Page 20 of Chained to the Horned God
He doesn’t answer. Just lets me touch him, tend to him, exist beside him in the wake of the storm.
We never talk about the first kiss. But the space between us shrinks every time we sit together.
Later that night, I slip into Barsok’s cell carrying a rusting tin with fresh bandages and half a stolen peach wrapped in cloth. The air is thick with the odor of sweat, antiseptic herbs, and lingering fear, but when I step inside, it feels impossible thatviolence still rules beyond those bars. He’s seated against the wall, eyes closed, breathing steady. A single torch guttering in the corner casts long shadows over his massive frame.
I kneel beside him. The peach is warm in my palm, syrup-soft and fragrant. I hold it out. “You hungry?”
Barsok opens one silver-slitted eye and cracks a grin that tugs at his jaw scar. “Fine. But you better not try to sweeten me up.” He takes it gently.
I tug the rind off a slice and offer it. It tastes of sun and earth, sour and sweet all at once. He chews slow, thoughtful. I find a tin on the floor and pour fresh water on the bandages. The cloth is damp enough to soften, just a little stinging when I press it into the cut above his hip.
We sit in silence while I stitch. The sound is rhythmic—thread pulling through leather and old flesh. Outside, I can hear the faint drip of water from the cistern and the distant squeak of chains as guards change shifts. Close enough to remind me that we’re still prisoners, but just far enough to let peace settle over us.
Barsok breaks the silence. “Crowd’s roar today… made me feel like a shadow, not a hero.”
I pause in my stitching. “I thought they cheered for you.”
He snorts softly, a sound like a steamed-out horn. “They don’t know me. They know the myth. I’m just the shadow behind it.”
I press the last knot. “Heroes bleed, too,” I murmur, brushing a strand of my red hair from his forehead as I lean down to clean the wound.
He breathes out slow. “I don’t bleed the way you do.”
I swallow tight. “I remember the first time I stitched a wound. My father’s arm when he’d fallen off the ladder in the fields. The cut was long and ragged, bone tilting. I wrapped him to keep the bleeding down, heart pounding so loud I thought I’dfaint. He looked me in the eye and said, ‘You’ll heal more than arms with that touch, Valoa.’”
His gaze softens so that blue eyes shimmer silver in the torchlight. “Your father… he sounds formidable.”
I laugh softly, though there’s sadness behind it. “He was. Gentle with his hands, strong with his heart. He never judged a cut, just fixed it.”
Barsok shifts so he’s looking at me. His head bobbles slightly, heavy with exhaustion and relief. “He sounded like a good man. I would’ve liked to meet him.”
My chest tightens at how much warmth is packed into that sentence. “I would’ve liked you to meet him, too.”
Silence drapes over us again. I tuck loose stitches into place and finally rise, perching beside him with my knees pressed to his hip. Our breath fills the space between us, slow and intentional. Nothing more needs to be said.
He watches me, my hair, the bandages, then finally reaches for my hand. Fingers as thick as tree branches curl around mine—but careful, not crushing. I feel the pulse in his wrist, slow and steady, like the sea in morning calm.
“I dreamt you were alive,” I whisper. “My hand reached, and?—”
My voice catches.
His hand squeezes. “And now I am.”
We lay side by side on the rough stone floor, not touching, but not apart. His shoulder aches but he doesn’t shift. My cheek rests on the edge of his arm. Our breaths fall into the same rhythm—two struggling souls lighting the same dark.
Sleep drifts in gentle waves. I dream of his hand brushing mine across that gap between us, snug and warm. Then I wake, eyes adjusting to the faint torch glow, and find it already there. His fingertips curl over mine, thumbs brushing my skin like an apology, like a promise.
The air is quieter now, softer, as if the cell itself holds its breath to avoid disturbing this fragile moment.
I don't fear sunrise. Because somewhere in the tangled silence, I’ve found something like hope.
6
BARSOK
The ogre’s hammer whistles past my head, trailing hot air like a forge bellows left open. It misses, barely, but the wind of it still stings my cheek. The bastard’s got four arms, each as thick as tree trunks, veined and glistening with sweat under the sun that beats down like judgment. His tusks gleam like polished ivory, and his eyes burn the same molten color as the pits that birthed him. He roars again—too loud, too full of himself. The crowd roars louder.
They like him. He’s flashy. He bellows and flexes and parades his brute strength like a show mare. The announcer calls him Gornath the Emberborn, Champion of the Smoked Teeth. I don’t care what he’s called. He fights like a battering ram without a brain. Easy to read. Easier to hurt.
