Page 22 of Chained to the Horned God

VALOA

T he arena buzzes like a wasp’s nest, restless, angry, and swollen with expectation.

Bodies pack the stone benches, pressed together in a mass of shimmering fabrics and flushed faces.

The humid air is a pungent soup of sweat, ale, perfume, and bloodlust—sharp and dizzying, filling my head and quickening my pulse.

My healer’s robes cling damply to my skin, the coarse fabric scratching with every step as I push through the murmuring throng, clutching the glass vial tightly in my pocket.

Sunlight floods down mercilessly, baking the sand into something almost molten, reflecting bright enough to make me squint.

Every breath drags in the scent of heated metal and desperation.

The tension is palpable, humming like a wire pulled taut, waiting only for one violent snap to unleash chaos.

My pulse drums hard against the bones of my throat, matching the frantic rhythm of the beating drums echoing from somewhere deep beneath the stands.

A sharp pang of dread twists in my gut, sour and relentless, as Barsok steps into the arena.

The sight of him punches the breath from my lungs, painful and jarring.

My gaze fixes helplessly on the heavy iron shackles encasing his wrists, the chains gleaming cruelly under the blazing sun.

His fur shines ebony against the pale sand, massive shoulders squared, muscles rippling visibly beneath the taut hide.

He stands tall, defiant, eyes blazing beneath thick brows, more a force of nature than any mere man.

My heart clenches painfully—admiration, love, terror mingling into something suffocating.

My feet slow, almost stumbling to a stop as I watch him stride forward.

The cheers erupt around me, deafening and savage, the entire coliseum roaring like a beast itself, hungry for blood and violence.

I feel sick, pulse throbbing behind my eyes.

I clench my jaw hard, forcing my trembling legs onward, fingers tightening around the fragile glass vial in my palm, its surface slick with my sweat.

Above it all sits Baron Lotor, sprawled carelessly in the high box reserved for nobility.

His drunken laughter echoes harshly, cruelly, carrying easily even over the cacophony below.

Doomspeaker, his enchanted sword, gleams dangerously as he swings it in wide, drunken arcs over his head, nearly clipping the guards standing close by.

Even from here, I can see the flushed heat in his face, his eyes glazed with arrogance and liquor.

My stomach twists violently at the sight of him, rage bubbling hot and poisonous.

I fight to control my breathing, pulling my robes tighter as I weave slowly through the thick crowd.

Voices blur into meaningless noise, a chaotic symphony of excitement and dread.

Each step feels heavier, harder, like wading through thick mud.

I push down the bitter taste rising at the back of my throat, forcing myself forward, focusing solely on my task—one small vial, one precise moment. Everything hinges on it.

A sudden, deafening roar erupts from beneath the stands, deep and reverberating enough to vibrate through my bones.

My head snaps sharply toward the source, heart leaping into my throat as Old Scar’s massive form rattles against the bars of his cage.

His scales gleam crimson and obsidian, like polished armor flecked with embers, his eyes twin flames of ancient malice and desperate fury.

His roar echoes again, louder now, drowning out every other sound, demanding attention, promising destruction.

The crowd screams its approval, voices blending into an animalistic frenzy.

My breath catches, panic surging. I can’t tear my eyes away from Barsok as he takes his position on the sand, muscles coiled, ready.

Sweat beads along my brow, dripping salty trails down my cheeks.

For one agonizing heartbeat, our gazes meet across the brutal distance between us, and in that instant, I see him—my Barsok—stripped raw of every facade, every wall.

I see his fear, his courage, and beneath it all, a burning promise: he won’t fail me.

I force my feet forward again, ducking beneath outstretched arms, skirting around cheering groups.

The glass vial grows warmer in my grip, heated by my nerves and the oppressive sun.

Each heartbeat pounds louder, harder, as I move closer to the noble seats, closer to the monstrous Baron who revels so gleefully in cruelty.

My hands tremble subtly, but I grip the vial tighter, determined not to falter.

Another roar shatters the air, followed by a metallic clatter as Old Scar’s cage door creaks slowly open, swinging wide with dreadful inevitability.

My pulse quickens painfully, blood roaring loudly in my ears, mingling with the chaos all around me.

