Page 67 of Chained to the Horned God
Then all of them.
The sound rolls through the square, a wave of joy and noise that bounces off the stone and crashes into the stars.
But we don’t hear it.
Not really.
All I hear is his heartbeat, steady as the tide, whispering that after everything, we’re still here.
Together.
24
BARSOK
Months slip by like rivers through worn stone—quiet, steady, cutting deep. Kharza is still here. Bent, bruised, blistered by fire and blood, but standing. The walls rise slow, stone by stone, new mortar sealing old wounds. The charred bones of the city still whisper in the wind, but there’s laughter now. Hammers ring louder than gunfire. Children cry louder than battle horns. Life has returned.
The council bickers endlessly about trade routes and crop rotations. I can’t keep track of half their squabbling, but I stand in anyway, arms folded, glaring until they get to the point. They’re not nobles, not anymore. Farmers, freedmen, blacksmiths, healers. People who earned their seats with calloused hands and ash in their lungs. People like us.
The gladiators have taken to construction like it’s a new kind of war. They carve timber, lay bricks, haul iron beams with the same grit they once poured into combat. The arena is gone. Razed. Not one stone left stacked. In its place, homes rise—strong and low and warm with lantern light. It smells like sawdust, sweat, and spiced stew.
Durk’s got a gang of kids swinging sticks at each other in the north courtyard. He bellows at them like a drillmaster, then slips them sweetroot candies when they land a good hit. They adore him. Even when he’s scowling. Especially when he’s scowling.
Sharonna—gods bless her—opened a tavern with her winnings. Called it “The Last Chain.” It’s half-ruined still, but the ale flows like prophecy, and the laughter there shakes the windows. She says it’s her rebellion. Her temple. I believe her.
Valoa is a storm in the hospital. Her hair always tied back, her sleeves rolled up, her hands covered in salves and blood and ink from the ledgers she refuses to let anyone else manage. She smiles more now. It makes my ribs ache in the best way. When she laughs, I swear the earth leans closer.
Me? I train the new city guard.
No slaves or chains.
Especially, no arenas.
Just volunteers. Just people who want to protect something that matters. I bark orders, teach form, correct posture. I knock them flat when they get cocky. I lift them up when they fall too hard. We’re building more than a force—we’re building pride. Purpose. Unity.
The nights are cooler now. Crisp and clean. The fires that once lit the skyline have been replaced by lanterns, by candles in windows. Sometimes I walk the perimeter just to feel the breeze on my skin, to hear the hum of a city breathing deep and slow.
The mornings come early now. Not with alarms or war cries, but with birdsong and the stretch of golden light crawling through the shutters. It smells like soil and bread and whatever stew Valoa’s got simmering over the coals. My body still aches most days, old wounds making themselves known in the bones, but it’s the kind of pain I understand. The kind I welcome.
We argue sometimes. She wants the new road to curve around the southern market; I want it straight through. Shesays the guards need a lighter touch; I say they need backbone. Sometimes our voices rise. Sometimes doors slam. But we always come back to each other.
Because the laughter is louder.
Because the house we’ve built, brick by damn brick, doesn’t echo with silence. It echoes with joy. With life.
We eat on the porch most nights, plates full of roasted roots and thick bread, steam rising into the twilight. She curls her legs under her, leans on my arm, and talks about planting lemon balm next season. I just nod, chewing slow, watching the way the lantern light gilds her cheekbones.
She sleeps tangled in the sheets, one leg thrown over mine, her breath steady against my chest. Her hair always smells like wild mint and smoke. I hold her like she’ll vanish if I don’t. She never does.
We build together. I handle the frames, the beams, the bones of the place. She fills it with softness—paint, books, linens she barters for at the market. The front door sticks a little when it rains. We leave it that way. It feels real.
The garden is hers.
Outside the house, just past the fence I carved myself, she kneels in the dirt every morning with her fingers buried in earth. She talks to the seedlings like they’re old friends. Tomatoes, squash, herbs I can’t pronounce. She sings while she works. It makes my chest tight.
“This is what I dreamed of,” she said yesterday, brushing dirt from her palms, face lit with sweat and sunlight.
I stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looked at her.
