Page 14 of Chained to the Horned God

VALOA

R ain drips through the cracked stone of the infirmary ceiling, each cold drop landing with a hiss on our bloodied bandages, chilling the air until my breath puffs white.

The torches struggle in the damp, casting quivering shadows that twist like dying figures.

The sound blends with coughs, whimpers, the metallic stink of illness and open wounds.

Supplies run low—poultices are soaked from reuse, clean linens dwindled to torn scraps, and water tastes like mud from overuse and too many hands dipping in.

I work through the chaos, soaked, frozen, desperate to save someone—anyone.

The next round of fights begins, and they bring fresh injuries slamming through our doors like tidal waves.

They carry in men and women with shattered limbs, crushed ribs, singed muscle, and ruined lungs.

There’s no time for tenderness now. The floor beneath the makeshift slab is slick with fresh gore and spit as I struggle to keep up—stitching, cleaning, pressing—threading red-stiffened cloth into tissue that bleeds before it ever heals.

I start losing people I thought I could save.

A boy with a crushed spine lies convulsed on the table.

His eyes flip wild. He stops breathing after I stitch him.

I watch the chest fall still, inhale hard, and move on before tears pour out.

The next is a woman with a punctured lung; I hear her gasp once, soaked in froth, then breathe no more.

The gasp is louder than screaming. It echoes like accusation.

I've seen death before—but this is different. This isn’t cleansing or just. It’s pointless. It’s entertainment. The arena continues above like nothing has changed, but here—I’m stitching corpse after corpse, wondering what I’m doing in this endless bleed show.

I snap at a guard tossing a corpse sack like trash into the pit-side corridor.

“Show some goddamn respect!” I scream, voice raw.

He glances at me, shrugs, and tosses the body harder.

I throw back garbage at him—punched threats with spit encrusted on my fists—before he grabs his chain whip and lunges.

The slap cracks against my cheek, fire blossoming under my skin. I taste blood. He sneers, voice crooked. “Keep your mouth shut, healer.”

I don’t respond. I raise my chin.

That’s when Barsok steps in. I feel rather than see the weight hit the guard—a shove that topples him backward.

Barsok’s footsteps follow, steady and heavy.

He looms into view, armor drenched in blood from the hydra fight, muscles bruised and raw from last night’s cut.

His silver eyes—haunted, tired, but steely—lock onto the guard. No words. Just presence.

The guard shakes. Fear seeps into his posture. He stutters, stumbling like he might run. The men beside him shift, uncertain who to defend. The moment stretches taut. Then he bows his head and backs away. His whip clatters useless to the floor.

I feel dizzy watching. That moment lays bare something both thrilling and terrifying: I realize just how much power Barsok holds now. He could start a fucking riot with a single word—or a look. The guards see it too. They shuffle back to their posts like beaten dogs picking scraps.

Then Barsok turns his head and meets mine. No pity. No mercy. Just something old and dangerous and tethered—like I’m still the one upending the arena, not them.

He steps back to let me breathe again. He guides me to the basin, presses warm water to my cheek, gentle—but firm. Effort without mercy. I taste rust.

He kneels beside me. There’s no speech, only the feeling of promise behind silent eyes: I’ve got you. Even when this hell doesn’t.

Around us, the infirmary hums on—fresh wounds slapped open, cries smothered by pain. We are chaos; we are still grace.

I reach for a fresh rag and twist it tight. He stays nearby, watching. I work again, pressing drops of bitterwater into my eye to wash the sting of fear. The drip of rain on stone echoes. There’s no place safe here—only moments.

But I hold one now.

I swallow back bile and dark thoughts and stand unshaken. I keep working, stitching wounds with hands steady because I remember why I'm here.

With him near, this place becomes slightly less hungry.

Barsok’s name is everywhere now. On the lips of slaves and guards alike.

Whispered in fevered awe in the infirmary and roared like thunder from the stands.

The Horned Storm, they call him, as if he’s no longer a man at all but a force of nature—something to be feared, admired, maybe even worshipped.

That’s what terrifies me.

Adoration can be as sharp as any blade in this place.

The crowd loves him now, loves the way his muscles ripple when he fights, the way his horns catch the sun like polished bone.

They chant his name until it becomes a ritual, like prayer, like war cries before a charge.

