Page 41 of Bonded To The Arena Master

"This will require guards from the lower patrols," he says.

"Use the ones she treated."

"Their loyalty was my concern."

"Now it is useful."

His horns dip in acceptance. "As you command."

He turns to carry out the order.

"Grolm."

The captain looks back.

"If any threat reaches her, remove it first. Report afterward."

"Even if the threat carries rank?"

"Especially then."

He leaves without another question.

The spire shudders as Zog redirects power through the northern channels. Dust falls from the arch. Far above, Beatrix waits in a guarded room, bruised, furious, and alive despite Korgath's attempt.

I once protected her by abandoning every claim to her.

That method belonged to Asmodeus and a bargain built on distance.

Distance has failed.

From this hour, anyone who reaches for Beatrix must pass through the full strength of House Obsidius.

13

BEATRIX

The water in the basin turns grey before I finish cleaning my left hand.

I replace it from the narrow copper pitcher and begin again. Dirt packs the half-moons beneath my fingernails. Black residue from the maintenance corridor clings to every crease in my palms. I work at it with a square of rough linen, one finger at a time, because method is easier than memory.

Wash. Scrape. Rinse.

The temporary room contains a bed, a washstand, and one severe chair bolted to the floor. No shelves. No plants. No jars waiting to be sorted. The walls curve upward without decoration, pale veins running through the black stone. Charged air leaks from a vent near the ceiling with a faint metallic taste.

Grolm placed two guards outside under Draxon’s order. I heard their armor when they changed positions. Constant, direct protection, as if the locked solarium and poisoned air proved I cannot survive five minutes without a Volvath watching the door.

My bruises argue against my pride.

One dark mark spreads over my shoulder where Draxon forced me through the torn maintenance panel. Another stains my hip from the corridor floor. Smaller bruises mark my knees. None is dangerous. All of them ache when I bend over the basin.

The rest of the ache has no sensible treatment.

I scrub harder.

Heat, darkness, his hands, and the fierce relief of finding breath after the solarium tried to steal it. Ten years of anger did not vanish in that corridor. My body simply refused to consult it.

That failure should shame me.