Page 45 of Chained to the Horned God
When he kisses my tears away, I taste salt. When I kiss the scars on his chest, I taste battle and longing and release. The world outside the cell—crowds, battles, death—fades into distant rumble. All that remains is breath and heartbeat, raw flesh pressed against raw flesh, confession braided into skin.
We fall asleep wrapped in each other, tangled limbs heavy with the weight of survival and the fragile bloom of hope. It’s not perfect. Our bodies ache. We wake in pain: bruises, tight joints, nightmares ringing loud. But when we wake, he holds me. I trace the line of gold his horns cast on the ceiling.
All I know is this: he looked into the depths of my fear and chose to stay. I looked into his past and refused to run. It’s not perfect. But it’s ours.
14
BARSOK
The blare of the trumpets hits me before I step through the arena gates. They’ve blindfolded me at Lotor’s command—“to make it interesting,” he said, voice full of that sick, amused arrogance. But I’ve fought in darkness before. I know how to taste sound. To track motion with muscle memory. To kill without sight.
I steel myself, arms out to feel space. The sand is soft beneath my hooves, unexpected after all the fights. I breathe in deep—salt sweat, the roar of the crowd, the tang of fear and flame. A bell clangs. I lunge. I hear bone crack, a grunt, sand spray. Then someone screams—the sound cuts me like a blade.
Cheers rise. Volume explodes as if every voice in the city wants something more. When the bell clangs again, I know it’s over.
The blindfold comes off. I blink through torchlight, see bodies kneeling, broken on the sand—my opponents. I kneel once, breathe slow, then rise. The chant swells:Bar-Sok! Bar-Sok!
Pain lances my ribs—fresh fractures jag a breath—but the crowd doesn’t hear that. They see the spectacle. The monster proofed in darkness.
I limp across the pit ramp, sweat and blood drying crust beneath my horns. The gates swing back open. The guard at the threshold bows. I nod, and step through.
Valoa stands at the threshold of the infirmary before I even enter. Torchlight silhouettes her. She’s still, spine straight, arms crossed. The wild strands of hair tickle her face. I feel the weight of my victory—of every ounce of violence I've become.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t step forward.
I feel the silence stretch longer than the roar ever lasted.
“I’m broken,” she finally says, voice low but clear. “This place is breaking you.”
I swallow, breath tasting of metal. “It broke me a long time ago,” I say, voice flat.
Her eyes glint. Something volcanic behind them. She steps forward, lifts one hand. The slap cracks like a weapon. My cheek burns—not from the hit, but the truth in her voice. “Then let me put you back together.”
I don’t know how to respond. Her words strike harder than any strike in the pit. Under the torchlight, I see every scar I carry etched in her eyes—pity, fear, rage, love. It's too much.
I step past her, through the door, and walk away. Silence yanks me with its weight as I stride. The infirmary doors hiss shut behind me like a promise long broken.
Later, I lie awake on the cot. Her voice rings in my head. Her eyes. Her strength. She didn’t beg. She offered. But I walked away.
Regret tastes like rust on my tongue. I feel the silence thunder in my bones. That quiet echo makes me ache—in ways the pit never could.
I feel her absence. Hear the distant chant of the crowd, still roaring my legend. But there’s another sound somewhere deeper—the thump of a broken man wondering if redemption means letting someone else hold the pieces.
Tomorrow is not guaranteed. But the night stands like a promise: time to learn how to build again, or time to crumble in the dark.
The night beyond the cell is a low drumbeat of distant torches and fading cheers. When I stir on the cot, my ribs ache—a dull, consistent burn—calling reminders of yesterday's blind fight and the punishment done in daylight. I don’t move for a while. I listen to the hush, the quiet life beyond the scar lit by uncertain torchlight. Finally, I rise, wrapping my tunic around me, weakness half-woven through muscle.
Durk is waiting where the cell corridor meets the infirmary hall. His armor is spattered, paint and blood drying across dents. He pushes one boot forward, stance wide—like he’s bracing for a fight. But it’s not a threat I see in his gaze. It’s clarity.
“You need to stop pretending you’re not in love,” he says. His voice hits with the weight of truth under blood and scars. “She’s already part of your blood. You just haven’t bled for her yet.”
I blink. The words burn. Because I have bled. Not on her behalf, but in her name. Didn’t spare my life, just the crowd’s narrative. But the truth... the truth I haven’t found until now.
I swallow hard. His words echo in my chest, knotting fear and hope and something closer to dawning.
I walk into the infirmary and find Valoa bent over Sharonna’s cot. Sharonna’s regal posture slack along the bedroll, unconscious at last, cheeks flushed. A blow to the head and the fever ravaging her ribs, I learn later. Valoa’s hands work calm and sure, wiping sweat, repositioning pillows. I move across the threshold quietly, kneeling beside her, offering gesture without fanfare.
She glances at me, eyes red but steady, nods. I press a cooling rag to Sharonna’s brow, damp with fever, and pour fresh water over cracked lips. She breathes harsh and slow, body trembling.
