Page 41 of Chained to the Horned God
“You were made for me,” I whisper. “And I was made for this.”
His rhythm builds—slow, deep strokes that rock the cot against the stone wall. The scent of sweat and salt and fire fills the cell. Our skin slaps wet and perfect. His cock finds that spot inside me with each pass.
If this is a dream, please never let me wake up.
12
BARSOK
The arena rumbles like a living thing. Horns blast, drums pound, voices tear through the air like fury incarnate. My face stares down from banners draped across the high walls—painted snarls and shining horns. I’ve become a spectacle, the Horned Storm—the living emblem of violence they adore. Every time I kill, they roar approval; every time I spare a challenger—only to kill them later—they scream for more. Blood becomes their language, and I, their reluctant narrator.
They don’t call me savage anymore. They call me legend. I breathe in their cheers and taste iron in my mouth. The sand underfoot shakes with their appetite. Steel scrapes flesh. Bone cracks. I don’t remember who I was before this. The man under the horns is buried somewhere deep, lost beneath rituals of violence.
Only Valoa keeps me tethered.
When the gates clang shut, when the last roar fades and the smell of sweat and dust rides the corridors, I limp toward her like a man returning from war. My muscles burn. My lungs pull fire beneath the chain mail. My ribs throb like a wounded drum. Yet every painful step reminds me: someone will stitch me backtogether. Someone will breathe life back into more than my flesh.
The infirmary is my haven. Walls soaked in rot and mercy. Bodies stacked in heaps. No pretense here. No cheering. Just blood, breath, and healing. The torches hiss and spit, shadows flickering across hollow faces. And in that half-light, I see her—Valoa—waiting.
I shoulder into the cell door. The other surgeons step away. She meets me at the threshold, eyes bright under dark rings. She wears an apron stained with herbs and clay, hands trembling but steady.
I don’t speak. I can’t. My jaw clenches. I lift one hand to touch her cheek, feel the softness under my calloused palm. Her breath flutters, and she leans into the touch. My fingers trace the curve of her jaw, memorizing the lines no crowd will ever see. Not her scars. Her strength.
“How bad?” she asks.
“At least three broken ribs,” I rasp.
She swallows, lifts her chin, and says, “Then they’re mine now.”
I let her pull me to the slab. She sets a basin of boiling water near the edge; the steam curtains the room in mourning light. She disrobes me—clothes torn, my skin taste-metal from the fight. As she cleans each cut, each bruise, her hands are cool cotton and rough dawn dust. She murmurs encouragement as she stitches ribs tight and rebinds shattered bone.
I smell burnt herbs. Hear water dripping. Feel her breath on my back like prayer. I taste home.
She checks the final bandage, ties it off with neat knots, then presses her palms to my shoulders to steady me. I look down past my feet—dusty, cracked. She meets my gaze again.
I try to say something. Instead I exhale. When I open them, she’s squeezed my hand and stepped back.
“You’re not the arena,” she says, voice soft but sure. “You're just Barsok.”
I limp toward the cot. She slides in beside me. I sink down. She curls into my side. We don’t speak. There's no need.
Outside, the distant footsteps and distant drums call again. They want me back. They want spectacle.
But in this cell, I’m no monster. I’m a man held by trembling hands that still know how to heal. And that tether—frail as it might be—is all I need to survive.
Sharonna leans in close after the fight. She smiles that half-fatal, smoky grin she wears like it’s armor. Her voice is soft, edged with laughter as she compliments my kills. “You were poetry in blood tonight. They’re lucky to have such beauty in their monster.” She presses a finger to the silver scar on my jaw. The air between us hisses with intent, but I don’t let it. I pull back gently. It’s harmless—her way of coping in this pit—but more than that, it’s not what I want.
Valoa stands behind her, arms folded, lips pressed tight. Her silence burns hotter than any confrontation. She stays quiet—she’s strong like that—but the look she gives me is full of questions that don’t need answering. She watches Sharonna walk away, eyes dark. Shadows gather around her—jealousy? Or just fear that this place will take everything she holds dear.
Later, I pull Valoa aside in the corridor. The torches line the walls like false stars. I place one hand over her heart at the side. My voice catches. “Do you—do you doubt me?”
She doesn’t flinch from the question. Her hand stays where I left it. Quiet enough that any misstep might snap it away. Then she breathes in and says, “No.” She closes her eyes. “But I doubt this place. It warps everything.” The truth in her words cuts deeper than steel.
It’s nights like this I feel rage gathering in my chest again—cold, raw, hungry. Not the roar of survival, but the dull fermentof something that wants to burn everything around it. I fear what I could become. And in this fear, I see another danger: that I might turn it on her. That I’d rip hope from the only source I’ve clung to.
She opens her eyes. I catch the ghost of the same fear there. I lean in close—too close to speak easily. I see it in her eyes, smoldering in torchlight. So I whisper, “If I lose myself—will you anchor me?”
Her fingers curl into mine. “Then anchor yourself to me,” she says.