But the nobles—the ones in the sky-boxes, draped in silk and smugness—don’t like gods they didn’t invent.

And Barsok is becoming too large, too loud, too loved for their comfort.

I hear whispers behind crates in the infirmary, over trays of fermented barley broth and splinted limbs.

Lotor’s voice—oily, amused—filters through the cracks in the walls as he speaks to the others who wear perfume like armor.

He talks about discipline . About breaking the beast .

About taming the Horned Storm before the crowd forgets who holds the leash.

They want to make an example out of him.

I find Barsok sharpening his blade behind the arena quarters, crouched low on a stone bench.

The torchlight paints his shoulders gold, muscles working like the inner gears of something divine and dangerous.

Sweat darkens the edges of his tunic. There’s a cut along his jaw that hasn’t fully clotted yet, slow red beading along the bone.

He doesn’t flinch as he grinds the whetstone across the blade in long, practiced strokes.

Every pass sings a quiet metallic note that slices through the silence.

I hate that sound now. Too close to what I hear in dreams—steel tearing through sinew, cheers drowning screams.

“You’re being hunted,” I say, stepping closer, voice low enough not to carry. “Not in the ring. Outside it.”

His eyes don’t lift from the blade. He just grunts, the sound low in his throat like gravel tumbling downhill. “Let them come.”

I kneel beside him, close enough to smell sweat, metal, and the faint warmth of the cloth I washed for him the night before. He’s solid as a mountain, but I see the tremble beneath the surface. It’s not fear. Not quite. It’s weariness. A kind of spiritual erosion, like wind scouring stone.

“You’re not unbreakable,” I whisper. “They think you are. But I know better.”

This time, his blade stops mid-stroke. His fingers flex around the hilt like it’s suddenly too heavy. He doesn’t look at me, but his breath changes—shorter, shallower.

“You don’t have to be what they made you,” I say, softer now, my fingers ghosting over the scars on his back—raised lines, pale ridges carved by whips and time. “You don’t owe the crowd blood just because they scream for it. You don’t have to keep dying to prove you’re alive.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. The whetstone rests in his lap, silent. His chest rises and falls, slower now, measured. A man trying not to break.

“They wouldn’t cheer if I didn’t bleed,” he murmurs finally. “They love the mask, Valoa. Not the man under it.”

“I love the man,” I say without hesitation. “The mask is a lie they put on you to make themselves feel powerful. But I see you. I see you when the crowd doesn’t. When your hands shake. When you flinch at a child’s cry. When you protect the wounded without waiting for thanks.”

He turns toward me then, eyes shadowed but bright. The torchlight flickers across his features, catching the curve of his horn, the edge of his jaw. He doesn’t speak again, but the silence between us says more than words could. He’s listening now. Really listening.

I place a hand over his heart. The beat is slow, strong, steady. But under it, I feel the weight he carries. It’s not just steel and scars. It’s the fear of what he’s becoming to survive this place.

“They’ll come for you,” I whisper. “Maybe not today. But soon. And when they do… you can’t meet them as the beast they expect. You’ll lose that way. We’ll lose that way.”

“What then?” His voice is hoarse, brittle as rusted chain. “What’s left if I can’t fight?”

I grip his hand, press my palm to his rough knuckles, grounding him. “You don’t fight harder. You fight smarter. You fight with allies, not alone.”

He nods slowly, just once. His shoulders slump—not in defeat, but in relief. Like letting down armor he’s carried too long. He leans forward until our foreheads touch, breath warm against my cheek.

“Stay with me tonight?” he asks, voice low enough it’s almost a thought.

“Always,” I answer, without hesitation.

We stay like that until the torch burns down to sputtering coals. Neither of us moves. The world narrows to breath and heartbeat and the stillness between storms.

That night, the infirmary’s torches are nearly spent.

Shadows swallow the corners, deep and warm, while bars flicker overhead like ember-sparks.

Our footsteps, when he comes back, are quiet—cautious.

Barsok moves slower now, each step weighted with caution born from too many battles and too much loss.

I stand in the soft glow of the dying light, remembering what calm felt like before the abyss.

He kneels beside me, eyes darkened but clear.

He doesn’t speak at first. His hand finds mine, palm warm and certain.

His fingers spread over mine, over the carved figure tucked into my pocket just beneath my skirt.

