Page 66 of Chained to the Horned God
He paces slow, each step deliberate, his eyes sweeping the crowd. He sees them all. The wounded. The widows. The fighterswith bandaged arms and the children with soot-streaked cheeks. The gladiators. The former slaves. The nobles stripped of silk and pride.
“I propose elections,” he says, voice unwavering. “A council. Chosen by the people. By vote, not violence. A city led by those who’ve walked its streets. Who’ve felt its weight. No more kings. No more collars.”
For a heartbeat, there’s silence.
Then the dam breaks.
The roar swells like thunder—raw, electric, uncontainable. Fists pump the sky. People scream. Cry. Embrace. The sound washes over us in waves, a flood of something feral and free.
He turns to me.
“This was your idea,” he says, not shouting now, just speaking to me like the rest of the world has melted away. “You gave me something worth fighting for.”
My throat closes. I want to say something. Anything.
But words don’t come.
So I take his hand.
And hold it like it’s the only thing that matters in this new world we’ve made.
The stars spill across the sky like scattered jewels, bright and sharp and countless. Their light pools in the creases of ruined stone and broken towers, painting the skeleton of Kharza in silver. It smells of ash and new earth, of rebirth, like the city itself is breathing different now. Slower. Softer. Hope clings to the air like mist.
I sit beside the fire, legs crossed, shoulders wrapped in a blanket that still smells like blood and Barsok’s sweat. The embers crackle low, casting dancing light on the faces of those who remain. The wounded sleep nearby. The children doze against their mothers. Gladiators whisper in the shadows, voices soft with wonder and exhaustion.
Then I see him.
He’s moving through the crowd like he’s part of the night, bare-chested, his skin streaked with old soot, new scars. He carries no weapon. No crown. Just a calm I’ve never seen before. The kind of peace that comes after the storm has finished tearing you apart.
He stops in front of me.
My throat tightens.
Barsok drops to one knee.
Not like a ruler.
Not like a warrior.
But like himself.
My Barsok.
“I love you, Valoa Pell,” he says, and his voice is raw velvet, thick with feeling, trembling with more courage than I’ve ever heard in a battlefield shout. “Will you be my mate? My equal? My flame in the dark?”
Tears hit my cheeks before I know they’ve fallen. Hot, salt-slick. My breath breaks against the lump in my throat. My heart tries to punch out of my ribs.
“You… you idiot,” I whisper, half-sobbing, half-laughing. “You’re late.”
His brow furrows.
“I decided that weeks ago,” I say, my hands reaching for him, shaking. “Yes. Yes, you beautiful, bull-headed bastard. I will.”
He surges forward, pulling me into his arms like he’ll never let me go again. His lips find mine, desperate and sure. The kiss burns and heals in the same breath.
Around us, someone starts cheering.
Then another.
