Page 26 of Chained to the Horned God

“I imagine you're hungry,” Mike says suddenly, his tone shifting smoothly, voice pitched low and soothing, filled with the practiced sincerity of a seasoned orator.

“Tired, wounded. Well, don't just stand there, come.

We've food, clean water, medical supplies. And, of course—” He pauses dramatically, flashing another dazzling, unsettling grin, eyes glittering with dark excitement. “Weapons.”

My stomach tightens instinctively at his offer, suspicion warring fiercely with raw hunger and desperate exhaustion.

The scent of charred wood and gunpowder still lingers bitterly in the air, mingling with the earthy, humid aroma of the surrounding jungle.

Every instinct screams warnings—Mike Rizzo is ruthless, dangerous, unpredictable—but desperation makes dangerous allies necessary.

Reluctantly, I nod sharply, stepping cautiously forward, eyes narrowed warily, muscles tensed for betrayal.

Mike gestures expansively toward the shadows behind him, soldiers stepping obediently aside, revealing crates and sacks piled carelessly beneath makeshift shelters constructed from heavy canvas and woven jungle vines.

He moves confidently among them, dropping lightly to one knee beside a battered crate.

With deft, practiced movements, he pries open the lid, the wood creaking loudly, hinges groaning as the contents are revealed.

My breath catches sharply, eyes widening despite myself.

Valoa inhales sharply beside me, body stiffening, suspicion and curiosity warring sharply across her delicate features.

Inside the crate rests a jumble of crude rifles, their metal barrels dull, tarnished but deadly.

Small, paper-wrapped packages nestle snugly beside them, leaking tiny granules of black powder that glisten dangerously beneath the waning sunlight filtering weakly through the jungle canopy.

Mike reaches reverently inside, fingertips brushing the weapons and gunpowder almost tenderly, his expression shifting subtly—fierce, calculating, feverish with anticipation.

“They'll never expect humans to strike back,” Mike murmurs softly, voice barely audible, as if he's speaking directly to the weapons themselves, whispering dark promises. His eyes lift suddenly, gaze locking fiercely onto mine, challenging, daring me to deny his dangerous logic. “Not with this.”

My stomach churns violently, dread pooling darkly inside me.

This isn't mere survival—it’s a path toward war, brutal, merciless, inevitable.

My gaze flickers uneasily toward Valoa, seeking reassurance, strength, caution.

Her eyes flash fiercely, chin lifting stubbornly, silently warning me—she doesn't trust him, and neither should I.

Mike chuckles softly, reading our hesitation effortlessly, rising smoothly to his feet.

He gestures expansively, stepping confidently back toward us, his presence radiating charisma and quiet menace, effortlessly commanding attention.

“This isn’t just about survival anymore.

You’ve struck the first blow—Kharza will retaliate. Ruthlessly.”

His gaze hardens, eyes glittering fiercely, voice dropping lower, tone deadly serious, edged sharply with brutal honesty. “If you’re hoping to hide in this jungle forever, you’ll only delay the inevitable. Kharza must fall. And only humans—only we, the oppressed—have the strength to do it.”

Durk steps forward sharply, posture tense, muscles rippling beneath sweat-slick skin. “We’ve seen your ‘strength,’ Rizzo,” he growls bitterly, voice rough with barely restrained rage. “Innocents slaughtered. Villages burned. You’re no liberator—you’re a butcher.”

Mike eyes him coolly, unflinching, unrepentant, gaze steady and unwavering. “War demands blood, Durk. You of all people should understand that.” His gaze shifts briefly toward Durk’s missing hand, subtle, pointed, cruel. Durk stiffens sharply, jaw tightening fiercely, eyes blazing dangerously.

I step quickly between them, holding up a calming hand, voice low, controlled, though my pulse hammers violently beneath my ribs. “Enough. We’re not here for your crusade, Mike. We just want shelter. Safety.”