“Stay,” he breathes—so quiet I wasn’t sure I heard it until I felt the tremble passing through his jaw.

I nod.

We’re careful with each other. Gentle.

He lifts me slowly, his arms firm and reverent, like he’s carrying something sacred. His lips touch mine again—no hunger, no dominance, just a need so raw it trembles. We breathe each other in. His tongue brushes the seam of my mouth, asking permission he doesn’t need. I give it anyway.

Barsok tastes like smoke and iron, like memory and warmth. My chest tightens. My lips part for him, and he kisses me deeper. Every brush of his mouth over mine is another silent vow. I feel it in the tremble of his jaw, in the way his huge hands cradle my back as if I might vanish.

He pulls back just enough to look at me—his golden eyes soft and burning at once. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he says. “I won’t forgive myself if?—”

“You won’t,” I whisper, running my fingers through the short, dark fur along his shoulders. “I trust you.”

Barsok breathes out like he’s been holding it for years. He lowers me gently to the cot, and the chains hanging in the room don’t rattle this time. There’s no rush in him. Just awe.

He kneels before me, stripping away his armor with deliberate grace.

The black fur of his chest glistens under torchlight, the silver line across his forehead catching firelight like a brand.

When he removes the last piece, his cock falls free—long, thick, curved slightly upward, with ridges along the base.

It’s beautiful and intimidating and utterly inhuman.

And gods, I want all of it.

My eyes widen, and he watches me carefully. “Too much?” he asks.

“No,” I whisper, licking my lips. “Exactly enough.”

Barsok leans down, trailing kisses along my neck, down to my collarbone, his breath fanning over my skin. When he reaches my breast, he pauses, as if giving thanks before he wraps his mouth around a nipple, sucking slowly.

My back arches. My hands fist in his mane. “Barsok…”

“I want to taste every inch of you,” he growls into my skin. “I want to know what your breath sounds like when you break.”

“Then don’t stop,” I beg. “Please.”

He trails lower, sliding my tunic up inch by inch. When he reaches the soft curls between my thighs, he pauses again, exhaling slow against my pussy until I’m squirming.

“You’re already wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent.

He spreads me with two thick fingers, then leans in and licks me—one slow, deliberate stroke that makes me moan loud and helpless.

“Gods,” I gasp, hands gripping the wall behind me. “Don’t stop, please don’t?—”

He doesn’t. His tongue is long, slightly rough, and impossibly agile. He laps at my pussy like he’s starving, curling inside me, teasing my clit, devouring every moan I offer. He drinks down my pleasure like salvation, groaning when I cry out his name.

I come hard, legs shaking, toes curling, my pussy clenching around his tongue. He moans with me, the vibrations pushing me higher until I’m breathless and boneless against the cot.

When he pulls back, his mouth is wet with me, his eyes glazed with need.

“I want you inside me,” I pant, dragging him up by the shoulders. “Now.”

“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs.

“I don’t want slow. I want you. All of you.”

He nods, kissing me again, then settles between my thighs. The head of his cock presses at my entrance, thick and hot and impossibly hard. I brace myself, one hand gripping the cot, the other cradling the back of his neck.

He pushes in.

The stretch is unreal. My breath catches. My nails dig into his fur. Inch by inch, he fills me, and it feels like I’m being split open—but it’s perfect. I’ve never been so full. So claimed.

“Valoa,” he groans, voice tight. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“You’re so fucking big ,” I gasp. “But I can take it. I want it.”

His hips roll, and I whimper, every inch of me aware of him. My pussy clings to him, greedy, aching, begging for more. He thrusts slowly, carefully at first, watching my face for any sign of pain. There is none—only ecstasy.

Each movement is a prayer. Each thrust, a psalm.

He fucks me like it means something. Like he’s making love to the soul I keep hidden in the corners of my ribs. Like I’m not just a woman, not just a healer—but something holy.

“You feel like home,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Like I never belonged anywhere until I was inside you.”

Tears prick my eyes. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“You were made for me,” I whisper. “And I was made for this.”

His rhythm builds—slow, deep strokes that rock the cot against the stone wall. The scent of sweat and salt and fire fills the cell. Our skin slaps wet and perfect. His cock finds that spot inside me with each pass.

If this is a dream, please never let me wake up.