Page 21 of Chained to the Horned God

BARSOK

B eltran’s voice echoes in the tight chamber like a death knell, each word a brick laid down, building the path toward our escape.

It’s madness, but madness has been my life for years now.

The torchlight flickers, sending shadows skittering across the stone walls like jittery spiders, each shift making my skin crawl.

I’m cramped, my muscles knotted from tension, from too many fights, from too many nights spent coiled and ready to snap at the first sign of danger.

“Lotor wants something spectacular,” Beltran repeats, pacing the narrow cell. His face is grim, drawn taut like bowstrings ready to loose their arrow. “A grand finale, something the bloodthirsty masses will remember. You’re going up against Old Scar.”

My blood chills, and my heartbeat thuds so loud I swear everyone else must hear it too.

I flex my hands, knuckles cracking. That damn dragon’s teeth flash through my memory, white and sharp and dripping with drool that smells like rotten meat and sulfur.

His claws scraped grooves in the stone last time they let him out.

I’ve seen men torn apart by him, their screams hanging in the air long after they’d been ripped to ribbons.

“Are you mad?” Durk growls from the corner, glaring at Beltran with one narrowed eye. “That’s no spectacle. That’s just murder with extra steps.”

Beltran lifts a hand, the heavy ring on his finger glinting red in the dim light. “Exactly. And murder is what they expect. That’s why it’ll work.”

I glance over at Valoa. She stands close, arms crossed tight over her chest, chin lifted in defiance.

She’s small beside us, delicate as a flame flickering in the dark, but her presence fills the space, fierce and determined.

When her gaze meets mine, my chest clenches.

Her eyes blaze, lit by a fire hotter than any I’ve seen, like she’s daring fate itself to step between us.

“Explain,” Valoa says, her voice clear and sharp as steel.

Beltran nods, stepping closer. “Lotor’s bloodlust blinds him. He wants Barsok dead, but he wants it theatrical. He’ll stage it as a public execution match—dragon versus minotaur. Barsok, you’ll fight. You’ll lose. And most importantly, you’ll die believably.”

“You mean fake dying,” Valoa interrupts sharply. She shifts, her body taut, like a bowstring about to snap. “Just to clarify.”

Beltran sighs, his expression one of forced patience.

“Yes, fake dying. That’s the plan, at least. The dragon is the spectacle, the distraction.

While the crowd roars, Latrona will have already bribed the gate guards.

The doors to the lower tunnels will be left unlocked.

Once Barsok is down, seemingly dead, chaos will erupt.

Old Scar will be unpredictable, uncontrollable. ”

Latrona leans forward from the shadows, the torchlight catching the red highlights in her dyed hair. Her eyes glitter with mischief as she speaks. “The dragon’s the diversion. Once the guards focus on him, I’ll make sure the armory is unlocked. Weapons at the ready. You’ll have your pick, Barsok.”

A thrill of anticipation sparks in my gut, tempered by caution. I look between them, weighing their words carefully. “And you’re sure the dragon won’t just tear me apart for real?”

Beltran’s lips twist into something bitter and wry. “That’s the beauty of the gamble. Dragons don’t kill for sport. Scar knows the arena. He knows the rules of survival better than we do. He’ll play his part, provided he isn’t provoked into rage.”

Durk spits at the ground, disgusted. “Or provided he isn’t hungry.”

Latrona chuckles softly, but it sounds dangerous rather than amused. “Beltran’s promised to see him fed beforehand. A few sheep to curb the edge.”

“Great,” I grunt, sarcasm dripping from the word. “So he won’t eat me immediately, just play with me first. Comforting.”

Valoa reaches out, fingers grazing my forearm lightly. Her touch is brief, but it scorches, drawing my gaze instantly back to hers. She shakes her head slightly, and I read the silent plea in her eyes clearly: Trust them. Trust me.

I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the stale, damp air that’s been my only companion for far too long. “And while all hell breaks loose, Valoa poisons Lotor?”

“Exactly,” Beltran says, nodding. “Just enough to make him groggy, confused. Not dead—at least not yet.”

Valoa steps forward, her chin high, voice steady, though I sense the slight tremble beneath it. “My father taught me doses. A pinch of nightshade, a splash of dreamroot. He’ll be disoriented, weak, but conscious. Helpless.”

Durk eyes her warily. “Sure you can get close enough to do it?”

