Page 70 of Chained to the Horned God
The people line up in rows—merchants, miners, ex-slaves, scholars, warriors, farmers. They vote beneath banners strung across the square, children dancing around their legs, laughter floating up like incense. It feels like something holy.
A half-orc wins.
Strong hands. Steady heart. Clear eyes.
A dark elf noble loses.
Gracefully. With a bowed head and a tight smile. He shakes hands with his opponent. There are no riots. No blood.
That’s the miracle.
Barsok stands beside me, arms crossed over his chest, watching it all unfold with this strange, quiet look on his face.
“They offered you a seat,” I remind him later.
He shrugs, gaze turned toward the garden, toward the lemon balm pushing through the soil.
“I’ve done enough ruling,” he says. “Let someone else steer the ship for once.”
I don’t argue.
He’s right.
We walk the streets together that evening, our fingers laced, steps slow and easy. The cobblestones are warm beneath our feet. The people smile when they see us. Not out of fear. Not out of debt. Just... affection. Familiarity.
“Barsok!” someone calls. A butcher’s boy, waving a knife still slick with pork fat.
“General!” shouts a baker, flour dusting his apron like snowfall.
“Builder,” mutters an old woman, bowing slightly.
He greets each one with a nod, a grunt, a smile when he thinks I’m not watching.
Statues are going up.
One of him—horns proud, jaw set, hammer slung over his shoulder.
One of us—locked in an embrace, carved from white stone so polished it glows.
I hate it.
“I hate it,” I tell him.
He just laughs.
That deep, throaty laugh that shakes the dirt and scares birds from trees.
“It’s not us,” I add.
“Of course not,” he says. “It’s who they need us to be.”
“Still.”
“I know.”
He kisses my temple.
We pass the square and someone’s strung up lanterns shaped like stars. A child runs past, trailing ribbons, shouting nonsense. A pair of dwarves argue about grain prices in the background.
