Page 11 of Chained to the Horned God

VALOA

T he arena’s roar is never far now. It follows me into the infirmary, where the air tastes like vinegar and rot, and the walls sweat with condensation and old blood.

The tournament has turned this place into a slaughterhouse.

Every day someone dies. Every night someone arrives with fresh wounds or fevered lungs.

The stench of death clings to the torches and tarnishes the stale air.

Sharonna, the glory of the pit, lies inert on a cot tonight.

I’ve never seen her this still, this quiet.

She’s pale beneath her dark hair, chest rising in shallow gasps.

Her breaths echo faint in the hollow chamber filled with groaning bodies.

Even the guards pause before her bed. She’s the star they all bow to. But here, the star has gone dim.

I work and stitch until my fingers go numb.

My threads fray, soaked in sweat and antiseptic brine.

My back aches. My knees protest from crouching beside slabs too narrow to cradle so much broken flesh.

I yank off bedding from a cot that belonged to someone now gone, twisting the cloth into tourniquets stiff with dried blood.

When a man’s arm bleeds harder than his rib cage can keep, I wrap it tight until the shaking stops.

The wail of distant fighting bursts through the walls like a reminder I don’t want. I fling open the door and shout at the nearest guard. “Get me water! Now!”

The guards stand silent like stone, unwilling.

I repeat the order until fingers tremble.

A bucket sloshes into existence. Water stinks of iron and dust, not clean.

I pour it into cups and press them to fevered lips.

I drip cold fluid from my fingers into eyelids sealed shut.

I hold tarked towels to scorched ribs and whisper nonsense—praise, prayers, anything to make them stay.

Faces blur now. I don’t see the men and orcs and dark elves I stitch. I only see the wounds. The ragged scars drained of life. The invasive clean water burning through infection. I don’t see the person inside.

A scream rattles the room. A new gladiator collapsed. I rush to him, part the crowd of sick onlookers to press my fingers into his bleeding leg. I don’t see fear. I only see death wanting to come.

It continues like this until the echo of horns far above signals end of the day’s fights.

A hush falls over the infirmary as if no sound should follow that trumpet.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the drip of water, the soft hum of broken breathing, and the faint click of chains being locked down.

Then Barsok staggers in. He leans against the lintel, each breath catching ragged through the slash across his chest. The wound is gaping, exposing muscle pink and slick beneath torn fibers. Blood seeps out, a slow but determined drip, staining his armor and turning sand-brown rags red.

I nearly lose myself in the sight.

I run to him, nearly collapsing on my knees before I can get my fingers moving. My hands shake as I press a cool cloth to his wound. My fingers slip on the slick muscle. I taste copper and fear.

“You said you wouldn’t let them break you,” I whisper, voice trembling.

He doesn’t speak. He stands so tall and wide, shoulders heaving, chest heaving, whole bloody torso still upright beneath the wound. His breath hisses when I lift the cloth to clean the edge of the slash. Steam rises from his skin where cold water strikes fresh blood.

“My god,” I murmur, panic rising. “Why didn’t they stop you?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, pressing my hands to his sides to keep from clutching the wound. His voice rumbles low, like distant thunder across the cliffs: “They haven’t.”

My throat burns—tears sting behind my eyes—but when I look up, he says, almost too softly: “Yet.”

I press another cloth. Bandages. Salve. Shut the wound closed again as best I can.

His chest rises and falls under my chest. His breath steadies. I don’t speak. We both know that ‘yet’ is full of teeth.

When I finish, I slide back so my palms rest on my knees. He stands, shaking slightly, blood dripping off his chest onto the filthy tile.

“I’ll rest,” he rasps, voice raw.

“You have to,” I whisper.

He nods once, stiff. Turns and lurches toward the cot.

I follow him without thinking.

He collapses into the bedding like he’s never slept before. His chest still bleeds through the bandage, but he doesn’t gasp. Just lies there, eyes turned toward the ceiling and silent like a storm gone quiet.

I sit beside him, cold stone beneath me, bandaged hands poised but resting. His shoulder presses against mine, warm despite the wound. The chaos in the infirmary hums around us like a hive, but here—close to his skin and his pulse—I find an impossible bit of peace.

I trace a line over the dried blood, past the bruises, across the new scar. When my fingers brush the old ones, I feel a tremor beneath the surface. He doesn’t pull away.

