Page 22 of Chained to the Horned God
Her hand stops. She looks up, eyes clear and serious.
“Has it eaten you yet?” she asks.
I meet her gaze and feel something tight in my chest shift. Something I buried long ago. Something still warm.
“Not all the way,” I whisper.
She leans in, presses her forehead to mine. No kiss. No words. Just that connection, skin to skin. Her breath mingles with mine, steady and real. In that second, the cell vanishes. The blood, the cheers, the weight of a thousand dead names—all of it fades.
It’s just me. Her. The quiet between battles.
But deep down, I know the quiet never lasts.
The meat’s tough tonight. Gristly strips of something that once had a face and now tastes like it died angry. I chew through it anyway, leaning against the cool wall, trying not to think about how long it’s been since I tasted anything fresh. Salt and blood coat the inside of my mouth. My jaw aches from the last fight. My ribs still throb, wrapped tight under the salve Valoa pressed in with hands softer than they had any right to be.
The cell door grates open, hinges crying like tortured metal. Durk Dragonslayer limps in, dragging his busted leg like it’s made of rusted iron. His armor clinks with every step—mismatched plates strapped over thick green skin and old scars that run like rivers across his chest.
“Nice place,” he mutters, eyeing the room like he’s never been inside before. He smells like old leather and burnt herbs, and I can already tell he’s three swigs into something strong.
He tosses a bottle toward me. I catch it with one hand. The glass is warm and slick from his grip. A faded label I can’t read curls off the side.
“Fermented snakemilk,” he says. “Brought it back from the pits last week. Thought you earned it.”
I pop the cork and take a whiff. It hits the back of my throat like a kicked beehive—sour, heady, tinged with something sharp. I grin. Then take a pull that burns all the way down.
Durk grunts approval and drops to the floor across from me, his weight making the stone groan.
“Your woman’s got guts,” he says, rubbing the bandaged stump where his hand used to be. “Kept me from bleeding out last week. Didn’t even flinch when I told her I’d bite her nose off if she touched me.”
I should correct him. Tell him Valoa isn’t mine. That we’re not anything.
But I don’t.
I don’t say anything for a long second. Just let the words hang there, warm and close. I like the way it sounds. “Your woman.” There’s something about the phrasing that sticks, takes root deep in my chest. She’s not mine. Not yet.
“She’s tougher than she looks,” I finally say.
Durk snorts. “Ain’t that the truth.”
We drink. We share the bottle until it’s halfway gone, then stand and head to the sand pits. The sun’s dipped low, bleeding orange across the stone walls of the arena. The training yard is quiet this time of night, most of the others too sore or too drunk to bother. But Durk and I, we still bleed for discipline. Still sharpen ourselves on each other like whetstones.
He’s quicker than he looks for a one-handed orc. We circle each other, bare-chested, feet grinding into the sand. Our shadows twist long on the ground, broken by torchlight and the low fog that rises in the heat.
He strikes first, shoulder check into my ribs. I grunt and counter with a knee to his hip. He grins, teeth yellow and sharp.
“That all you got, cow?”
“I’m pacing myself, tusks.”
We go again. Fists fly. Grunts echo off the walls. Blood sprays once—his, from a busted lip—and he laughs like it’s a prize. We trade blows until my knuckles throb and my muscles sing. Until the edge of rage curls under the skin, but never breaks through. That’s how it is with Durk. We fight like enemies, but laugh like brothers. There’s no fear between us, only pain, and a little respect.
I catch him with a sweep, knock him flat into the dirt, and offer a hand up. He takes it, grumbling, then claps my shoulder hard enough to bruise.
“You fight like a bastard.”
“Better than dying like one.”
He laughs again and limps off toward the edge of the yard. I stand there, catching my breath, sweat running down my spine in rivulets. The air tastes of ash and rust, thick with the weight of too many bodies and not enough sky.
