Page 14 of Chained to the Horned God
Soft. Questioning. Careful.
His lips brush mine, and I forget the stench of mildew and blood. I forget the iron bite of manacles and the bruises blooming beneath my tunic. I forget the guards, the cell, the dungeon, and the fact that tomorrow might be my last.
For a moment, I exist only in this kiss.
It ends before it really begins. No grand gesture. No spoken word. Just a breath shared between broken things trying not to crumble completely.
He pulls back, eyes flicking down to the dirt like maybe he’s ashamed. But I’m not.
“Thank you,” I whisper, surprised by the sound of my own voice.
His brow lifts. “For what?”
“For not pretending.”
The tension in his shoulders loosens. He leans his head back against the stone, exhaling through his nose in that slow, measured way he does when he’s thinking more than he wants to admit.
I don’t ask what it meant to him. I don’t try to define it.
We sit there, breathing each other in. I lay my head against his chest again, careful to avoid the angry bruise near his collarbone. He doesn’t flinch this time. His arm shifts, settling around me like it belongs there.
His heartbeat is slower than mine. Heavy. Certain. Like waves hitting the shore again and again, unconcerned by anything but the rhythm.
My fingers curl into the fur at his side, and I try to memorize the shape of him. The warmth. The quiet strength that’s carried him through years of violence without breaking.
I’m not sure when I fall asleep, only that I do.
There’s no nightmare waiting for me tonight. No fire. No screams.
Just the thud of a heart I want to understand, and the breath of a monster who kissed me like I was something worth saving.
4
BARSOK
The sand burns beneath my hooves, a dry, searing scrape that bites through the worn leather straps that pass for footwear. The heat has a taste here, bitter and metallic, laced with the stench of spilled entrails and smoke-charred bone. But it’s not the ground that makes my jaw tighten. It’s the chant—louder now, louder than I’ve ever heard it.
“Bar-SOK! Bar-SOK!”
The crowd screams for me like I’m a god or a demon, like the sounds of their drunken, frothing voices will push blood from stone. I hate them for it. Every last one of them. They don’t know my name, not really. They know a story, a creature penned in by chain and myth. The savage of the pit. The monster who never begs. They see the horn and the rage, not the rot under the skin.
The arena gates creak open behind me. My shoulder blades twitch, as if expecting a knife. I step forward into the blazing eye of the sun, nostrils flaring. My hands grip the trident—a rusted relic with one bent tine—and the shield strapped to my forearm is already cracked down the center like the promise it was forged with. This isn’t a weapon. It’s a joke, a dare. Win with this, monster. Make it interesting.
Opposite me, the second gate slams upward with the thunder of iron and rage. A naga slithers out, coiling across the sand like something spat from a god’s nightmare. His scales gleam with hues of rotted meat and bruises left too long. Muscles ripple beneath armor sewn straight into flesh. Instead of hands, blades hang from his arms, chains snaking back into his elbows, hissing as they spin. His tongue flickers, tasting the air. His eyes are nothing but vertical slits of malice.
He hisses something I don’t understand, his voice thick with venom and glee. I stare without answering. The moment I speak, I become something softer. Words don’t belong to me here. Only the kill does.
The announcer calls my name again, stretching each syllable until it warps into mockery. “Barsooooook,” he sings, and the crowd loses their minds. Coins fly. Bets are cast. Bloodlust roars down from every tier of stone, and somewhere beneath it all, the beat of a war drum begins to pound.
The naga is faster than I expect. The chains slice through the air with a shriek. I duck low, the blade grazing my shoulder and laying open a red, raw gash that blossoms across my collarbone. The pain flashes hot, but it’s clean. Pain I can use. I twist, driving the trident forward, aiming for the belly, but he coils back just enough. The bent tine snaps off against scale that’s tougher than steel.
He laughs then—a slick, wet gurgle of sound that pisses me off more than any insult could. I don’t give him the pleasure of seeing me angry. Anger wastes breath. Rage, though—rage is a tool.
He strikes again, chains wide like scythe-wings. I block with the shield, barely. The impact rocks through my arm and shoulder. The shield cracks further, the sound splintering through the pit louder than the jeers of the nobles. My hooves dig into the sand, holding fast as I bull forward, slamming mybody into his and knocking him backward. He coils around my leg and yanks hard.
The world turns sideways.
I hit the ground so hard the air punches from my lungs. Sand scrapes into my wounds. I roll instinctively, dodging a blade meant for my throat. I taste grit and copper. My fingers find the trident again. With a roar, I drive the remaining two tines up under his ribcage.
