Page 58 of Chained to the Horned God
My chest tightens painfully, dread twisting sharply within me, suspicion solidifying harshly into brutal certainty. Mike Rizzo’s brutal ambition has left no room for doubt, no chance for innocence. My pulse spikes sharply, dread and rage warring fiercely within me.
“That bastard,” Sharonna snarls fiercely, eyes blazing with raw fury, fingers tightening fiercely around her weapon. “Innocents died here. He massacred his own.”
Before I can reply, the mist swirling thickly at the edge of the clearing suddenly shifts sharply, parting swiftly as figures stepslowly forward. My heart lurches violently, adrenaline flooding sharply, every muscle coiled, prepared for fight or flight.
Through the haze, Mike Rizzo emerges confidently, rifle slung carelessly over one shoulder, posture relaxed yet arrogantly assured. His battered hat shades cold, merciless eyes, lips curled smugly in a mocking, triumphant smirk. Behind him, human soldiers materialize silently, heavily armed, expressions hard and wary, eyes cold and calculating.
Mike’s gaze sweeps casually over our ragged, exhausted group, smirk widening slightly, dripping with cold satisfaction and undisguised contempt. He chuckles softly, the sound cold, mocking, utterly devoid of sympathy.
“Well, well,” he drawls slowly, voice dripping with sardonic amusement. “Look what the jungle dragged in.”
His cold gaze settles directly on mine, eyes narrowing slightly, challenge and threat radiating powerfully. My fists clench tightly, fury boiling violently within me, tension thickening sharply in the oppressive, smoke-choked air.
We’ve escaped one hell only to walk straight into another.
Mike Rizzo stands before us like some god of battle come down to bless his chosen warriors. His eyes are wild, intense, lit with a fierce, unsettling light, a gaze so penetrating it makes my fur bristle with unease. His tangled beard hangs low, dark and threaded with silver, framing a weathered face that carries the marks of violence like badges of honor. In his hands he holds a musket, cradling it reverently, as if the weapon itself were a divine instrument rather than an ugly tool for killing.
“Heard you made quite the mess,” he grins, voice rough-edged but oddly melodic, his lips curving upward beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. “Gotta say, I’m impressed. Not many could bring Kharza to its knees.”
His words drip honeyed charm, but beneath the smooth, charismatic veneer, there’s something dangerous andunpredictable—like the flicker of a lit fuse, burning slowly toward an inevitable explosion. He steps forward, casual, fearless, his presence radiating power and authority, making even his heavily armed soldiers shift respectfully aside. Their wary eyes never leave us, fingers twitching subtly on triggers, but they follow Mike’s lead without hesitation.
Valoa tenses beside me, her grip tightening until her nails dig painfully into my palm, her breathing harsh and uneven. I feel her distrust, raw and tangible as my own, and it mirrors the skepticism radiating off Durk and Sharonna behind us. Mike's smile never wavers, sharp and predatory, his gaze flickering knowingly between Valoa and me, reading our tension with practiced ease.
“I imagine you're hungry,” Mike says suddenly, his tone shifting smoothly, voice pitched low and soothing, filled with the practiced sincerity of a seasoned orator. “Tired, wounded. Well, don't just stand there, come. We've food, clean water, medical supplies. And, of course—” He pauses dramatically, flashing another dazzling, unsettling grin, eyes glittering with dark excitement. “Weapons.”
My stomach tightens instinctively at his offer, suspicion warring fiercely with raw hunger and desperate exhaustion. The scent of charred wood and gunpowder still lingers bitterly in the air, mingling with the earthy, humid aroma of the surrounding jungle. Every instinct screams warnings—Mike Rizzo is ruthless, dangerous, unpredictable—but desperation makes dangerous allies necessary.
Reluctantly, I nod sharply, stepping cautiously forward, eyes narrowed warily, muscles tensed for betrayal. Mike gestures expansively toward the shadows behind him, soldiers stepping obediently aside, revealing crates and sacks piled carelessly beneath makeshift shelters constructed from heavy canvas and woven jungle vines.
