Chapter 1

Naeva

I’m jolted awake by a sharp yank on the chain that binds my wrists. Pain radiates up my arms, the heavy iron cuffs refusing even a sliver of comfort. It’s hard to remember a time when my skin wasn’t stained by steel. The wagon I’m in sways violently over uneven ground, making my stomach churn as dust clouds my nostrils. The air here tastes different—salty, laden with sea brine. It must be the coast of Milthar, the legendary island of the minotaurs.

Another jolt. The guard next to me sneers and tugs harder, as though I’m nothing but a disobedient mule. I stare at his hulking shape, at the fur cresting the top of his enormous shoulders. Even seated, he towers over me. He flicks an ear my way, noticing I’ve opened my eyes.

“Move,” he snaps.

I consider a biting remark but keep my mouth shut. He probably wants an excuse to break my jaw. Not that I’d go down quietly, but every bit of strength is precious. We’re so close to our destination that I can practically feel the thick walls closing in, and I want all my senses sharp.

I see the Ivory Bastion before we reach its colossal gates. Sunlight glints off pale limestone towers carved into the high cliffs. The entire fortress looms like a bleached sentinel standing watch over the restless sea. Massive spires of gleaming stone pierce the sky, each topped with iron spikes to deter would-be climbers. My heart thuds, but I will my expression to remain cool.

A heavy portcullis opens, operated by thick ropes and counterweights that hiss and groan. The interior yard is a chaos of activity: minotaur guards guiding chained humans, minotaur blacksmiths hammering at a forge, and lines of indentured workers hauling crates. Everywhere, there’s the tang of sweat, metal, and sun-baked stone.

I stumble off the wagon. The guard at my side jerks me forward, away from the line of other new arrivals. They’re led to a different gate. Maybe they’re the ones with lighter sentences—petty theft or minor crimes. My crimes, I assume, sit at the top of the Minotaur Book of Wrongs.

A second guard—this one with gray-streaked fur and a chipped horn—eyes me. “That her?” His voice is deep, each word a gravelly punch to the ears.

“That’s her.”

They both stare as if I’m something to be carved up and sold for parts. I clench my jaw and lift my chin, ignoring the ache in my shoulders.

“So you’re the one who burned that dark elf vessel. Didn’t expect you to be so small,” the older one mutters.

I keep silent. If I speak now, it’ll be with venom, and I need to survive whatever interrogation they have planned. The older guard snaps his fingers, and three more minotaurs materialize from the swirling dust, forming a tight cordon around me.

They march me across a wide courtyard. Sweat slides down my neck. Every footstep echoes off tall marble pillars that line a broad walkway. Intricate carvings of horned warriors decorate each column—some ancient hero, I guess, or maybe a tribute to the goddess Zukiev.

We approach a set of massive doors, each etched with swirling patterns reminiscent of waves. A sign overhead proclaims this is the Ivory Bastion’s intake hall. It’s open-air at the front, but a heavy gate at the far end implies that beyond it lies a labyrinth of corridors and cells.

My escorts shove me forward. I glare at the biggest guard and mutter, “Sweet cinders, I can walk on my own.”

He merely snorts. “Don’t care if you can walk or fly. You’ll do what we say.”

The intake hall is even busier than outside. A line of humans, orcs, and a few minotaurs stand in front of a rough-hewn table, each waiting to be processed. Cries and curses fill the space as sentencing officers scribble notes on parchment. Minotaur scribes scuttle around with quills stuck behind their tufted ears.

I’m manhandled to the front, skipping the line. Several sets of eyes follow me, some with pity, some with a kind of triumphant malice. One of the scribes—a gaunt minotaur with bronze fur—eyes me over the edge of his parchment and calls out, “Next!”

The older guard steps forward. “Name: Naeva Viren, human. Political. High-level offense. Suspected sabotage, arson on a dark elf vessel, multiple deaths.”

He makes me sound like a savage. I bite my tongue.

The scribe looks up. His gaze flicks to my forearms, where faint burn scars lace my skin. “You lit that slave ship on fire?”

“Would you prefer I let them traffic people?” I ask, voice razor-sharp.

One of the guards whacks the back of my knee with a baton. I drop to a kneel, biting back a pained cry. “Quiet,” he says.

“Enough,” the scribe murmurs. He jots some notes, then points his quill at me. “Category: Arena fodder.”

