Page 17 of Chained to the Horned God

BARSOK

T he blare of the trumpets hits me before I step through the arena gates.

They’ve blindfolded me at Lotor’s command—“to make it interesting,” he said, voice full of that sick, amused arrogance.

But I’ve fought in darkness before. I know how to taste sound.

To track motion with muscle memory. To kill without sight.

I steel myself, arms out to feel space. The sand is soft beneath my hooves, unexpected after all the fights.

I breathe in deep—salt sweat, the roar of the crowd, the tang of fear and flame.

A bell clangs. I lunge. I hear bone crack, a grunt, sand spray.

Then someone screams—the sound cuts me like a blade.

Cheers rise. Volume explodes as if every voice in the city wants something more. When the bell clangs again, I know it’s over.

The blindfold comes off. I blink through torchlight, see bodies kneeling, broken on the sand—my opponents. I kneel once, breathe slow, then rise. The chant swells: Bar-Sok! Bar-Sok!

Pain lances my ribs—fresh fractures jag a breath—but the crowd doesn’t hear that. They see the spectacle. The monster proofed in darkness.

I limp across the pit ramp, sweat and blood drying crust beneath my horns. The gates swing back open. The guard at the threshold bows. I nod, and step through.

Valoa stands at the threshold of the infirmary before I even enter. Torchlight silhouettes her. She’s still, spine straight, arms crossed. The wild strands of hair tickle her face. I feel the weight of my victory—of every ounce of violence I've become.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t step forward.

I feel the silence stretch longer than the roar ever lasted.

“I’m broken,” she finally says, voice low but clear. “This place is breaking you.”

I swallow, breath tasting of metal. “It broke me a long time ago,” I say, voice flat.

Her eyes glint. Something volcanic behind them. She steps forward, lifts one hand. The slap cracks like a weapon. My cheek burns—not from the hit, but the truth in her voice. “Then let me put you back together.”

I don’t know how to respond. Her words strike harder than any strike in the pit. Under the torchlight, I see every scar I carry etched in her eyes—pity, fear, rage, love. It's too much.

I step past her, through the door, and walk away. Silence yanks me with its weight as I stride. The infirmary doors hiss shut behind me like a promise long broken.

Later, I lie awake on the cot. Her voice rings in my head. Her eyes. Her strength. She didn’t beg. She offered. But I walked away.

Regret tastes like rust on my tongue. I feel the silence thunder in my bones. That quiet echo makes me ache—in ways the pit never could.

I feel her absence. Hear the distant chant of the crowd, still roaring my legend. But there’s another sound somewhere deeper—the thump of a broken man wondering if redemption means letting someone else hold the pieces.

Tomorrow is not guaranteed. But the night stands like a promise: time to learn how to build again, or time to crumble in the dark.

The night beyond the cell is a low drumbeat of distant torches and fading cheers.

When I stir on the cot, my ribs ache—a dull, consistent burn—calling reminders of yesterday's blind fight and the punishment done in daylight. I don’t move for a while.

I listen to the hush, the quiet life beyond the scar lit by uncertain torchlight.

Finally, I rise, wrapping my tunic around me, weakness half-woven through muscle.

Durk is waiting where the cell corridor meets the infirmary hall. His armor is spattered, paint and blood drying across dents. He pushes one boot forward, stance wide—like he’s bracing for a fight. But it’s not a threat I see in his gaze. It’s clarity.

“You need to stop pretending you’re not in love,” he says. His voice hits with the weight of truth under blood and scars. “She’s already part of your blood. You just haven’t bled for her yet.”

I blink. The words burn. Because I have bled. Not on her behalf, but in her name. Didn’t spare my life, just the crowd’s narrative. But the truth... the truth I haven’t found until now.

I swallow hard. His words echo in my chest, knotting fear and hope and something closer to dawning.

I walk into the infirmary and find Valoa bent over Sharonna’s cot.

Sharonna’s regal posture slack along the bedroll, unconscious at last, cheeks flushed.