He moves confidently among them, dropping lightly to one knee beside a battered crate. With deft, practiced movements, he pries open the lid, the wood creaking loudly, hinges groaning as the contents are revealed. My breath catches sharply, eyes widening despite myself. Valoa inhales sharply beside me, body stiffening, suspicion and curiosity warring sharply across her delicate features.
Inside the crate rests a jumble of crude rifles, their metal barrels dull, tarnished but deadly. Small, paper-wrapped packages nestle snugly beside them, leaking tiny granules of black powder that glisten dangerously beneath the waning sunlight filtering weakly through the jungle canopy. Mike reaches reverently inside, fingertips brushing the weapons and gunpowder almost tenderly, his expression shifting subtly—fierce, calculating, feverish with anticipation.
“They'll never expect humans to strike back,” Mike murmurs softly, voice barely audible, as if he's speaking directly to the weapons themselves, whispering dark promises. His eyes lift suddenly, gaze locking fiercely onto mine, challenging, daring me to deny his dangerous logic. “Not with this.”
My stomach churns violently, dread pooling darkly inside me. This isn't mere survival—it’s a path toward war, brutal, merciless, inevitable. My gaze flickers uneasily toward Valoa, seeking reassurance, strength, caution. Her eyes flash fiercely, chin lifting stubbornly, silently warning me—she doesn't trust him, and neither should I.
Mike chuckles softly, reading our hesitation effortlessly, rising smoothly to his feet. He gestures expansively, stepping confidently back toward us, his presence radiating charisma and quiet menace, effortlessly commanding attention. “This isn’t just about survival anymore. You’ve struck the first blow—Kharza will retaliate. Ruthlessly.”
His gaze hardens, eyes glittering fiercely, voice dropping lower, tone deadly serious, edged sharply with brutal honesty. “If you’re hoping to hide in this jungle forever, you’ll only delay the inevitable. Kharza must fall. And only humans—only we, the oppressed—have the strength to do it.”
Durk steps forward sharply, posture tense, muscles rippling beneath sweat-slick skin. “We’ve seen your ‘strength,’ Rizzo,” he growls bitterly, voice rough with barely restrained rage. “Innocents slaughtered. Villages burned. You’re no liberator—you’re a butcher.”
Mike eyes him coolly, unflinching, unrepentant, gaze steady and unwavering. “War demands blood, Durk. You of all people should understand that.” His gaze shifts briefly toward Durk’s missing hand, subtle, pointed, cruel. Durk stiffens sharply, jaw tightening fiercely, eyes blazing dangerously.
I step quickly between them, holding up a calming hand, voice low, controlled, though my pulse hammers violently beneath my ribs. “Enough. We’re not here for your crusade, Mike. We just want shelter. Safety.”
Mike chuckles lowly, expression darkly amused, eyes glittering mockingly. “Safety? Here?” He gestures expansively toward the burnt outpost, the jungle surrounding us, echoing distantly with drums still beating ominously. “There is no safety. Not anymore. Only victory—or annihilation.”
Valoa’s voice suddenly cuts sharply through the tense silence, fierce, defiant, her tone dripping with contempt and challenge. “And what happens if you win, Mike? You take Lotor’s throne? Become just another tyrant?”
Mike’s eyes narrow sharply, a flicker of irritation marring his carefully controlled facade, lips curling coldly. “Careful, healer. Idealism doesn’t win wars—strength and ruthlessness do. You want to change the world, you get your hands dirty.”
Her voice rises sharply, ringing clearly through the oppressive jungle air, fearless and passionate. “There’s a difference between fighting for freedom and slaughtering innocents.”
Mike stares at her coldly, considering carefully, expression hardening subtly, his eyes darkening dangerously. His voice drops low, dangerously quiet, words slicing sharply through the tense, humid air. “War spares no innocence. Better you learn that now.”
Silence stretches thickly, tension pulsing palpably, a dangerous, heavy weight pressing down relentlessly. My heart races violently, breath rasping harshly, body coiled instinctively for danger. Mike’s soldiers shift warily, fingers flexing subtly on triggers, eyes watching carefully, ready for violence at the slightest provocation.
