Page 4 of Chained to the Horned God
We move down, stone steps slick with some kind of foul grease. It’s colder here, the kind of chill that settles in your marrow and makes you think of graves. The hallway narrows. The laughter fades behind us. The only sound is the rattle of my chain and the slow drip of something wet hitting stone.
Then she stops. A heavy iron door looms in front of us. Carved with deep gouges, like something inside didn’t appreciate being locked away.
The guard turns to me with a grin sharp enough to split skin.
“Don’t scream too much,” she purrs. “He likes the quiet ones best.”
She unhooks my leash and kicks open the door. It swings wide on rusted hinges, moaning like the ghosts of a hundred broken souls.
She shoves me through.
I hit stone and roll hard. My shoulder shrieks. I bite down on a cry and taste copper again. The door slams behind me with a thunderclap, leaving only silence in its wake.
For a moment, I lie there, every breath scraping like broken glass through my chest.
I don’t think about what’s waiting in the dark. I can’t.
The cell smells like rust and earth and something older. Stone dust coats my tongue. My knees are raw from the landing. The air is thick with sweat—mine or something else's, I don’t know—and the faintest trace of char.
My hands are still bound behind me. I shuffle to my side, try to sit, try to breathe, try tothink—but the shadows shift.
Something moves.
I go still, heart hammering like a war drum. The space is big, wider than I expected. A distant shape rises from the far corner. Slow. Heavy. Massive.
My stomach drops into my knees.
The torchlight doesn’t reach him, but I see enough.
Horns.
Curving. Elegant. Deadly.
Broad shoulders wider than the doorframe. Fur, dark and matted, stretched over a frame like a living mountain. A shadow within shadows. Then, two eyes open—silver, gleaming, alien in their calm.
“You’re not from Kharza.”
The voice isn’t what I expect. It’s not a growl, not a bark, not a threat. It’scalm.Deep and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet, sliding straight down my spine.
I suck in a breath that scrapes past my dry throat. “And you’re not… going to kill me?”
He moves forward slowly, like someone used to frightening everything he approaches. I can hear the chains dragging behind him, thick enough to anchor a ship.
He stops just short of the light, towering over me.
“Not unless you plan to insult me again.”
His tone is flat. Bored, almost.
I blink. Then, despite everything, I snort.
“Would’ve brought my insults in a gift basket if I’d known I’d be sharing a cell.”
He makes a sound I can’t place. Not quite a laugh. More like a breath of disbelief.
“I’m Valoa,” I say, the name coming out more like a cough than a greeting.
“I didn’t ask,” he replies.