My teeth clench. Arena fodder. That’s what they call high-risk criminals who are better off thrown to the gladiatorial pit. If I expected a real trial, I won’t find it in the Ivory Bastion.

The scribe continues, ignoring the wild pounding of my heart, “Chain her in the holding pen. Arena schedule is posted tomorrow.”

Sweat breaks out under my tattered shirt. The guard’s baton whisks through the air again, tapping my shoulder in a silent command to stand. The others yank me upright. My legs are so stiff from days in the wagon that I nearly stumble, but I refuse to fall.

I meet the scribe’s eyes. “You just sign people away to die?”

He shrugs with a dismissive wave. “If you’re guilty, that’s the price. Move along.”

“Bastard,” I hiss under my breath. The guard gives me a warning glance, but he doesn’t strike me again. Not yet.

They drag me through the next gate, leading into a corridor that smells of damp stone and old sweat. At intervals, narrow windows let in slices of daylight. I glimpse more of this fortress—a courtyard with training dummies, a distant ring that must be the famed arena, and beyond that, the endless sea. My eyes burn as I take in the expanse of ocean. I’ve seen seas before, but never from a vantage like this. It’s almost beautiful—too bad it’s overshadowed by the fortress walls.

We pass a cluster of minotaur guards. They step aside, exchanging hushed remarks about me. One says, “I heard she killed a whole boatful of dark elves.”

Another retorts, “That’s not even a crime. They’re vile creatures. Must be something else.”

I almost laugh. They hate the dark elves too, but apparently I did it wrong by damaging a trade route. Typical.

We round a corner and come face-to-chest with the largest minotaur I’ve seen yet. He’s at least two heads taller than the older guard, with broad shoulders and a posture that screams authority. Dark sable fur covers his arms, and two curved horns—black-tipped with subtle silver lines—frame a face that’s eerily calm. His eyes are deep amber, and they lock on me with a slow, measuring look.

Everything about him radiates control. There’s a scar that runs across his brow, and it twitches when his gaze drops to my chains. He says nothing for a moment.

One of my escorts clears his throat. “Warden Saru.”

Warden. So this is the rumored warden of the Ivory Bastion. I’ve heard he used to be a general, or something near that rank, before a public fall from grace.

He’s silent, but his presence is enough to still the entire corridor. Several minotaurs nearby bow their heads, an acknowledgment of his status. I’m the only one who doesn’t lower my eyes.

Saru’s gaze flicks down to my wrists, to the chafing red skin under the metal cuffs. Then he looks at my face. My jaw clenches, but I hold his stare. I won’t cower.

He speaks, and his voice is a low resonance that hums in my bones. “Where do you plan to keep her?”

The older guard steps forward. “She’s set for the arena, sir. High-level threat, sabotage. The scribe designated her as fodder.”

Saru’s eyes linger on me a moment longer, as if searching for something. Or maybe he’s just cataloguing my potential weaknesses. “Arena fodder,” he echoes, the words stripped bare of emotion.

“Yes sir,” the guard replies.

For a beat, Saru says nothing. A muscle in his thick neck moves, and then he nods once. “Proceed,” he orders quietly.

He steps aside, and we pass him. My heart is pounding. If I expected any attempt at mercy, that didn’t happen. Not that I truly believed a minotaur warden would offer me a gentle hand, but I had some foolish hope that maybe he’d question sending me to die. Instead, he confirmed it with one word.

The guards pull me forward. I swallow the knot of fear building in my throat. No one will ever own me again, I tell myself. I might be caged, but my will is still my own.

I hear the warden’s footsteps recede behind us. I chance a glance over my shoulder just long enough to see him standing rigid, arms folded across his broad chest. He’s watching, but his expression is unreadable.

They take me down a tight spiral staircase, each step slick with condensation. Torches in metal sconces light the twisting path, and with each downward step, the air grows heavier, tinged with the smell of mold and sweat. We reach a corridor with barred cells on both sides. Moans and curses echo. This must be the holding wing for those slated for the arena.

A guard points to an empty cell. “In.”

I stand still, scanning the interior. A straw pallet on the floor, a bucket in the corner, a single drip of water trailing along the wall. My chest feels tight, but I force myself not to react. Giving them any sign of weakness is pointless.

