Page 19 of Chained to the Horned God

BARSOK

T he guards shift through the corridors like pieces on a chessboard—silent steps, subtle repositioning, trained eyes scanning. I sense it before I see it: formation shifting, rotations changed, guards who once ignored me now linger at thresholds. It’s more than routine. It’s anticipation.

I find Durk beside the training yard’s ramp, leaning on his one good leg. The air tastes of dust and sweat and impending confrontation. He watches me with that sharp orcish clarity, missing nothing. I ask, voice low: “You see that?”

He nods once. Not a flicker of surprise. Not a scoff. Just heavy expectancy. “They’re watching you, brother.”

The word—brother—carries the weight of loyalty. I don’t hesitate. I growl low, a taut rumble in my chest. “Every match feels like bait now.” His gaze tightens. I continue through grinding breaths: “Like they’re waiting for me to misstep.”

He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to.

Walking into the arena now, the roar of the crowd smothers me like a tide breaking over bone.

The sand sizzles under my hooves as I step between the gates.

The smell of blood and sweat thickens. Each time my gaze passes Lotor’s royal box, he’s there—tiara stained deep red, wine creeping over lips curled in amusement.

He’s drunk as fat cats always are, but his eyes—those damn eyes—glitter with thorns. Clever danger.

When the horn sounds this time, I grip my axe so tight I taste iron.

My ribs scream with each swing. The crowd hails victory.

I dispatch the beast pinned against sand, watching its life flicker out like a candle snuffed in neglect.

I turn, expecting the usual cheers. Instead I feel the silence twist: they’re waiting to see if I thank them with blood or cower.

I limp through the gate afterward, armor dragging, muscles bristling like warnings.

In the infirmary doorway, Valoa stands—hands clasped, breath uneven.

When I step closer, she presses against me, wrapping arms over my ribs.

Her dress is damp with tears or sweat; I don’t ask which.

Her breath hitches against my neck. She doesn’t look at me.

I don’t ask why. I simply hold her. Let her steady me.

She grips my side and inhales heavily, silent confession held in her chest. No words yet.

Later, she edges back inside and leaves me standing in the tunnel. I trace the fresh scar on my ribs—her breath that steadied me before, her quiet warning in the madness.

There are whispers now: beyond the walls, beyond the matches, beyond the beasts. They call him monster, god, commodity. They titer out my worth in coin and fear. But I feel only one truth: Valoa watches me with more worry than pride.

I lower my gaze to the hearth where her satchel and bandages rest. I step away from the tunnel’s open air and into her light.

Valoa’s quieter now. Not absent, just all the noise she could carry seems to have slipped into shadows.

When she moves through the infirmary, her footsteps are precise, decisions no louder than a blade’s edge.

I watch her at work—hands steady and unwavering—while her green eyes flick over wounds, over scroll maps, over hidden routes I only suspect she knows.

Something clicks in her mind beneath that calm.

I can feel the gears turning, planning. She’s focused. And she’s afraid too.

I see it when she turns back toward me, face pale in torchlight. Her lips part, ready to speak, but she breathes and whispers only my name.

I step close. "Talk to me," I say.

Her jaw tightens. She glances back at the basin she’s cleaned, then to the maps folded in her satchel. "You focus on surviving," she says, voice firm, every phrase measured. "I’ll handle the rest."

Those words—sharp and sure—should terrify me. Someone saying they’re running the war while I cling to survival? That’s a sea made to drown kingdoms. But instead... it ignites something in me. Desire farther than flesh, fiercer than fear.

Gods, I love this woman.

Not just for stitches she binds or plans she weaves—but for the fire behind those eyes, the intelligence etched in every unwavering step she takes, the courage that matches mine blow for blow, even when fear darkens her chest.

I can’t let the darkness between us widen tonight. I say, "You’re scared."

She stiffens. Mistakes me for doubt.

But my words change nothing. She’s iron beneath skin. She only answers with steadied breath and a nod of her jaw.

I say, “Don’t ever think you carry this alone.”