She glances at him sharply, eyes narrowing, defiant. “I’ll manage.”

My chest tightens again, pride and fear mixing dangerously inside me. The image of Valoa alone, slipping poison into the cup of a monster makes my heart thud unevenly. I resist the urge to pull her closer, shield her from it. But Valoa is made of tougher stuff. I’ve seen it firsthand.

“Once Lotor falters,” Beltran continues, “we strike. Durk, you’ll rally the gladiators.

They’ll fight like demons for a chance at freedom.

Latrona’s men will handle any remaining loyalists.

In the chaos, we make our escape through the tunnels beneath the arena.

They lead straight to the jungle outside the city walls. ”

“Mike Rizzo’s camp?” Valoa asks, glancing cautiously between us.

Beltran nods slowly. “Yes. He’s agreed to meet us there with reinforcements and weapons. His firepower will secure our exit.”

Valoa’s mouth tightens, her eyes darkening. I know she trusts Mike about as far as she can throw him, and frankly, so do I. But what choice do we have? We need allies, even dangerous ones. Especially dangerous ones.

The silence that follows feels like a held breath, each of us weighing the cost. I see Durk shift uneasily, the stump of his missing hand flexing like he’s grasping for a weapon that isn’t there.

Latrona’s expression is unreadable, her gaze sliding between each of us, calculating.

Beltran stands, patient, confident, as if he hasn’t just laid our lives on the sharp edge of a blade.

Valoa finally breaks the silence, voice soft but resolute. “Then that’s it. Barsok fights. The dragon distracts. I poison Lotor. We break the chains. Simple.”

“Simple,” I repeat grimly, my voice gravelly with the weight of our gamble. “Except for the part where a dragon pretends to kill me.”

Beltran places a hand on my shoulder, grip firm, almost comforting in its certainty. “Trust the plan. Trust yourselves. We have one chance, Barsok. One chance to make this count.”

Valoa steps closer, the warmth of her body a balm against the chill of the cell. She meets my eyes, searching for something, perhaps reassurance. I give her what little I can, a nod, small but fierce.

“I won’t fail,” she whispers fiercely.

“Neither will I,” I promise, my voice low, thick with unspoken fears and unbreakable resolve.

Beltran steps back, crossing his arms. “Then it’s settled. Rest now, as much as you can. Tomorrow, we put on the greatest spectacle Kharza has ever seen.”

Tomorrow, I face a dragon and dance with death one more time. But tonight, hope flares inside me, bright and fierce.

The torch sputters in the corner of our cell, casting flickering shadows that dance across the walls like restless ghosts.

Valoa’s breath is warm against my throat, her small body pressed tight against mine, as if somehow she can melt into me and ward off what tomorrow will bring.

My back is pressed to the cold stone, every jagged ridge digging sharply into my skin, but the discomfort means nothing—not tonight. Tonight, there’s only her.

She shifts in my lap, straddling my thighs, fingers brushing tenderly through the coarse fur on my chest. My heart thrashes inside my ribs, a wild, reckless thing trying to escape.

I rest my hands gently at her hips, memorizing the feel of her beneath my fingertips, warm and soft and entirely mine.

She tilts her head up, her eyes catching the torchlight, glowing emerald like gems lit from within.

I see everything reflected there—fear, determination, hope—but more than anything else, I see love.

Love that makes my blood burn hotter than dragon’s fire.

“Barsok,” she whispers, and my name sounds like a prayer on her tongue, one word that carries all our secrets. Her voice trembles slightly, but her eyes hold steady. “Tomorrow…”

“Don’t.” I brush my thumb along her jawline, feeling her pulse jump beneath the delicate skin. “Just tonight. Let’s have tonight without thinking about tomorrow.”

Her lips part slightly, as if she’s about to protest, but the words never come.

Instead, she leans forward, closing the small distance between us, capturing my mouth in a kiss so desperate, so fierce, it leaves me dizzy.

Her mouth tastes of honey and sorrow, sweet and bitter mingling together as if they’ve always belonged side by side.

I pull her closer, deepening the kiss, feeling her small, rapid heartbeat thrumming against my chest. My senses sharpen, drawing in every detail—the heat of her body pressed against mine, the faint floral scent of her hair mingling with the earthy, iron tang of the cell around us.

She kisses me like she’s committing each movement to memory, as if she fears tomorrow will erase everything.