They unlock my cuffs just long enough to shove me inside. One guard slams the bars shut and clicks the lock in place. Two remain behind, likely to guard me until my official registration is done.

I rub my raw wrists and take in the gloom. There’s no window, only a narrow gap high up where a thread of light seeps through. A minotaur stationed outside glances in my direction occasionally, his large arms crossed, tail swishing impatiently.

I lower to the pallet, ignoring how the straw scratches my palms. My scars tingle in the damp air, a memory of the forging fires I once worked near. Dark elf magic. Dark elf cruelty. The clang of chains. I close my eyes and exhale.

I’m no stranger to captivity. But every second I spend behind these bars fuels my determination to break free. To them, I’m likely just a disposable tool for the arena but I won’t let myself become bloodsport for minotaur amusement.

A half hour passes in tense silence. The guard outside speaks in hushed tones to a subordinate, who arrives with a battered ledger. They’re discussing scheduling. Words drift over: “Tomorrow’s match... high-level criminals... eight contenders.”

Eight. So they’re preparing a group fight, or some spectacle. Typical minotaur tradition: let the criminals amuse the crowd, a blood-soaked show disguised as justice.

He scrawls something on a parchment, then looks up at me. “Stand,” he orders.

I roll to my feet, wiping sweat from my brow. I refuse to cower in the corner like some broken beast.

The minotaur unlocks the cell and signals me to come out. I comply slowly, scanning the corridor for a chance at escape. My chain-bound ankles are stiff, the shackles limiting any swift movement. Another guard grips me by the shoulder, leading me deeper into the Bastion.

We pass more cells, each filled with men and women. Some glance at me with hollow gazes. One orc sits cross-legged, quietly humming. The walls are thick stone, etched with old runes of minotaur design. Everything in this place feels ancient, unyielding.

We turn a corner and arrive at what looks like a small administrative chamber. A single table, a small stack of documents, a quill, and an inkpot. No windows. There’s a tall minotaur with chestnut fur waiting, wearing partial armor that clinks when he moves. He nods curtly.

“You are Naeva Viren?” he asks.

My lips twist in a scowl. “Evidently.”

He doesn’t respond to my sarcasm. Instead, he flips through a few pages. “Name: Naeva. Age: mid-twenties. Place of origin: Keshira, formerly human territory, now under dark elf influence. Crime: sabotage of a dark elf vessel leading to multiple noble casualties. Penalty: arena.”

I keep my face blank.

He jots a final note. “We schedule your first match tomorrow. Survive that, you’ll face another. And so on. If you reach a hundred victories, you can earn a reprieve.”

A hundred victories? No one wins that many. It’s basically a slow death sentence. My chest tightens. I breathe through the panic.

The guard motions me out. We retrace our steps, returning to the corridor. This time, they lead me up a separate staircase. There’s a loud clang from above, as if a heavy gate is being drawn open. My heart races.

Sunlight floods my vision when we emerge into a wide courtyard enclosed by high walls. It’s different from the first courtyard. This one is simpler, open, ringed with wooden benches. A few minotaurs lounge about, some in partial armor, others in plain tunics. Their gazes fall on me, lingering with curiosity or boredom.

“Wait here,” the guard says. He steps away, leaving me under the watchful eye of two armed minotaurs.

An uneasy silence settles. Then footsteps—heavy, measured—approach from behind. I turn and find myself face-to-chest with Saru again.

He looks precisely as before: tall, imposing, horns curved like living blades. Up close, I notice old scars crossing his broad chest, faint lines beneath his armor. He radiates a quiet tension, as if every motion is deliberately contained.

He studies me, eyes narrowed. “You’re new to the Bastion.”

A dull laugh escapes my throat. “Maybe the chains didn’t tip you off?”

He lifts his chin slightly, ignoring my jab. “They say you destroyed a dark elf ship.”

“They say a lot of things.”

His brow furrows, and for a moment, I glimpse a flicker of something in his amber eyes—curiosity, maybe. “That’s a high offense in minotaur law,” he says. “Sabotage of a recognized trade route is punishable by death or the arena.”

“Trade route.” Bitterness oozes out in my tone. “That was a slave ship. The only ‘trade’ they practiced was in stolen lives.”

His gaze shifts across my expression. I don’t see judgment or pity—just cool assessment. Minotaurs famously despise dark elves, but maybe this fortress has its own brand of neutrality.