A blow to the head and the fever ravaging her ribs, I learn later.

Valoa’s hands work calm and sure, wiping sweat, repositioning pillows.

I move across the threshold quietly, kneeling beside her, offering gesture without fanfare.

She glances at me, eyes red but steady, nods. I press a cooling rag to Sharonna’s brow, damp with fever, and pour fresh water over cracked lips. She breathes harsh and slow, body trembling.

When I bandage a torn corner of Sharonna’s shoulder—ruby wound beneath torn strip—and press it firm, Valoa exhales quietly. She leans forward, toes brushing my ankle. The moment cleaves open something in me—just a rustle, a might-be. My hands stay still. My senses taut.

“She fought tonight,” she murmurs. “Refused to beg. Cursed them all before she fainted.” Her voice catches. “Your fight gave her bones more reason than dying for coin.”

I nod, quiet. She stands. Doesn’t speak. I stay kneeling, pressing gauze tight.

She moves behind me, shoulders against mine, letting the damp gown settle between us. When Sharonna’s breathing steadies, she pushes away. I press down hard enough to leave bruises.

Valoa finds me after. The torchlight quivers across her face as she stands in the hallway, arms folded, gaze steady.

“Don’t push me away again,” she says, breath soft.

My chest tightens. My voice thick, but clear. “I promise not to.”

It hits me like a starfall—her words, the promise, the weight of it. I haven’t made a promise like that since Milthar. Since before I was caged. Since I thought love was a weapon too heavy to hold.

She lets her gaze soften. Offers one small tilt of her head before she turns, steps down the corridor toward the cell we share. I follow. Not rushed. Not desperate. Steady.

We don’t speak again that night. We rest on the pallet side by side, quiet as ash. I reach and place my palm over her heart—it still beats despite everything. I feel her breath settle. The rustle of her tunic as she shifts closer.

I let promise bloom inside me—tender, cautious, irrevocable.

Because she reminds me I’m still a man who can stand for something other than survival.

And I will.

The lock clicks softly behind us, shutting out the cavern’s roar.

A noble’s gift to me: a wooden tub carved from river oak, its iron bands gleaming dull in torchlight.

The water inside is chilled and still. As I step in, splinters of warmth ripple across my bruised limbs—but Valoa kneels beside the tub and presses her hands into the water.

She swirls her fingers, scattering warmth through the basin, breathing life into an act of tenderness so rare I almost choke on it.

She slides in beside me, silent as dusk. My skin flakes become steam, and the scent of cracked wood and cold water melds with lavender oil that she tucks into the corners of the tub. I breathe in the aroma, heavy and homebound.

We wash each other in silence. Her fingers trace the line of every scar—chrysalis of battles: the hydra wound, the chimera slash, the silver scar on my brow. I rinse away dried blood and salt sweat until her skin shines under torchlight. Her scars I kiss away, each kiss a vow sealed in dusk.

When she reaches—fingertips brushing the base of my horn—I feel something inside me crack open. Her fingers trace the curve slowly, mapping out this part of me I thought only war could shape. The ache beneath them loosens. I want to stay in that moment forever.

She pulls the water over me gently, her voice almost breathless. “You smell like rain.”

I open my eyes. Can’t speak. She dips cloth into the basin and lifts water to my jaw, scrubbing clean the grime of the cage and scent of steel.

We breathe each other in, pulses slowed, hearts unarmored.

We don’t make love—not tonight. But we feel love in every stroke, every breath, every moment her skin presses against mine, carrying me away from the pit and closer to something named softly.

When I rise from the tub, water drips from my horns, each droplet cold like memory. She wraps me in cloth, presses it tight against wounds. I pull her close and tell her, voice low and raw: “I would die for you.”

Without flinching, she rests her forehead against mine. “Then live for me instead.” Her hand settles against my chest—light, burning, steady.

In that moment, the cell door might as well be sky. I know I will. Not for legend. Not for death. But for love born from scars and survival.