Page 35 of Chained to the Horned God
His hand shifts, brushing over my spine like he’s memorizing every vertebra. “The sea,” he says. “Not the real one. The one in my head. Blue skies. Wind at my back. You were there. Laughing. Hair loose.”
I press my forehead to his throat again. “I don’t laugh much.”
“You did in the dream,” he murmurs. “Sounded like freedom.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I feel tears gathering at the edges and do everything I can to keep them from falling.
“You scared me last night,” I whisper. “I thought I was going to lose you.”
He lifts my chin with one calloused finger. When I meet his gaze, there’s no softness there—just truth. “You won’t,” he says. “Not unless you walk away.”
“I’m not walking anywhere,” I answer, and I mean it.
The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time. It’s warm. Full of things unsaid that don’t need to be spoken.
We lie like that until the world comes calling. Until the hall outside stirs with footsteps and shouting and the scent of sweat and steel starts to return.
Slowly, we part.
He sits up first. I press my hand to his back before I leave the cot. My palm stays there a second longer than it needs to. His head tips toward mine in wordless understanding.
I return to my cot just as the door clangs open. The day has begun. The killing will resume. But for a few stolen hours in the dark, we remembered what it was like to be human.
10
BARSOK
They move me to a private cell after the hydra fight. It's walled in iron and stone, thicker than any others. Steel locks clamp tight and guard posts flank the gate. It feels less like a sanctuary and more like a shrine—a prison turned mausoleum. The walls are colder here. The floor is colder. Even the air tastes sharper, as though it’s been filtered of everything kind.
The crowd now demands me as the main event. They chant in the streets:“The Horned Storm! The Horned Storm!”They weave my name into songs, rumors, wagers, and threats. I enter the pit dressed in gold-streaked fur and cracked armor like some twisted king borne on suspicion. The cole crowd roars not out of respect, but because they think they own me. I’m less a gladiator now and more a legend they feed on.
I eat alone in this cell. The guards slide in me meals on iron platters—salted meat, hard bread, water in chipped bowls. I chew through it without taste or thought. I train alone in a dirt yard behind the reinforced bars. No sparring partners. Only shadows. I swing my axe in slashes and arcs, sweat clinging like grime. I feel every blow in my bones and curse the silence beyond my own breathing.
But at night, they let Valoa in. She’s earned that much authority for now. The gate jangling open is the only sound I wait for. When she steps through, she moves like daylight into the darkness. Worn leather boots, blood-stained bandages but unwavering stride. The cell door clanks shut behind her. Every time, I damn near drop to my knees. But I don’t. I won’t.
She carries fresh linens folded neat. She brings clean bandages, herbs in cloth pouches, and once, a small carved figure of a minotaur, chipped and dusty. She says, “I found him in the ruins under the infirmary. He looked lonely.”
I reach out and take it. The wood is smooth where someone else’s fingertips once touched. It fits in my palm like home.
We don’t need words. Mostly, she touches my scars—new and old—with gentle certainty. She dresses the deep cut from the hydra. She murmurs old words—not whispers, more like prayers: “It will stitch. Breathe deep.” Her hands are cool. Her scent is lavender and earth and something raw in between.
Occasionally, I ask for water again. Not the rust-stained bowls. Just water pressed between my lips. She brings it with both hands. I drink it and taste the future.
One night, she stays beyond midnight. I wake to her humming, quiet, raw in the dark. A lullaby she swore she didn’t know she remembered. She swipes a strand of hair from my face with a gentle thumb.
“You dream too loud,” she says.
“I like it more than being awake.”
She smiles, leaning in closer until her warmth is pressed between my ribs.
I hold her wrist, twist it gently. “Stay.”
She nods into the shadow of my chest. No else need say it.
We don’t make love. Not yet. Just breath. Just skin pressed together. Fingertips trailing outlines—scars, muscles, memory—mapping out peace in the only territory we still own.
When dawn filters over the stones, Valoa stands, adjusting her skirts, hair tangled, eyes dull but steady.