“Your first match is tomorrow.” He says it without emotion.

I clench my fists. “You’re proud of that? Making people fight to the death for your amusement?”

He doesn’t flinch. “We don’t do it for amusement. It is our tradition of justice.”

“Justice,” I repeat. My pulse thrums. “Right.”

He exhales, nostrils flaring, then gestures to a guard. “Take her for medical inspection. No point in sending her half-dead into the pit.”

The guard steps forward, but I stay rooted. My body screams to bolt, though it’s impossible with these chains. “Thanks for your concern, Warden,” I say with biting sarcasm, “but I don’t need your courtesy.”

Saru’s jaw muscles tighten. “Move,” he instructs, voice low.

A wave of helpless fury rushes through me. I want to spit at him, or lash out with everything I have. But that would be suicide. I bite my lip until I taste copper, forcing myself to keep pace as the guard pulls me away.

Behind us, I sense Saru’s gaze lingering, that silent authority pressing down on me. My back prickles with the awareness that he’s still there, standing motionless like a sentinel.

The guard leads me into a small chamber on the opposite side of the courtyard. Two minotaur medics wait, one holding a rag soaked in some pungent disinfectant. They say nothing as they check me for injuries, prodding at bruises on my ribs, wiping dried blood from a scrape on my cheek.

One of them grunts and gestures for me to rinse my mouth in a basin of stale water. I comply, though it tastes foul. The entire time, I’m trying not to lash out. It’s an exercise in patience I’ve never had to practice before.

“You’ll do,” one of the medics says at last. “No fever. No broken bones. She’s healthy enough for the pit.”

“And if I wasn’t?”

He shrugs. “They’d wait until you healed.”

Great. So they’ll just keep me alive to feed me to the arena crowd.

When the medics finish, the guard returns me to a different cellblock. This one is on ground level, separated by iron bars from the main yard. The cell has a narrow bed of straw and a water jug. Still a prison, but at least there’s a faint draft of air that smells like salt and old stone.

One of the minotaurs locks the cell door. He and his companion stomp away, disappearing around a corner. I’m alone again.

I slump onto the straw bed, massaging my sore wrists. A wave of exhaustion hits me, but I fight the urge to curl up and sleep. My mind whirls, replaying everything that’s happened in the last few hours: the intake hall, the scribe labeling me arena fodder, the warden’s cold stare.

Saru. I hate how he unnerves me. He’s a living wall, built of discipline, and I can’t decide if that’s better or worse than dealing with someone who openly relishes cruelty. At least with a sadist, I’d know what to expect. With him, I sense there might be more beneath that calm.

A metallic clank draws my attention. In the yard, a line of indentured workers is carrying crates toward a storage building. They wear simple tunics, and their expressions are dull with the monotony of labor. A few glance my way, as if reminding me that not everyone in the Bastion is doomed. Some are here by contract—seven years of labor instead of open slavery. My stomach twists at the knowledge that I’m not even offered that chance. My crime is too severe.

I shift on the straw, wincing at a bruise on my hip. Memories claw their way back: the dark elf artificer who once kept me in chains, the hiss of chaos-infused forges, the stench of burning metal. I rub at a raised scar on my forearm where molten slag scorched me years ago.

No one will ever own me again.

The vow burns through my mind. That’s what’s keeping me from collapsing in despair. Even if tomorrow I’m pushed into a ring to fight until I drop, I’ll do it on my terms. I won’t let them break my spirit.

At some point, the sky outside shifts from afternoon brightness to the golden hue of early evening. My stomach growls. No one offers me food. Maybe they think I’ll be dead soon.

Footsteps echo along the corridor. A female minotaur—a Fiepakak by the worn look of her uniform—stops by my cell door, sliding a wooden bowl of porridge through the bars. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

I sniff the bowl. It’s lumpy, smells faintly of grain. My hunger wins. I gulp it down, ignoring the bland taste. At least it’s something.

When I finish, she collects the bowl and trudges away. Silence returns. The hours drag on. I pace the cell, testing the bars with idle curiosity. Solid. The walls are equally impenetrable. I’m used to captivity, but my heart still pounds with the longing to run.

Night falls. The corridor torches blaze, sending flickering shadows across the ground. I lie on the straw bed, eyes open. My mind refuses to shut down. I keep thinking of the warden—Saru—and how he looked at me. So calm, so unreadable.