She tucks hair behind her ear. "Never said I did."

I step closer. Her scent—lavender, sweat, ash—fills my lungs. I gather courage like a weapon. “Then teach me to fight like you do. Teach me your fear. We’ll learn it together.”

For a rare heartbeat, she looks undone—fear and resolve shimmering on her face. She nods just enough.

Later, I hear her whisper in the dark corridors. She’s talking quietly to someone in the shadows. A hush of words I can’t catch. But I hear the weight behind them. I sense alliances forming when the moon is brittle and betrayal never sleeps.

I lie on the cot later, staring at the ceiling. The rasp of the torches echoes in my chest. In the quiet, I hear her voice again, saying “my name,” with urgency softened by fear.

I still tremble at it.

I tap a finger against the carved minotaur figure tucked if my pocket. I think of escape. Of freedom shaped like gardens and names whispered in love. But the pit presses against me. Every corridor is watchful. Every guard shift changed.

I tug the figure out and cradle it in my palm—reminder that love is already running through my blood. That someone worth fighting for is burning beside me, planning and bleeding and believing in futures that defy brutal walls.

Each gash I carry feels sharper tonight. Not from the pit—but the knowledge that time is bleeding out. Our choices are fewer with every dawn. Our fate is networked in shadows, alliances, whispered promises. Lotor's lips still glint with silk rings. Durant waits. Beltran waits. Guards wait.

And we wait.

But when I feel her breath on my cheek the next time we meet—quiet, deliberate, unbroken—I lean in close.

"Whatever you build," I murmur in her ear, voice low and haunting, "I'll fight for it."

She hangs back for a moment, gaze fierce. Then nods—to herself, to me, to both of us.

That night, I step into the cell with a blanket folded over my arm—nothing more than a generous scrap, itchy and half-moth-eaten, smuggled by a guard bribed with stolen coin.

I drape it over Valoa’s shoulders and see her stiffen first, then slide the coarse thread under her chin.

For a moment, her eyes flick past me—appraising the fabric.

It’s ordinary. But when she looks at me again, the corners of her mouth curve into warmth like daylight breaking stone.

She smiles like I crowned her in silk, not moth holes.

We settle by the torchlight. The wick crackles in the basin, casting flickering gold across damp stone walls rimmed with shadow.

I sit beside her, shoulders touching, breathing space thinner than usual, quieter than we’ve allowed it to be.

The cell’s livid with nature unreturned—the iron door, the smell of rust, damp moss clinging beneath the shelves.

And yet, here, in this stolen calm, the silence feels soft.

My fingers find hers. It’s familiar—this weight pressed over bone, not armor. I curl a thumb over her knuckles. I don’t say anything. The light hovers between our faces. Hope and fear and fragile peace swirl in that space.

I lean in and kiss her hand. Light as ash.

A blessing, not demand. She catches my lips with her eyes, then lifts her head and pulls me in.

The kiss is long and breathless, something urgent rising in her chest. It’s not the fire of passion—though there is heat—but the gravity of two souls held fast in storm’s eye. I taste rain and salt and lavender oil.

When we part, I place my forehead to hers. Our breaths collide, stuck between lamplight and night chill. The air smells like damp stone and the faint ache of survival. But what fills me most is plain—a hope that outcasts could become something more, could become home.

I know then: I’d rather die free with her than live another day in this cage without her touch. Without the lull of her heartbeat beneath my palm. Without the promise that love, even in ruin, can be stronger than fear.

She doesn’t speak. Her hair halos around her cheeks.

I run a hand through it carefully, let the strands slip between my fingers like water.

Her eyes shut. I trace the scar beneath her ear, pressed into shadow by torchlight.

I lean back against the wall, her hand still in mine, and let everything settle.

Tomorrow—rupture might come. Kings might bleed. Betrayals might rise like tides. But tonight, beneath impossibly fragile light, I choose to hold onto what matters.

I breathe her in again. Hope doesn't roar—it whispers under scars. And I’m anchored.