Her fingers tighten around my shoulders, digging into muscle, nails scraping lightly against my skin.

She breathes my name between kisses, a hushed chant, “Barsok, Barsok, Barsok,” and I answer her with kisses of my own, fierce and hungry, like I can somehow seal her inside me, safe and untouched.

When we finally pull apart, her eyes glisten with unshed tears. My gut twists sharply. I reach up, cupping her face gently between my palms, brushing away the single tear that finally spills free, warm and salty against my thumb. “Don’t,” I murmur softly. “Not tonight. No tears.”

She laughs quietly, shaking her head, her smile trembling but beautiful. “It’s not fair to ask that.”

“Life’s not fair,” I say bitterly, pressing my forehead to hers, breathing in the scent of her skin—warm, sweet, alive. “But gods, Valoa, I want just this moment. I want you. No fears, no regrets.”

She draws a shaky breath, hands sliding down my chest, mapping every muscle, every scar. Her touch burns through me, raw and tender. “I wish we could just vanish,” she whispers, voice breaking slightly. “Disappear somewhere where nothing and no one can find us.”

I chuckle softly, trying to lighten the crushing weight that presses in on us. “You’d tire of me within days. Minotaurs make lousy company in the long run.”

“Don’t joke,” she whispers fiercely, grabbing my face, forcing my gaze to hers. “Not now. I don’t ever want to forget this moment, not even if we live a thousand years.”

“You won’t,” I assure her, my voice thick with emotion I’m barely holding back. “I swear it.”

She leans in again, kissing me slower, sweeter this time.

Her tongue glides softly against mine, coaxing, tasting, promising everything we can’t put into words.

My hands trail along her spine, memorizing every curve, every dip.

Her breath shudders against my lips, her heart pounding so loud I feel it vibrating through her skin, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.

When she breaks the kiss, her forehead remains pressed against mine, our breath mingling, hot and heavy in the air between us. “Barsok…” she murmurs, her voice so low I barely hear it, even this close. “I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” I reply immediately, my voice hoarse with urgency.

“If things go wrong,” she says, pulling back slightly to look directly into my eyes, “if I don’t make it?—”

“No.” My voice is rough, almost angry, fear cutting through the tenderness. “You will. We both will.”

“But if I don’t,” she persists gently, “promise me you won’t let it break you. Promise you’ll survive, for me.”

The request lodges painfully in my chest, a weight heavier than chains. I swallow hard, struggling for words, but her eyes plead with me, raw and open. “Valoa,” I finally rasp out, throat burning, “I can’t?—”

“Promise me,” she whispers fiercely, gripping my hands tightly. “Please.”

I draw in a slow, unsteady breath, gathering the strength I’m not sure I possess. My voice is barely a whisper when I speak again. “I promise.”

She releases a shaky breath, leaning forward to rest her cheek against mine, her hair falling like a silken curtain around us, shielding us from the harsh reality outside these walls.

We stay that way for long moments, simply breathing, hearts beating together, our bodies pressed so close we’re practically one.

Eventually, she lifts her head, her expression shifting subtly from desperate to defiant. “But we’ll make it,” she says fiercely, the fire returning to her voice, eyes blazing with stubborn conviction. “Together.”

“Together,” I echo, squeezing her tightly, drawing her close again. Her lips brush mine once more, softer this time, tender, unhurried, as if we have forever.

“If I die tomorrow,” I murmur softly against her mouth, each word feeling torn from deep inside my chest, “remember this.”

She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, eyes fierce and glittering with tears she refuses to shed. Her voice shakes but remains strong, unwavering. “If you die tomorrow, I’ll drag you back.”

I can’t help but smile, despite the ache deep inside me, despite the gnawing fear I know we both feel. “I believe you.”

Her answering smile is brilliant, fierce enough to ignite stars.

We kiss again, deeper this time, losing ourselves in each other, bodies moving together in quiet desperation, in absolute devotion.

The world narrows down to her—her warmth, her scent, the sound of her breath, the rhythm of her heart matching mine.

Our shared laughter breaks softly through the silence, mingling with gasps and whispers, with quiet declarations we can’t help but give.

We don’t sleep that night. We barely breathe. Each touch, each kiss, is a vow. A desperate plea. A defiant shout against fate. But through it all, even through the tears that finally spill unchecked, we cling to something stronger, something fierce and unyielding.

Love. Unspoken, roaring, terrifying love.