Page 2 of Chained to the Horned God

Another guard crashes into me from the side, smashing me to the deck. My head cracks wood. The knife skitters away. Hands grab my arms. My hair. My ankles. Someone kicks me hard in the ribs. I gasp, teeth snapping together so hard my jaw goes numb.

“Kill her!” one of them shouts.

“No,” snarls another. “Not yet.”

They strip the knife from my hand, re-shackle me tighter than before—iron biting deep. My shoulder dislocates in the scuffle. I scream. I can’t help it this time.

They drag me back below, kicking and half-conscious, body screaming with pain. My vision swims, red blooming in the corners. Someone punches my jaw. Everything goes dim.

I wake gods-know-how-long later, flat on my back, arms pinned, wrists bound tighter than before. The floor’s sticky beneath me—my own blood or someone else’s, I don’t know.

The man I saved earlier leans over me, eyes wide. “You’re mad,” he whispers, awed. “You stabbed a dark elf.”

“Yeah,” I rasp, through cracked lips. “Didn’t kill him, though. I must be slipping.”

He helps me sit up. My shoulder’s still out. I choke on the pain, fighting down the blackness threatening to swallow me whole.

“You’re lucky,” he murmurs.

“Lucky?” I cough. “Is that what you call this?”

“They don’t kill pretty ones quick.”

I laugh. It’s a harsh, ugly sound. “Then they’re gonna be real disappointed when they realize I’m better at gutting than grinning.”

He doesn’t laugh.

That night, I lie awake, every nerve in my body alight with pain. My wrists throb. My side aches. My mouth tastes like iron and defiance.

But I’m not broken.

They stop feeding me not long after the stabbing. Water, barely. Bread if someone’s feeling generous. I suck moisture off my own skin when it gets bad. Doesn’t help much.

I don’t ask questions. There’s nothing left to ask.

When the door slams open again, I barely flinch. The torchlight behind the guard sears into my retinas, and for a second, I think it’s the gods come to fetch me. But no. Just another dark elf with a crooked smile and a chain leash.

“Up, red,” she says. “Time to meet your fate.”

She doesn’t need to tug. I’m on my feet before the chain tightens, shoulders stiff with fire from the still-dislocated joint. I don't cry out. I won't give them that.

“No auction for you,” she sneers, yanking me into the corridor. “You’re going in the pit.”

The other guards laugh. One mimes swinging a sword. Another hisses like a beast. The air reeks of mold and blood and torch oil, a cocktail of misery that clings to the walls.

I don’t respond. My voice is gone anyway. Sliced to ribbons on the inside from salt and silence.

We move down, stone steps slick with some kind of foul grease. It’s colder here, the kind of chill that settles in your marrow and makes you think of graves. The hallway narrows. The laughter fades behind us. The only sound is the rattle of my chain and the slow drip of something wet hitting stone.

Then she stops. A heavy iron door looms in front of us. Carved with deep gouges, like something inside didn’t appreciate being locked away.

The guard turns to me with a grin sharp enough to split skin.

“Don’t scream too much,” she purrs. “He likes the quiet ones best.”

She unhooks my leash and kicks open the door. It swings wide on rusted hinges, moaning like the ghosts of a hundred broken souls.

She shoves me through.

I hit stone and roll hard. My shoulder shrieks. I bite down on a cry and taste copper again. The door slams behind me with a thunderclap, leaving only silence in its wake.

For a moment, I lie there, every breath scraping like broken glass through my chest.

I don’t think about what’s waiting in the dark. I can’t.

The cell smells like rust and earth and something older. Stone dust coats my tongue. My knees are raw from the landing. The air is thick with sweat—mine or something else's, I don’t know—and the faintest trace of char.

My hands are still bound behind me. I shuffle to my side, try to sit, try to breathe, try to think —but the shadows shift.

Something moves.

I go still, heart hammering like a war drum. The space is big, wider than I expected. A distant shape rises from the far corner. Slow. Heavy. Massive.

My stomach drops into my knees.

The torchlight doesn’t reach him, but I see enough.

Horns.

Curving. Elegant. Deadly.

Broad shoulders wider than the doorframe. Fur, dark and matted, stretched over a frame like a living mountain. A shadow within shadows. Then, two eyes open—silver, gleaming, alien in their calm.

“You’re not from Kharza.”

The voice isn’t what I expect. It’s not a growl, not a bark, not a threat. It’s calm. Deep and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet, sliding straight down my spine.

I suck in a breath that scrapes past my dry throat. “And you’re not… going to kill me?”

He moves forward slowly, like someone used to frightening everything he approaches. I can hear the chains dragging behind him, thick enough to anchor a ship.

He stops just short of the light, towering over me.

“Not unless you plan to insult me again.”

His tone is flat. Bored, almost.

I blink. Then, despite everything, I snort.

“Would’ve brought my insults in a gift basket if I’d known I’d be sharing a cell.”

He makes a sound I can’t place. Not quite a laugh. More like a breath of disbelief.

“I’m Valoa,” I say, the name coming out more like a cough than a greeting.

“I didn’t ask,” he replies.

I grit my teeth. “Fine. Don’t tell me yours either.”

The silence stretches. I stare at his chest—he hasn’t stepped fully into the light yet—and wonder if the guards meant for him to kill me. That’s the joke, isn’t it? Toss the bloody little red-haired human into the beast’s den and bet how long it takes before she’s bones and pulp.

But he doesn’t move.

He sighs instead.

“Barsok.”

It takes me a second to realize he means himself.

I try to nod, then wince at the pressure in my neck. “Barsok,” I echo. “That’s…not what I was expecting.”

“Most people expect roaring and blood.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been disappointed.”

Another silence. Then he takes another step forward, close enough now that I can see the line of silver fur that traces from his forehead down to his nose. It glows faintly in the low light. His eyes never leave mine.

“You’re hurt,” he says.

I look down. Blood still crusts the side of my tunic. I don’t answer.

“I can’t fix it with my hands tied behind my back,” I mutter.

He kneels. Slowly. Deliberately. Our eyes level now.

I tense. Every muscle ready to scream.

He reaches around me, and I feel his fingers—blunt, rough, too big for this world—touch the knots binding my wrists. The leather groans.

“You’ll scream if I do this wrong,” he says.

“I’ll scream if you leave them on.”

He doesn’t smile. But he nods.

The bindings snap under his grip, sudden and jarring. I hiss in pain, arms surging forward like snakes freed from a jar. My shoulders pulse white-hot. I cradle my bad one close.

He sits back on his haunches, watching.

I meet his gaze.

“Why didn’t you—” I start.

“Eat you?” he finishes.

I nod, throat raw again.

“Because I don’t eat people,” he says. “And because you didn’t scream.”

I stare at him.

His horns tilt slightly. “Screaming irritates me.”

I laugh. It’s cracked and ugly, but real.

It feels good. To know something other than despair.

Not quite safety.

But close.

Hope.