Page 55 of Chained to the Horned God
Scar's jaws open wide, flames roaring outward, casting the entire arena in a sinister, crimson glow. The heat washes over me in waves, blistering hot, the air searing my lungs with the acrid tang of burnt flesh and sulfur. My vision tunnels, fixating on Barsok as he dives desperately to the side, rolling through the sand with practiced grace, narrowly escaping the worst of the flames. But it's close—too close. The fire grazes his shoulder, singeing fur, and drawing an instinctive scream from my throat.
"BARSOK!"
My cry is drowned beneath the deafening roar of the crowd, a sea of vicious glee and bloodlust, their excitement mounting with every close call, every narrow miss. I clench my jaw so tight it aches, trying to remind myself this is part of the plan, just theater—yet every instinct in me screams otherwise. My heart races violently, chest heaving, panic clawing sharply inside me.
Lotor throws back his head, laughing drunkenly, the sound vile and cruel. He sways unsteadily, sloshing his wine as he cheers wildly, eyes glazed and glittering with manic delight. My stomach churns violently at the sight of him, hatred flaring, white-hot and all-consuming. The vial weighs heavy in my hand, slick with sweat, fingers trembling uncontrollably.
Gathering every shred of courage left inside me, I inch closer, slipping quietly beside him. The reek of wine, sweat, and spoiled luxury wafts from his richly embroidered robes, assaulting my senses. My fingers fumble slightly with the vial's stopper, slick and clumsy, heart racing painfully as I watch the pale liquid drip silently into his goblet, vanishing into the ruby depths of his wine.
I step back hurriedly, lungs tight, breath rasping harshly in my throat. For one agonizing heartbeat, I fear he'll notice, but he's too engrossed by the spectacle below, his twisted laughter ringing loudly. With a careless flourish, he raises his cup, draining it greedily, throat bobbing rapidly as the tainted liquid slips past his lips. My heart pounds so loud I fear he'll hear it, the roar in my ears drowning out everything else.
Seconds crawl by with torturous slowness, my eyes locked on him, stomach knotted painfully. The poison is subtle but swift, the dose carefully calculated—my father's lessons ingrained deep in my bones. Lotor shifts suddenly, blinking rapidly, confusion flickering across his flushed features. Sweat beads visibly on his forehead, glistening in the harsh sunlight, his pupils dilating, unfocused.
"What—?" he mumbles thickly, shaking his head sharply as if trying to clear a fog.
A grim satisfaction blooms fiercely in my chest, tempered by urgent fear. My fingers twitch nervously, watching him closely, ready to spring forward if necessary. Below us, the fight rages on, relentless, ferocious, utterly convincing in its savagery.
Scar lunges again, jaws snapping viciously, flames flaring, casting lurid reflections across the sand. Barsok dances back, swift and powerful, a shadow of pure muscle and raw defiance. I catch my breath, every muscle tense, nails digging painfully into my palms. Scar feints left, then sharply pivots, massive tail whipping out with devastating speed. The blow catches Barsok squarely, knocking him violently off balance, sending him sprawling heavily to the sand.
The crowd gasps collectively, a single, unified sound of shock and horrified anticipation. I scream again, the sound torn violently from my throat, lost amid a thousand others. My heart stutters painfully, terror overwhelming reason as Barsok struggles slowly to rise, each movement labored, carefully choreographed yet agonizingly believable. Blood and sand streak his fur, his breathing visibly ragged, chest heaving.
Scar stalks forward, deliberate, eyes cold yet knowing, his massive jaws poised menacingly. My vision blurs, panic squeezing my throat, pulse hammering so loudly it's deafening. Lotor beside me sways dangerously, hand gripping the railing, mumbling incoherently, eyes vacant and unfocused.
"It's over, beast!" Lotor slurs drunkenly, leaning forward precariously. "Finish it!"
My pulse spikes violently, breath hitching sharply as Scar rears back, jaws widening impossibly, flame building dangerously within. Every muscle in my body coils tight, paralyzed by dread, unable to move, unable to look away. Time freezes painfully, suspended in a brutal eternity.
Scar lunges forward, a blur of scales and fire—then pivots sharply, jaws snapping around the heavy iron chain binding him. With a deafening metallic shriek, the links shatter, sending shards of iron scattering across the sand, gleaming brightly under the harsh sun.
For one stunned heartbeat, silence reigns absolute, a fragile bubble poised on the edge of oblivion. Then chaos explodes violently, utterly uncontrollable. Screams erupt everywhere, panic gripping the crowd, bodies surging wildly, trampling blindly toward exits, pushing, fighting, screaming in terror. My heart jolts violently, adrenaline flooding my veins, every nerve singing with urgency.
Scar roars triumphantly, flame billowing fiercely, torching nearby guards, engulfing them instantly, their screams piercing the madness. Below, Barsok surges to his feet, chains falling uselessly away, muscles tensed, eyes blazing with fury and determination.
"NOW!" Barsok bellows, voice powerful enough to rise clearly above the insanity.
My breath catches sharply, relief flooding painfully through me, nearly overwhelming. Everything hinges on these frantic moments, our meticulously planned chaos spiraling gloriously out of control. My heart pounds frantically, eyes desperately scanning the fray, searching for Barsok amid dust and smoke.
"Valoa!"
His voice reaches me clearly, urgent and fierce, slicing through the chaos. I spin sharply, spotting him instantly, already sprinting across the sand, powerful strides devouring the distance. Relief crashes violently through me, nearly buckling my knees, but I force myself upright, body trembling with adrenaline, with wild, terrified hope.
"Valoa! Go!" Barsok roars, eyes locked desperately with mine. "Now!"
My breath rasps harshly, pulse hammering. I spin around, shoving blindly through the panicked, fleeing crowd, robes tangling about my legs, tripping me up, slowing me down. Bodies crash into mine from every side, panic radiating hot and suffocating. Yet somehow, I keep moving, determined, fueled by sheer desperation.
"Move!" I scream hoarsely, pushing violently forward. "Get out of the way!"
Ahead, the exit beckons, tantalizingly close, a sliver of daylight and freedom. My pulse spikes painfully, heart nearly bursting from my chest, lungs burning fiercely. Just a few more steps.
A rough hand grabs my arm suddenly, wrenching me backward, sending me staggering. My scream of protest is lost amid the chaos, voice hoarse and desperate.
"No, no!" I struggle violently, panic surging, thrashing against iron-like fingers digging cruelly into my flesh.
"Easy!" Durk's gruff voice snarls urgently, face appearing sharply through the haze. "It’s me! We need to move—now!"
Relief floods through me, painful and overwhelming. I nod frantically, heart hammering, allowing him to pull me urgently forward, his massive frame cutting through the chaos with ruthless efficiency.
Behind us, the world erupts into flames and screams, Old Scar's laughter ringing maniacally, bloodcurdling and triumphant. I stumble forward, limbs trembling, body wracked by violent shivers of adrenaline, fear, and hope.
