Page 11 of Chained to the Horned God
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VALOA
Iwake with my face pressed into coarse fur, warm and musky and real. For one fragile moment, I think I’m home, curled beside Father’s old hound by the hearth. The illusion shatters the second I inhale deeper and get a noseful of rust, mold, and dried blood. My eyes flick open to the shadows of Barsok’s cell. My pillow is no hound. It's his arm, thick as a tree trunk and about as yielding. His breath puffs across my scalp in slow, even intervals, each exhale scented with something earthy, feral, and slightly bitter, like singed bark.
I lift my head slowly, ears tuned to every creak of chain or distant footstep. My cheek’s damp. Probably drooled on him. Lovely. I brace for him to yank away or shove me back into my corner, but Barsok doesn’t move, not even when I shift my weight. He just lets out a low huff and adjusts slightly so I don’t fall off. The chains rattle against the wall when he moves. His eyes stay closed, but he’s awake. I can feel it.
“Didn’t mean to use you as a pillow,” I whisper, voice raw from sleep and weeks of dehydration.
“You’re light,” he grumbles, words slurred like sleep’s still fighting him. “Didn’t notice.”
“You noticed.”
His lip twitches. Not quite a smile, but close.
We both know it can’t last. Nothing good does in this place.
The moment’s shattered by the shriek of hinges. The cell door groans open like it hates its job, and the world rushes back in—bootfalls, laughter, the stink of sweat and cruelty. Barsok’s body tenses beneath me, and I jerk upright as two guards swagger in, all smugness and polished cruelty. Their skin gleams obsidian in the dim torchlight, eyes red as coals and twice as cold. One of them carries a whip looped around his waist. The other has a ring of keys and breath that stinks of fermented bloodfruit.
“Rise and shine, little healer,” the one with the keys sneers, his voice like oil on hot metal. “Boss says you’re too useful to rot.”
Barsok growls low in his throat. A warning. Not for me.
I scramble to my feet just as the guards move. One of them grabs my wrist, jerks me forward hard enough to jolt my spine.
“Don’t touch her,” Barsok snaps, voice thick with venom.
The whip flicks out. Barsok lunges. The chains scream in protest, dragging him back like a yanked marionette. His shoulder slams into the stone with a sickening thud. Dust falls from the ceiling as he snarls, teeth bared, horns tilted forward like he might charge through the wall if he could.
“You want another lash, beast?” the whip-carrier grins.
Barsok doesn’t answer. He just glares. It’s enough to make the grin falter.
They drag me into the corridor. I don’t resist. Resistance gets you hurt. But I glance back, locking eyes with Barsok as the door slams shut. His jaw’s clenched, shoulders tight. He wanted to protect me. Couldn’t.
The walk through the lower levels of Kharza’s arena is a labyrinth of rot and misery. Every corner smells like fear. Thetorches spit black smoke that burns the back of my throat. The guards say nothing as they shove me through a heavy iron door and into what passes for an infirmary down here—if you’re feeling generous.
The room is little more than a wide alcove carved from rough stone. No windows. No clean linens. Just a cracked slab that might’ve once been a surgical table, a basin of foul-smelling water, and piles of blood-soaked rags. A stack of rusted tools sits on a shelf—hooks, shears, bone saws. Some of them look like they haven’t been cleaned since the First Reckoning. The air is thick with the coppery tang of old blood and the sour stench of unwashed bodies.
They throw me forward. I hit the ground hard, palms scraping stone. My knees burn as I push up, eyes adjusting.
There are at least eight gladiators in here. All wounded. All watching me.
Some look hollowed out, like the fights sucked the soul from their bones and left nothing but meat and muscle behind. Others… others are watching me the way wolves watch a limping deer.
One of them, a brute of a man with mottled gray skin and a cracked tusk, chuckles low. “Another gift from the top, huh?”
“No,” says a smooth voice behind him. “She’s the new patch job.”
I turn. A woman stands against the far wall, arms crossed. Her armor is piecemeal, gold and silver glittering in the torchlight like a crow’s hoard. She’s human, tall, lean, with a scar that slices down one cheek like a knife took issue with her beauty and only half-won.
Sharonna.
I’ve heard of her in whispers, even below decks. The Gladatrix. The spoiled queen of the sands. Except she doesn’t look spoiled. She looks tired. Alert. Dangerous.
She nods at the pile of bloodied bandages beside the slab. “Start there. Best get moving. They don’t like it when the meat takes too long to mend.”
I blink at her, stunned. “You’re human.”
