyone sensing something significant about to unfold.

The scribes dip their quills in ink, poised to record.

Prisoners peer from behind bars, uncertain.

Some recall that Naeva was supposed to face the arena soon.

They sense something out of the ordinary.

Naeva’s gaze lands on me. Despite the chains, her stance is proud, eyes blazing.

I see the bruise along her jaw, the faint lines of old burn scars on her forearms. She looks furious, alive, untamed.

She’s always reminded me of a storm contained in a small body, thrashing against confinement.

Now, her tension is even sharper, no doubt suspecting a final condemnation.

“I thought you’d just throw me to the pit,” she spits. “What’s this farce?”

I hold her stare. The courtyard hush deepens, every ear tuned to our exchange. “There’s a Senate order,” I say, tone terse, “to have you executed immediately.”

A ripple of alarm sweeps through the onlookers. A few guards shift, and I see a flash of panic in her eyes, quickly replaced by defiance.

She squares her shoulders. “So you’re making it public? Let everyone see me die with my back unbroken?”

I steel my voice. “No. I’m placing you under my protection.” The words ring out, each syllable heavy with the knowledge of what it entails.

A murmur spreads through the yard. Naeva looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Protection?” Her expression darkens. “I don’t trust that word coming from your mouth.”

I can’t blame her for doubting. But there’s no time to soften the blow.

“The Senate wants you gone,” I continue.

“There’s an archaic law that allows a Vakkak noble to claim a human who meets certain criteria as a prospective mate.

If I do this, they cannot execute you without a full hearing at the High Senate. ”

She goes rigid. “Prospective mate? What are you saying?”

Whispers rise in the crowd, some outraged, some curious. I sense every prisoner craning forward, listening to every breath of this confrontation. My chest constricts as I force the words out: “By claiming you, I override the local sentence. The Bastion can’t carry out your death order.”

She bares her teeth in a mocking smile. “How convenient. A brand-new collar, courtesy of the Warden.”

My jaw tightens. “I’m not doing this for convenience. It’s the only means to keep you alive.”

She looks around at the gathering throng, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I should say thanks, I guess.”

I ignore her barb, stepping forward. Two of the scribes approach with a glowing iron brand and a small brazier.

Custom dictates that the brand is heated to a dull red, enough to sear a crest upon flesh.

My insides clench at the thought, but I steel myself.

This is minotaur tradition—a sanctioned mark that seals our fates together.

Someone in the crowd calls out, “A human under House Rhek’tal? Is the Warden mad?”

Others gasp or mutter about the Senate’s possible reaction. My horns feel heavier under their judgment. But I press on, knowing this is the only path.

Turning to Naeva, I lower my voice. “I’ll brand you with my crest. It’s an old rite, used rarely. Once it’s done, you fall under my household. The law states no one can execute you without the Senate’s direct ruling.”

She jerks against her chains. “And if I refuse?”

“Then Thakur’s men kill you. Today.”

A hush falls between us. Her green eyes are alive with fury, fear, and a flicker of desperation. I can’t read all her thoughts, but I sense the war raging inside her. Accepting my brand is the lesser of two horrors. She trembles slightly, though she tries to hide it.

Her lips curl into a bitter line. “I hate this.”

My voice drops almost to a whisper. “You’re not alone in that.”

The scribes hand me the brand. My family crest is a stylized helm with horns over rolling waves—House Rhek’tal’s emblem. The iron glows an angry red, heat radiating against my palm. I step closer to Naeva, my heart pounding.