We don’t need to speak.

In the stillness, I realize I trust him more than I ever thought possible—not because he’s unbreakable, but because he keeps getting up anyway.

I rest my head against his ribs. His breath smooths. The ache of exhaustion pulls me close.

I don’t close my eyes.

The infirmary is a furnace of scents—blood, oil, herbs, and fear mingled into a thick haze that sticks to everything.

I work through the dawn’s first light, knotting gauze and wiping sweat from my temples as Durk grips Barsok’s shoulders with steel in his arms. Barsok’s delirious, caught between rage and pain—a wild thing pinned to a stone slab by chains and steel.

I loosen the tourniquet and gather fresh cloths while Durk steadies his head. Barsok’s breath comes ragged between snarls. His eyes are glazed with something feral, something I don’t recognize. Not Barsok—not the man I’ve come to trust—just an echo of fury soaked in bloodlust and survival instinct.

“Hold him,” I whisper to Durk. My voice is steady despite the tremble in my fingers as I draw the needle.

When I bring the blade close to the gash along Barsok’s side, he lashes out, wraps his arms around the chains over his head, tears at the slack, roaring in frustration and terror.

Durk grips tighter, growls something I can’t catch.

I drag my palm across my cheek to clear away tears I didn’t know I’d shed.

I lean in closer, breath tickling his ear with the scent of herbs and copper.

The wound throbs beneath the salve. I thrust the needle into flesh.

Blood beads at the tip of the thread almost instantly.

I work fast, knotting as I go, trying to shut the rage behind his eyelids even as I close his wound from the outside.

He snarls again, as if he smells betrayal in the cloth, in the hands pressing him into the slab. I pull the needle free, press gauze into the cut, and shift my weight so Durk can hold tighter.

I look into Barsok’s face. His eyes flicker with recognition—or maybe it’s the heat leaving his body. “Don’t give in,” I say. My voice rises, thick with something fierce I’ve never allowed myself to use on him before. “You will not die in that pit.”

He jerks, hurts me with his sudden movement, and I grit my teeth through my own stab of agony. I see the red thread of pain trace across his shoulder. Then I shout: “Not before I get to kiss you again.”

The words burn out of me hot, raw, and the shift is instantaneous.

His face snaps into focus, eyes sharpening through the haze.

His jaw twitches—and then he grips my wrist. Not too tight.

Not possessive. Just tethered, tethering himself back to air and awareness.

His grip grounds him in the moment until his roar becomes a ragged breath.

Then he closes his eyes, chest rising and falling slower, heavier with relief.

The silence that crashes into the room feels louder than any roar ever did.

Durk releases his grip and steps back, bruises white from the tension breaking all at once.

He stands beside me, arms folded in silent solidarity.

I don’t let go of Barsok’s wrist, though my fingers ache and burn, smeared with blood and ointment.

I press my palm flat against his shoulder, tracing the line of torn muscle I’ve just stitched closed. His skin is warm and slick beneath my palm, a living scar made whole again. My other hand rests over his. Not soothing. Not pity. Just presence.

He doesn’t speak. He curls one finger around the edge of my hand, just enough to anchor himself in the real world again.

We sit like that for long minutes, framed by candles guttering on the wall, the moisture of his labored breath brushing against my temple. The other wounded men are silent now. Merciful, in their exhaustion. Durk moves to let us have a moment, alone, while I close the rest of his wounds.

When it’s done, I lean back, letting my hands drop. Barsok still holds one of my hands. His face is pale. His breathing steady, but for the faint tremor in his jaw.

“You should rest,” I murmur, voice barely loud enough to carry.

His eyes open. They’re clearer now—not entirely what they were before, but they’re there. I see unfinished battles behind them. But I also see someone who recognizes that I didn’t leave him in the dark.

“I said no,” he whispers.

“I know,” I say. “Progress.”

He squeezes my hand and then releases it slowly. When he finally pushes himself upright—unceasing, undefeated—I hold out the cloth that’s soaked with disinfectant. He takes it and dabs at his face before looking at me.

“It hurts,” he says quietly.

I brush a strand of hair from his forehead, the motion slow, gentle. “Let it,” I whisper. “Because if you were a broken man, you’d be bleeding inside more than out.”