Page 39 of Chained to the Horned God
Adoration can be as sharp as any blade in this place. The crowd loves him now, loves the way his muscles ripple when he fights, the way his horns catch the sun like polished bone. They chant his name until it becomes a ritual, like prayer, like war cries before a charge. But the nobles—the ones in the sky-boxes,draped in silk and smugness—don’t like gods they didn’t invent. And Barsok is becoming too large, too loud, too loved for their comfort.
I hear whispers behind crates in the infirmary, over trays of fermented barley broth and splinted limbs. Lotor’s voice—oily, amused—filters through the cracks in the walls as he speaks to the others who wear perfume like armor. He talks aboutdiscipline. Aboutbreaking the beast. Abouttamingthe Horned Storm before the crowd forgets who holds the leash.
They want to make an example out of him.
I find Barsok sharpening his blade behind the arena quarters, crouched low on a stone bench. The torchlight paints his shoulders gold, muscles working like the inner gears of something divine and dangerous. Sweat darkens the edges of his tunic. There’s a cut along his jaw that hasn’t fully clotted yet, slow red beading along the bone. He doesn’t flinch as he grinds the whetstone across the blade in long, practiced strokes. Every pass sings a quiet metallic note that slices through the silence.
I hate that sound now. Too close to what I hear in dreams—steel tearing through sinew, cheers drowning screams.
“You’re being hunted,” I say, stepping closer, voice low enough not to carry. “Not in the ring. Outside it.”
His eyes don’t lift from the blade. He just grunts, the sound low in his throat like gravel tumbling downhill. “Let them come.”
I kneel beside him, close enough to smell sweat, metal, and the faint warmth of the cloth I washed for him the night before. He’s solid as a mountain, but I see the tremble beneath the surface. It’s not fear. Not quite. It’s weariness. A kind of spiritual erosion, like wind scouring stone.
“You’re not unbreakable,” I whisper. “They think you are. But I know better.”
This time, his blade stops mid-stroke. His fingers flex around the hilt like it’s suddenly too heavy. He doesn’t look at me, but his breath changes—shorter, shallower.
“You don’t have to be what they made you,” I say, softer now, my fingers ghosting over the scars on his back—raised lines, pale ridges carved by whips and time. “You don’t owe the crowd blood just because they scream for it. You don’t have to keep dying to prove you’re alive.”
For a long moment, he says nothing. The whetstone rests in his lap, silent. His chest rises and falls, slower now, measured. A man trying not to break.
“They wouldn’t cheer if I didn’t bleed,” he murmurs finally. “They love the mask, Valoa. Not the man under it.”
“I love the man,” I say without hesitation. “The mask is a lie they put on you to make themselves feel powerful. But I see you. I see you when the crowd doesn’t. When your hands shake. When you flinch at a child’s cry. When you protect the wounded without waiting for thanks.”
He turns toward me then, eyes shadowed but bright. The torchlight flickers across his features, catching the curve of his horn, the edge of his jaw. He doesn’t speak again, but the silence between us says more than words could. He’s listening now. Really listening.
I place a hand over his heart. The beat is slow, strong, steady. But under it, I feel the weight he carries. It’s not just steel and scars. It’s the fear of what he’s becoming to survive this place.
“They’ll come for you,” I whisper. “Maybe not today. But soon. And when they do… you can’t meet them as the beast they expect. You’ll lose that way. We’ll lose that way.”
“What then?” His voice is hoarse, brittle as rusted chain. “What’s left if I can’t fight?”
I grip his hand, press my palm to his rough knuckles, grounding him. “You don’t fight harder. You fight smarter. You fight with allies, not alone.”
He nods slowly, just once. His shoulders slump—not in defeat, but in relief. Like letting down armor he’s carried too long. He leans forward until our foreheads touch, breath warm against my cheek.
“Stay with me tonight?” he asks, voice low enough it’s almost a thought.
“Always,” I answer, without hesitation.
We stay like that until the torch burns down to sputtering coals. Neither of us moves. The world narrows to breath and heartbeat and the stillness between storms.
That night, the infirmary’s torches are nearly spent. Shadows swallow the corners, deep and warm, while bars flicker overhead like ember-sparks. Our footsteps, when he comes back, are quiet—cautious. Barsok moves slower now, each step weighted with caution born from too many battles and too much loss. I stand in the soft glow of the dying light, remembering what calm felt like before the abyss.
He kneels beside me, eyes darkened but clear. He doesn’t speak at first. His hand finds mine, palm warm and certain. His fingers spread over mine, over the carved figure tucked into my pocket just beneath my skirt. “Stay,” he breathes—so quiet I wasn’t sure I heard it until I felt the tremble passing through his jaw.
I nod.
We’re careful with each other. Gentle.
He lifts me slowly, his arms firm and reverent, like he’s carrying something sacred. His lips touch mine again—no hunger, no dominance, just a need so raw it trembles. We breathe each other in. His tongue brushes the seam of my mouth, asking permission he doesn’t need. I give it anyway.
Barsok tastes like smoke and iron, like memory and warmth. My chest tightens. My lips part for him, and he kisses me deeper. Every brush of his mouth over mine is another silent vow. I feel it in the tremble of his jaw, in the way his huge hands cradle my back as if I might vanish.
He pulls back just enough to look at me—his golden eyes soft and burning at once. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he says. “I won’t forgive myself if?—”
