Page 15 of Chained to the Horned God
He doesn’t scream. He howls.
The blade breaks again, leaving only one jagged edge jutting out like a fang. His coils spasm. One slaps me across the back, sending shockwaves down my spine. I keep my grip and twist the trident hard.
He yanks away, the metal tearing free with a wet, sucking noise. Blood—dark, thick, reeking of rot—pours onto the sand.
We circle each other. I limp now. He bleeds. We both stink of death.
He lunges again, faster than I expect, and the tip of his chain-blade scores a deep line across my thigh. The pain makes me hiss through my teeth, but it doesn't drop me. It fuels me.
I wait until he overextends, then lunge forward, grabbing the chain at the base. My hand locks onto the slick, cold metal. I yank, spinning into him, driving my horned head straight into his jaw. Bone gives with a crunch. His mouth snaps sideways. I use the moment of stunned confusion to slam the broken trident between his teeth and into his gullet.
His eyes widen. I feel the spasm run through his whole body. I don’t stop.
I drive it deeper.
His tail lashes, striking wild. One final twist and the trident’s edge tears through something vital. He sags.
When I release the weapon, he collapses in a heap, the chains unwinding in slow, twitching spasms. His chest shudders. Once. Then again. Then not at all.
The arena is silent for a heartbeat.
Then the screaming starts.
“Bar-SOK! Bar-SOK!”
Their roar crashes over me like a tide. Their lust, their glee—it curdles in my stomach. I raise what remains of the trident high overhead, the weapon cracked and blood-soaked. I don’t smile. I don’t bow. I let them scream.
My eyes rise to the royal box, where the worst of them waits. Baron Lotor leans forward, his white hair gleaming like spider silk under the shade of his parasol. One hand rests on a goblet, the other tangled in the hair of the human girl kneeling beside him. His smile is wide, toothy, pleased.
He raises his glass to me.
I stare back, cold and unmoved.
I turn my back before the gate even creaks open, the broken trident dragging behind me through the sand like an anchor. The blood trail I leave is thick. The pit drinks it all.
They throwme meat still steaming and a bowl of wine that smells half-spoiled, but I take it just the same. I need the protein, the burn. My jaw aches from gritting it through the fight, and my ribs feel like someone stomped them with a hammer. The wine helps dull the edge, but it’s the company that does more for me than any drink.
Valoa crouches behind me, her fingers cool and insistent as she threads a needle with shaking hands. I know that tremble isn’t fear. It’s fury. Worry turned hard and sharp. She’s angry that I’m alive but in pieces.
“You’re a damn fool,” she mutters, pulling the thread tight through a tear along my shoulder. “You let that snake bastard get behind you.”
“I had it under control.”
“You almost had your kidney on the outside of your body.”
I grunt, half in pain, half in amusement. She’s scolding me again, and gods help me, I like it. It’s the kind of anger that reminds me I’m still a person and not just a weapon on legs. She talks to me like I matter. Not like something caged and broken.
Her hands press a poultice against the gash above my hip. The sting is immediate, and I bite back a snarl. She hears it anyway.
“I told you to stop catching blades with your ribs.”
“I’ll try to duck faster next time.”
She thumps the back of my head gently with her knuckles. “You better.”
There’s a silence after that, but not the empty kind. It’s the thick sort, filled with unspoken things. Her breath tickles between my shoulder blades as she works. I feel the warmth of her knees brushing my sides, the faint scent of herbs and sweat clinging to her skin. She's so damn close I can feel her heartbeat. That’s the kind of thing you don’t forget. Not after years of only hearing your own echo in the dark.
She finishes the last stitch with a hiss of satisfaction. “There. Try not to tear it open again for at least a day.”
