Page 62 of Chained to the Horned God
“Then don’t let go.”
He doesn’t.
We don’t.
We lose ourselves in each other until there’s nothing left but the pounding of our hearts and the lingering taste of salt and sweat and something almost like peace.
When it’s over, we lie tangled in the moss, skin slick with effort, lips swollen, bodies humming with aftershocks. His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, slow and steady, grounding me in the way only he can. I listen to the jungle breathing around us, wild and dangerous and free.
I feel his arms tighten around me, and for a moment, I let myself believe this can last.
That we can.
That there’s still something ahead of us worth reaching for.
22
BARSOK
Dawn doesn’t break. It shatters.
The sky bleeds pink and gold over the jagged treetops, casting everything in a false glow like the world’s pretending to be peaceful for just one last second. The air is thick with the sour stink of sweat and black powder. My boots sink into the soft jungle earth, and every breath I take tastes like smoke and nerves.
Mike stands at the head of the column, eyes burning, lips curled in a half-smile like a preacher on the edge of revelation. His coat flaps behind him like the wings of some dark prophet, hands gesturing as he talks about destiny and vengeance. His men eat it up. Wide-eyed. Fanatic. They nod, grunt, raise rifles in unison like they’re lifting up holy scripture.
Valoa stands at my side, quiet but tense, her jaw set. She hasn’t said a word since last night. Not since we came together in the dark and held each other like we were already ghosts. Her hand brushes mine and lingers. I take it. I squeeze. Her fingers are cold. Mine are shaking.
The city rises ahead like a wounded giant. Kharza, proud and scarred, its ancient walls pitted and scorched from centuriesof war. The gates tower like broken teeth, cracked but not yet fallen. Not yet.
Mike raises his arm.
Explosives, rigged during the night by men who never sleep, blink like stars in the dim light.
“NOW!”
The blast cracks the world open.
Stone screams. Wood splinters. The gates crumble in on themselves with a roar like a dying god. Dust rises in a choking cloud, hot and thick. We charge through it, rifles raised, steel drawn, throats raw from shouting.
Gunfire erupts in a cacophony of death.
I slam into the chaos, dragging Valoa behind me. The world is fire and noise and blood. Smoke burns my eyes. My nostrils fill with the stink of ozone and scorched flesh. Somewhere above, spells rip through the air, shrieking like banshees. A wall collapses to my left, burying a soldier under a rain of stone.
People are screaming. Not soldiers. Not warriors.
Civilians.
A child darts across the road, barefoot and howling, arms outstretched. A woman follows, clutching a baby to her chest, her mouth wide open in a silent wail. Bullets chew through the stone beside her head. I shove Valoa behind a pillar, my heart pounding so loud it drowns out the war.
“This isn’t right,” she yells, voice hoarse. “This isn’t what we?—”
“I know!” I roar back, grabbing her wrist. “Keep moving!”
Mike’s army pours in like a flood, indiscriminate and wild. Magic bursts from alleyways. Blood paints the cobblestones. This isn’t liberation.
This is slaughter.
I call for Durk. No answer.
