Page 16 of Chained to the Horned God
“No promises.”
She leans against the wall beside me, folding her arms. “You enjoy it, don’t you?”
“The fighting?”
She nods, not looking at me.
I think about lying. About pretending it’s all for show. But she deserves the truth, even if it makes her hate me.
“I don’t know anymore,” I say. “Maybe I used to. Maybe it was the only time I felt like I was in control. But now…”
“But now?”
“Now I fight so they don’t forget I’m dangerous.”
That makes her glance over. Her eyes are tired, but there’s a sharpness to them. A keen edge like a scalpel.
“They’ll never forget that,” she says. “You scare them even when you bleed.”
I don’t respond. I drink the rest of the wine, letting the bitter aftertaste coat my tongue. There’s something crawling beneath my skin tonight. It’s not just the fight. It’s the weight of a plan forming, slow and awful and real.
The cell door creaks open without warning. The guards don’t speak. They never do. But the figure that steps through isn’t one of them.
Beltran.
He moves with the arrogance of someone who believes in his own cleverness. His cloak swishes behind him like it has somewhere more important to be. His eyes flick to Valoa, then settle on me.
“You look worse than usual,” he says, a thin smile playing on his lips.
“I didn’t realize you cared.”
“Oh, I don’t. But your survival is… advantageous.”
Valoa stiffens beside me. Her fingers curl into fists, but she stays quiet. Watching.
Beltran steps closer, hands behind his back, the picture of noble grace hiding a snake’s heart.
“You’ve become quite popular,” he says. “The crowds love you. Even the merchants are wearing minotaur sigils now, thinking it brings them luck. You’re more than a gladiator now. You’re a symbol.”
“Symbols don’t bleed like this,” I growl, jerking my thumb toward my stitched-up side.
“Exactly.” His grin sharpens. “That’s what makes it real.”
He paces a slow circle around me like I’m some warhound he’s considering buying. I keep still. Barely.
“There’s opportunity in your fame,” he says. “You could be useful. To the city. To me.”
“Useful how?”
“Lotor is… unstable. Dangerous even to his own. There are those who would see a different ruler on that throne. Someone with sense. With vision. But change requires fire. You, Barsok, are fire.”
I meet his gaze, my voice low. “Go to hell.”
Beltran doesn’t flinch. He only chuckles and pulls a small, silver token from his pocket, dropping it into the dirt in front of me.
“Think on it,” he says. “There’s more to your story than blood in the sand.”
He leaves before I can answer.
