Page 46 of Chained to the Horned God
When I bandage a torn corner of Sharonna’s shoulder—ruby wound beneath torn strip—and press it firm, Valoa exhales quietly. She leans forward, toes brushing my ankle. The moment cleaves open something in me—just a rustle, a might-be. My hands stay still. My senses taut.
“She fought tonight,” she murmurs. “Refused to beg. Cursed them all before she fainted.” Her voice catches. “Your fight gave her bones more reason than dying for coin.”
I nod, quiet. She stands. Doesn’t speak. I stay kneeling, pressing gauze tight.
She moves behind me, shoulders against mine, letting the damp gown settle between us. When Sharonna’s breathing steadies, she pushes away. I press down hard enough to leave bruises.
Valoa finds me after. The torchlight quivers across her face as she stands in the hallway, arms folded, gaze steady.
“Don’t push me away again,” she says, breath soft.
My chest tightens. My voice thick, but clear. “I promise not to.”
It hits me like a starfall—her words, the promise, the weight of it. I haven’t made a promise like that since Milthar. Since before I was caged. Since I thought love was a weapon too heavy to hold.
She lets her gaze soften. Offers one small tilt of her head before she turns, steps down the corridor toward the cell we share. I follow. Not rushed. Not desperate. Steady.
We don’t speak again that night. We rest on the pallet side by side, quiet as ash. I reach and place my palm over her heart—it still beats despite everything. I feel her breath settle. The rustle of her tunic as she shifts closer.
I let promise bloom inside me—tender, cautious, irrevocable.
Because she reminds me I’m still a man who can stand for something other than survival.
And I will.
The lock clicks softlybehind us, shutting out the cavern’s roar. A noble’s gift to me: a wooden tub carved from river oak, its iron bands gleaming dull in torchlight. The water inside is chilled and still. As I step in, splinters of warmth ripple across my bruised limbs—but Valoa kneels beside the tub and presses her hands into the water. She swirls her fingers, scattering warmth through the basin, breathing life into an act of tenderness so rare I almost choke on it.
She slides in beside me, silent as dusk. My skin flakes become steam, and the scent of cracked wood and cold water melds with lavender oil that she tucks into the corners of the tub. I breathe in the aroma, heavy and homebound.
We wash each other in silence. Her fingers trace the line of every scar—chrysalis of battles: the hydra wound, the chimera slash, the silver scar on my brow. I rinse away dried blood and salt sweat until her skin shines under torchlight. Her scars I kiss away, each kiss a vow sealed in dusk.
When she reaches—fingertips brushing the base of my horn—I feel something inside me crack open. Her fingers trace the curve slowly, mapping out this part of me I thought only war could shape. The ache beneath them loosens. I want to stay in that moment forever.
She pulls the water over me gently, her voice almost breathless. “You smell like rain.”
I open my eyes. Can’t speak. She dips cloth into the basin and lifts water to my jaw, scrubbing clean the grime of the cage and scent of steel.
We breathe each other in, pulses slowed, hearts unarmored.
We don’t make love—not tonight. But we feel love in every stroke, every breath, every moment her skin presses against mine, carrying me away from the pit and closer to something named softly.
When I rise from the tub, water drips from my horns, each droplet cold like memory. She wraps me in cloth, presses it tight against wounds. I pull her close and tell her, voice low and raw: “I would die for you.”
Without flinching, she rests her forehead against mine. “Then live for me instead.” Her hand settles against my chest—light, burning, steady.
In that moment, the cell door might as well be sky. I know I will. Not for legend. Not for death. But for love born from scars and survival.
15
VALOA
The dawn sun filters through barbed window slits and lands like judgment across the infirmary straw. When I wake, my side aches from the earlier steam-bath—spent warmth pressed against bruised flesh—but the ache doesn’t matter. I draw breath, arch my shoulders, and realize my heart is still full, still tethered.
A scroll lies beneath my cot, sealed with a wax emblem I don’t recognize. No name. No seal. Only these words penned in silver ink:
“Meet me at the low-tier vault gate after final bell.”
I pause, heart hammering. Doubt curls around me—danger climbs fast in dark halls. The bell will ring when the last match’s death falls silent.