I wonder if he’ll be watching tomorrow as I’m thrown into combat. Will he feel even a flicker of remorse? Or is he so numb that my life means less than an insect under his hooves?

That last thought pricks an unexpected sense of...not exactly anger, more like a grim challenge. A part of me wants him to see exactly who I am. Maybe I want him to regret letting me slip away so easily.

Eventually, I drift into a restless doze, body curled protectively around my knees. Dreams come in disjointed fragments: the roar of fire, the creaking of a slave ship, the crack of a whip, a minotaur’s unreadable stare.

I jerk awake to a harsh rattling on the bars. Another guard stands there, annoyance etched on his wide muzzle. He gestures for me to rise. “Get up,” he says. “You’re wanted in the yard at dawn.”

I scramble to my feet. My entire body aches, but I hide any sign of weakness behind a glare. “Another inspection?”

He just grunts, unlocking the cell door. “Orders from the top.”

I assume he means Saru. The chain around my ankles rattles as I step forward. I run my tongue over my dry lips. Dawn’s first light spills across the courtyard, revealing a strip of bright sky. A trembling breath leaves me. This day might be my last if they toss me into the arena.

But I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cower. My fists curl at my sides as I let the guard lead me. Cold determination settles in my chest. No matter how monstrous this fortress is, no matter how towering the minotaurs are, I survived the dark elves’ cruelty. I survived forging fires that seared flesh from bone.

No one here can break me unless I hand them the pieces.

I repeat that mantra with every step through the corridor, letting defiance harden my spine. Even if the entire Bastion sees me as a doomed opponent for their bloodsport, I’ll make sure they remember my name.

And if I cross paths with Warden Saru again, I’ll stare him in the eyes and remind him: I might be caged, but I will never be owned.

I don’t realize I’m saying those last words under my breath until the guard glances back with a frown. That frown deepens, but he doesn’t respond. He simply shoves me into another open-air courtyard.

Light blinds me for a moment, the sky a vivid blue streaked with faint clouds. When my vision adjusts, I see a ring of minotaurs—some in armor, some in plain cloth, each armed with either a spear or a sword. They seem to be training. In the center stands Saru, thick arms folded, horns gleaming in the morning sun.

He looks up at my entrance, and our eyes lock. My heart gives an uneasy lurch.

There’s no hostility in his gaze—just that steady, penetrating calm. He tilts his head as though judging every shift of my posture, every twitch of my muscle.

I swallow hard, meeting his stare with all the fire I can muster. “What now?” I ask, voice carrying across the courtyard.

He doesn’t answer immediately. The group of minotaurs around him pause, turning to watch. Saru strides forward with measured steps until he’s only a couple paces away.

He’s massive. I feel dwarfed by the breadth of his shoulders, the quiet power in each movement. Yet I hold my ground.

“You fight in the arena today,” Saru says in that low, deliberate tone. “You’ll be armed. If you impress the Bastion, you might last another day.”

I grit my teeth. “Generous.”

Something flickers across his eyes, like the ghost of an unspoken thought. I’m half certain he’s about to say more, but he stays silent. Instead, he nods to the guard beside me.

“Take her to the pit,” he commands.

And just like that, the final blow lands. I’m going straight to the ring, not even allowed another hour to steady my mind. Fear coils in my stomach, but I bury it. My only armor is the refusal to show them I’m afraid.

The guard’s hand clamps down on my arm again. I ignore the urge to recoil, focusing on Saru’s face. Something about the way he watches me suggests he’s not entirely indifferent. But maybe that’s just another trick of hope I can’t afford.

I square my shoulders, offering him one final glare. “No matter what happens in that ring,” I say softly, “I don’t belong to you. Or to anyone.”

He says nothing, and the silence weighs heavier than a shouted order.

The guard tugs, and I follow, every muscle taut with tension. A swirl of dread and fierce determination thrums in my veins. I’m moments away from stepping into an arena where I’m marked as prey. But I’ll fight. Even if it’s a hopeless clash, I’ll fight.

I cling to that vow, letting it fuel each step across the courtyard. The minotaurs part, eyes gleaming with curiosity or cold detachment. Saru remains near the center, watchful and unyielding, a fortress within the fortress.

My fate in the Bastion has begun. And I will meet it with teeth bared.