Page 47 of Chained to the Horned God
I slip out of the cot, strap a dagger to my hip, and creak down the corridor. Guards don’t bother with me—they’ve learned not to look too closely at the healer who steals into enemies' shadows.
The vault gate is a rusted arch in the dungeon’s lowermost tier, doors warped from time. I wait in the gloom, breath shallow, wrenching moisture from my skirt.
From the darkness steps a man draped in a hooded cloak—Beltran. The dark elf noble whose neutrality feels like a promise. His eyes glint from the hood’s rim. “You want him alive, don’t you?” he asks, voice smooth like midnight silk.
I don’t answer. I nod.
He flicks a troubled gaze down the corridor, then back to me. “Lotor is planning something. Something fatal.” That word—fatal—carries weight. As though he holds a blade over Barsok’s head, and Lotor’s whisper is the edge.
“Why should I trust you?” I whisper, wind catching my voice.
His head tilts, cloak shadowing half his face. But his eyes hold truth: “Because I knew him before he was the Horned Storm. Before blood made him legend. I owe him more than loyalty to the throne.”
My heart clenches tight. Beltran continues: “They want to harness his popularity as a weapon—to turn him on the crowd when the votes turn ugly. Or destroy him if he refuses. He’s part of the gamble now.”
I breathe deep. I think of Barsok lying on the cot, bruised and alive, hands that tremble when he thinks he’s broken. I steel myself.
Beltran presses a small, folded packet into my palm—ink-stained with new instructions for tomorrow. “Keep him strong. Don’t let him fight blind again. I’ll send more soon. You’re his tether.”
He turns, steps back into the shadows. The vault gates rattle shut behind him.
I kneel in the gloom, pressing fingers to the packet as if it’s a lifeline. A second scroll, with maps, safe routes, codes to delay the coup if necessary, and a fragment of hope I didn’t expect.
Back in the infirmary, Valoa stands in the torchlight, silent revelation tugging at her chest. She breathes deep—thenstraightens her spine. Shadows cluster in the corners, but she’s lit from within.
I watch her fingers fiddle with the dagger at her side. I don’t move.
She tucks the packet into her satchel and meets my gaze. “He won’t fight alone,” she murmurs.
I swallow. “Good.”
Her eyes flick to the cot where Barsok sleeps. Feathers of scarred flesh rise even under cover. “Then neither will you.”
I exhale slow, thick—the ragged inhale of someone recalibrated by stories whispered in shadows.
Night thrusts us forward. I taste fear in my mouth, but I also taste something else—defiance.
Tomorrow might be the day the arena falls. But tonight, I’ve chosen: I don’t fear what comes for him. Because I have belts of secrets, maps of escape, and a whispered vow not to push him away again—ever.
The guard rotations are messier than usual. I pass the infirmary thresholds now smelling sweat and steel over worn linen in broader strokes—like someone turned the lamp up on danger. Guards watch Barsok longer than duty calls. At dinner rations, they glance at me as often as they glance at him. Lotor’s voice drips through the upper galleries: “The Horned Storm has served well.” But it’s the way he sayshasthat slices open every silent corner—it’s correctable. Replaceable. Disposable.
I feel fresh panic under my skin, cold and simmering. I slip scrolls and maps into my satchel as though they breathe. I don’t tell Barsok about Beltran—not yet. Not until I understand what’s entangled beneath it all.
That afternoon, I slip into our cell just as he’s sharpening his blade. He works slowly, tension in his shoulders, head lowered. I move across the floor bare feet mostly silent, inching closer until I stand across from him. He doesn’t stop grinding.
I swallow. “They’re watching you more.”
He glances sideways. No fear. Only assessment. “They always have.”
I touch the scar at the base of his throat with the tip of my finger. “But now it’s different.”
He sets the whetstone down. “Different how?”
I hold my breath. “Your name on banners is like an invocation at court. That means someone is expected to fetch ends when it fails. If they’re planning something —if Lotor’s sharpening his blade—then it could go inside you.”
He stands, jaw worked tight. His shoulders rise. “That knife touches me, it’s not me dying.”
I take a breath too heavier than I mean. “You’re scared,” he says. Not accusing. Observing.
