Page 34 of Chained to the Horned God
He shifts so that his shoulder brushes mine as we walk toward the exit. Chains rattle behind us. The door arches are stained in shadow, the corridor beyond filled with the groan of men too tired to fight anymore.
We don’t speak again that night.
We don’t have to.
When we lie down on opposite cot benches, foreheads touching, fingers laced, the world outside this flimsy sanctuary doesn’t exist. Not for a moment.
Not until I drift into sleep, comforted by the weight of his breath in my hair, the faint beat of his heart under my palm, and the certainty that—however fragile—he’s here, holding me instead of letting me fall.
The corridor goes still sometime after midnight. The torchlight outside the infirmary gutters low, reduced to amber ghosts that flicker against sweat-stained stone. The smell of iron hangs heavy. Bodies shift in sleep. Ragged breath, the occasional cough, and the low moan of pain are all that remain of the day’s brutal symphony.
When I’m sure the others have finally surrendered to exhaustion, I rise from my cot with bare feet and trembling hands. I move through the darkness like something half-haunted, fingers trailing the wall for balance. The night wraps itself around me like wet wool—thick, suffocating, but safe in its concealment.
Barsok is already awake.
I see it in the way his shoulders tense when I near. His breathing slows, deliberate now, no longer the shallow rhythm of slumber. Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just makesroom for me in that narrow cot with the quiet acceptance of someone who understands need.
I slide in beside him, the chill of the stone floor forgotten the moment his warmth surrounds me. No words pass between us. Words would shatter this fragile thing we’ve built—this quiet tether holding us above the abyss. We lie chest to chest, leg to leg, no barriers, no pretense. My cheek rests against his collarbone, the hollow there cradling me like a secret.
His skin smells like salt, like iron, like something raw and real. The faint ridges of old scars press against my thighs where his legs twine with mine, a map of violence etched in flesh. One of his hands finds the small of my back and rests there, not possessive, not hesitant—just present.
Then he hums.
It starts low, almost imperceptible, like the hum of a tide rolling in slow over sand. The song is wordless but soaked in meaning—notes carried from Milthar’s coasts, where the winds shriek over cliffs and fishermen sing to ward off storms. His voice rumbles through his chest and into my bones. It’s not a lullaby. It’s a lament. Grief given melody.
My eyes sting. I bury my face in his throat, feel the steady pulse there, feel my breath sync with his. My fingers curl into the fur at his side, and I clutch him like he’s the only solid thing left in a world made of smoke and blood.
“Keep humming,” I whisper, voice muffled.
He does.
The song wavers once, cracks at the edges, but then it returns stronger. Steadier. It wraps around me like a spell, like armor. My eyes drift closed. The rhythm of his breathing, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath my ear, becomes the only thing I trust in the dark.
I sleep like that—curled against him like a child, like a storm shelter, like prayer made flesh.
And in the morning, I wake first.
The light from the corridor is gray, feeble, barely strong enough to outline his silhouette. I don’t move. Not right away. I lie there and listen. To the way his breath hitches softly in sleep. To the slow thump of his heart, steady and slow beneath my palm. I trace lazy patterns against his sternum, not daring to shift too much lest I wake him.
I’ve never felt safer in my life.
Not in my father’s arms. Not beneath mountain stars. Not even when I thought freedom was still a possibility. This—this impossible moment pressed between war and survival—this is what my heart names sanctuary.
And it terrifies me.
Because safety, real safety, is a thing that can be taken. It’s a thing people ruin just by touching it. If the dark elves knew, if Lotor so much as suspected, he’d flay us both for the luxury of love. I’ve seen what they do to people who dare care too much. I’ve stitched their bodies. Dug their graves. I know.
“Stop thinking,” Barsok murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
I freeze.
His arm tightens around my waist. His voice is muffled by my hair, but he nuzzles the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You think so loud it shakes the damn walls.”
I laugh, softly, helplessly. “Sorry.”
“You should be,” he growls. “Ruined a perfectly good dream.”
“What were you dreaming about?” I ask, voice barely audible.
