Page 50 of Chained to the Horned God
"Whatever you build," I murmur in her ear, voice low and haunting, "I'll fight for it."
She hangs back for a moment, gaze fierce. Then nods—to herself, to me, to both of us.
That night,I step into the cell with a blanket folded over my arm—nothing more than a generous scrap, itchy and half-moth-eaten, smuggled by a guard bribed with stolen coin. I drape it over Valoa’s shoulders and see her stiffen first, then slide the coarse thread under her chin. For a moment, her eyes flick pastme—appraising the fabric. It’s ordinary. But when she looks at me again, the corners of her mouth curve into warmth like daylight breaking stone. She smiles like I crowned her in silk, not moth holes.
We settle by the torchlight. The wick crackles in the basin, casting flickering gold across damp stone walls rimmed with shadow. I sit beside her, shoulders touching, breathing space thinner than usual, quieter than we’ve allowed it to be. The cell’s livid with nature unreturned—the iron door, the smell of rust, damp moss clinging beneath the shelves. And yet, here, in this stolen calm, the silence feels soft.
My fingers find hers. It’s familiar—this weight pressed over bone, not armor. I curl a thumb over her knuckles. I don’t say anything. The light hovers between our faces. Hope and fear and fragile peace swirl in that space.
I lean in and kiss her hand. Light as ash. A blessing, not demand. She catches my lips with her eyes, then lifts her head and pulls me in. The kiss is long and breathless, something urgent rising in her chest. It’s not the fire of passion—though there is heat—but the gravity of two souls held fast in storm’s eye. I taste rain and salt and lavender oil.
When we part, I place my forehead to hers. Our breaths collide, stuck between lamplight and night chill. The air smells like damp stone and the faint ache of survival. But what fills me most is plain—a hope that outcasts could become something more, could become home.
I know then: I’d rather die free with her than live another day in this cage without her touch. Without the lull of her heartbeat beneath my palm. Without the promise that love, even in ruin, can be stronger than fear.
She doesn’t speak. Her hair halos around her cheeks. I run a hand through it carefully, let the strands slip between my fingers like water. Her eyes shut. I trace the scar beneath her ear,pressed into shadow by torchlight. I lean back against the wall, her hand still in mine, and let everything settle.
Tomorrow—rupture might come. Kings might bleed. Betrayals might rise like tides. But tonight, beneath impossibly fragile light, I choose to hold onto what matters.
I breathe her in again. Hope doesn't roar—it whispers under scars. And I’m anchored.
17
VALOA
The infirmary stinks of antiseptic and desperation. That smell—chlorine sharp and stale—hits me when I open the door, followed by the iron tang of blood and sweat that clings to every direction. I step inside to find more bodies than beds, more tears than water, and curses tucked behind every bandage.
A new group arrives midmorning. They’re fresh—hungry, terrified, terrified to be chosen. Among them is a girl no older than sixteen, her tears silent but endless, ripped clothing muddy and torn. This is new meat for the arena. I can’t stop thinking: that was almost me. The blood races through my head, breath choked, memories of my father’s hand, my father’s teachings.
I kneel beside her slab, face damp, sleeves torn, hands red. I press cool water to the side of her face, thread golden salve into her lacerated cheek, whisper nonsense I hope she hears as more than curses. I tie clean cloth around a deep cut. She flinches. I compress and murmur, “Stay with me.”
Sharonna steps beside me without a word. She reaches into her belt pouch and slices bread for the girl. She wipes her tears with the back of her hand. She doesn’t ask why I’m sweating, grey hair damp and vines of grief in her posture. She alreadyknows. She holds my shoulders so I don’t collapse under guilt and panic.
Around us, fissures grow in silence. Whispered words slip past wincing jaws.Rebellion.Sabotage.Assassination.The weight of them presses at my throat beneath my scrub-bleached tunic. Every eye in the infirmary shifts from pain to plotting. I grip the edge of the table to stay upright.
Later, I find another scroll slipped under my laundry—hidden with careful folds. There's no seal again, but I know the handwriting. One word:Soon.Signed by Beltran. Beneath it, tiny map sketch to a supply corridor, a closed passage where some guards grate before dawn. It smells like hope—and something much more dangerous.
I fold it back and let it pulse in my palm.
Sharonna offers me a nod when I dry the girl's cheeks. I nod back, wordless solidarity between two women who survive by stitching other people’s trauma shut.
By evening, the girl still breathes. I’m exhausted. But she lives. That mistake almost me—and she lives.
The infirmary doors close. The torches gutter. The whispers grow into plans beneath torchlight and pain.
When I return to our cell, my bones ache more than the wounds I treat. I find Barsok by the gate, fingers tracing the outline of his carved minotaur figure. His shoulders slump. His horns catch the torch flicker.
I step beside him. He doesn’t ask. I don’t tell.
He slings an arm over my shoulders, pulls me into his shadow. Our breath mingles.
I lean into him, letting promise slip beneath bone and knife scars.
Because now I know: we carry the fight in us—ragged, hurt, relentless.
Soonmight just be now.
I know the moment Barsok realizes something is wrong. He reaches for me before I even begin—bridging space with intent. We step into the inner cell together, the torchlight casting trembling shadows over stone walls soaked with damp and dread. I feel his breath slow, heavy with caution and trust.
