Page 63 of Chained to the Horned God
I shout Sharonna’s name. Nothing.
I pull Valoa into an alley, ducking behind a stack of crates just as a ball of flame whips past, lighting the building behind us like dry tinder. Her face is streaked with soot and terror. My own breath hitches in my throat.
“We have to find them!” she gasps.
“We will,” I promise. I don’t know if it’s a lie.
The city wails like a living thing, crying out as it dies by inches. We move fast, dodging gunfire and falling beams, trying to stitch our group back together in the middle of a war zone.
But we’re unraveling.
We’re losing.
The central keep rises like a crown of black iron, smoke curling from its turrets, stone scorched and slick with blood. Mike’s banner flies where the city’s crest once waved, a crude red fist scrawled across rough cloth, fluttering like a threat in the wind. The screams have dulled now, replaced by the low moan of a city gasping its last breath.
We storm the steps, what’s left of our group rallying behind him like they’re chasing salvation. Valoa clings to my side, her eyes scanning the carnage with wide, horrified disbelief. I can barely feel my shoulder. Blood soaks the bandage, sticky and hot, but I grit my teeth and press on. I’m not stopping now.
Inside, it’s worse.
Bodies litter the marble floors. Civilians huddled in corners, shaking, silent. Soldiers stripped of armor. Executions, not combat. The air reeks of sulfur and something worse—burnt flesh, dreams turned to ash.
Mike stands atop the dais, the throne behind him stained with fresh blood. Beltran limps forward, his arm still bandaged, his face pale but defiant.
“You’ve won,” Beltran says, voice ragged but clear. “The city’s yours. Let the survivors go.”
Mike laughs. Not like a man who’s found peace. Like a man who’s lost his mind. His rifle hangs loose in one hand, the other clenched around a flask. He sways, just a little, like the madness is starting to unbalance him.
“No more noble puppets,” he says, stepping forward, smile brittle. “Only revolution.”
The shot rings out before I understand what’s happening.
Beltran jerks, a red flower blooming on his chest. He staggers, his mouth working but no sound coming. Then he falls. Hard. Final.
My vision tunnels.
My scream rips from my chest like it’s clawing out of something buried too long. I don’t think. I charge.
My horns slam into Mike’s chest, launching him off his feet. We crash to the floor, rolling, snarling, grappling like beasts in a pit. His rifle clatters away. He punches me in the face, and stars explode behind my eyes. I grab his throat. He kicks my knee. I roar, bringing my head down toward his skull.
He’s fast. Slippery. Cunning.
But I’ve killed worse.
He twists beneath me, grabs a pistol from his belt, fires. The bullet tears into my shoulder, spinning me sideways. Pain lances through me, hot and searing, blinding. I bellow and slam my fist into his face, again, again, again. His nose shatters. Teeth clatter to the stone.
I grab the gun.
My finger curls on the trigger.
He’s beneath me, panting, bloody, defiant even now.
Valoa’s voice slices through the haze.
“Barsok!”
I freeze.
She’s standing over us, eyes wide, hands out. Blood on her face. Not hers.