My gaze flicks briefly to the dragon as he stalks forward, scales glittering, wings spread wide and terrible.

His lips curl back, revealing gleaming fangs as long as my arm, his breath curling visibly in smoky trails, acrid and choking.

His eyes burn coldly, calculating, yet I swear there’s amusement in their depths—an unsettling awareness of the plan unfolding around us.

I nearly stumble again, catching myself against a stone pillar, heart racing frantically as Scar moves into position.

My vision blurs momentarily, panic gripping my chest, sharp and tight.

For one terrifying instant, the weight of it nearly crushes me, threatening to break the fragile composure I cling to so desperately.

But Barsok’s face flashes again in my mind, fierce and unwavering, steadying me instantly.

A voice echoes loudly above the chaos, cold and mocking, slicing through the air like a knife. “Begin!” Lotor bellows from his platform, sword raised high in mockery. The crowd roars even louder, voices crashing over me, deafening, monstrous.

Old Scar lunges forward, jaws snapping dangerously close to Barsok’s chest, the air sizzling with heat as flames spark dangerously from between his teeth.

Barsok dodges sharply, rolling gracefully across the sand, chains clattering harshly against stone.

Every movement is precise, rehearsed, yet my heart still pounds painfully with fear at each narrow escape.

Dust billows into choking clouds, gritty and thick, clinging to sweat-dampened skin.

I wrench my gaze away, pushing forward with renewed desperation.

Each step brings me closer to Lotor, closer to vengeance, closer to freedom.

My heart pounds violently, nerves wound painfully tight.

I finally reach the noble box, squeezing through a narrow gap in the crowd, positioning myself carefully just behind a towering marble pillar.

My fingers slip from the vial, gripping tightly at the edges of my robe, waiting for the perfect moment.

Lotor laughs again, the sound harsh and grating, turning my stomach. He waves his sword drunkenly, barking crude jokes that send nearby nobles into fits of forced laughter. My teeth grind painfully, knuckles white with tension. Just a moment more.

Another roar splits the air, deafening, followed by cheers and screams. My head snaps back toward the fight, heart leaping sharply into my throat as Barsok barely avoids a searing blast of dragon flame.

The heat reaches me even here, stinging my eyes, blistering my skin.

My body trembles, nearly losing its balance, but I steady myself again, eyes narrowing in determination.

“Hold steady,” I whisper fiercely under my breath, voice tight, desperate. “Just a little longer, Barsok.”

My fingers brush the vial once more, gripping it tightly, knuckles aching.

Time slows impossibly, seconds stretching into eternity.

I watch, pulse hammering, as Barsok and Old Scar circle slowly, deadly grace in every motion.

My heart twists painfully, fear and pride mingling, fierce and relentless.

With one last, deep breath, I step forward, pulling the vial fully into my hand, steadying my trembling fingers. The world narrows sharply, focusing solely on the monster before me, my heartbeat drowning out every other sound. Barsok fights bravely below, and now I must do the same.

It’s time.

The brutality hits me like a fist to the chest, raw and savage, stealing my breath.

Scar lunges forward, a blur of scales and claws, and for one heart-stopping moment, I believe it's real.

Every careful rehearsal, every whispered plan evaporates, replaced by stark, gut-wrenching fear.

I grip the stone railing with numb fingers, feeling the rough, uneven surface bite into my palms as I watch the nightmare unfold below.

Scar's jaws open wide, flames roaring outward, casting the entire arena in a sinister, crimson glow.

The heat washes over me in waves, blistering hot, the air searing my lungs with the acrid tang of burnt flesh and sulfur.

My vision tunnels, fixating on Barsok as he dives desperately to the side, rolling through the sand with practiced grace, narrowly escaping the worst of the flames.

But it's close—too close. The fire grazes his shoulder, singeing fur, and drawing an instinctive scream from my throat.

"BARSOK!"

My cry is drowned beneath the deafening roar of the crowd, a sea of vicious glee and bloodlust, their excitement mounting with every close call, every narrow miss.

I clench my jaw so tight it aches, trying to remind myself this is part of the plan, just theater—yet every instinct in me screams otherwise.

My heart races violently, chest heaving, panic clawing sharply inside me.