Mike chuckles lowly, expression darkly amused, eyes glittering mockingly. “Safety? Here?” He gestures expansively toward the burnt outpost, the jungle surrounding us, echoing distantly with drums still beating ominously. “There is no safety. Not anymore. Only victory—or annihilation.”

Valoa’s voice suddenly cuts sharply through the tense silence, fierce, defiant, her tone dripping with contempt and challenge. “And what happens if you win, Mike? You take Lotor’s throne? Become just another tyrant?”

Mike’s eyes narrow sharply, a flicker of irritation marring his carefully controlled facade, lips curling coldly. “Careful, healer. Idealism doesn’t win wars—strength and ruthlessness do. You want to change the world, you get your hands dirty.”

Her voice rises sharply, ringing clearly through the oppressive jungle air, fearless and passionate. “There’s a difference between fighting for freedom and slaughtering innocents.”

Mike stares at her coldly, considering carefully, expression hardening subtly, his eyes darkening dangerously. His voice drops low, dangerously quiet, words slicing sharply through the tense, humid air. “War spares no innocence. Better you learn that now.”

Silence stretches thickly, tension pulsing palpably, a dangerous, heavy weight pressing down relentlessly.

My heart races violently, breath rasping harshly, body coiled instinctively for danger.

Mike’s soldiers shift warily, fingers flexing subtly on triggers, eyes watching carefully, ready for violence at the slightest provocation.

Mike smiles again, expression abruptly relaxing, posture shifting casually, effortlessly charismatic. “But, we’re allies, for now. You’ll take what you need—food, shelter, weapons. And perhaps, in time, you’ll understand.”

His eyes meet mine directly, cold, calculating, voice filled with quiet, lethal confidence. “Revolution isn’t clean. It isn’t pretty. But sometimes, it’s necessary.”

My stomach knots tightly, dread coiling sharply within me, suspicion and unease warring fiercely with reluctant practicality. I glance quickly toward Valoa, silently weighing options, risks, consequences. Her eyes flash fiercely, fiercely determined, silently warning—trust Mike Rizzo at our peril.

Yet, as my gaze sweeps over our battered group, desperation etched clearly in each exhausted face, I know our options are limited. Mike is dangerous, ruthless, charismatic, brilliant—yet, perhaps exactly the ally we need, despite the risk.

I grit my teeth sharply, forcing down bitter doubt, meeting Mike’s cold, expectant gaze directly, voice steady despite my turbulent emotions. “We’ll take your help. But we fight for freedom—not vengeance. Remember that.”

Mike smiles coolly, eyes glittering darkly, voice dripping smooth, confident sincerity, edged sharply with hidden threat. “Of course, Barsok. Freedom, above all.”

His words hang thickly between us, heavy with unspoken menace and dangerous promises. The jungle shifts restlessly around us, alive with hidden threats, beautiful yet treacherous, a brutal reminder—we’ve escaped one nightmare only to walk willingly into another.

Night settles thick and heavy over the jungle, cloaking us in darkness broken only by faint shards of silver moonlight filtering through the dense, shadowy canopy.

The heat of the day lingers stubbornly, humidity pressing down relentlessly, wrapping around us like a second skin.

I can smell the earth around us, damp and fragrant, layered with the lush scent of blooming orchids and hidden decay beneath tangled roots.

Nearby, the soft murmurs of our group filter through the trees, subdued but vigilant, uneasy whispers drifting on the humid night air.

Valoa sits beside me beneath a sprawling tree, her small form pressed close, body radiating warmth despite the oppressive heat.

She grips my hand hard, her fingers tight, unyielding, her touch almost painful, yet I welcome the grounding pain—it reminds me we’re both still here, still fighting.

The weight of the past few days presses heavily, each memory sharp and vivid, like splinters lodged deeply within me.

“I don’t trust him,” Valoa whispers suddenly, voice tense, strained, her words barely audible, edged sharply with unease and suspicion.

Her gaze flickers restlessly toward Mike Rizzo’s distant firelight, the faint orange glow visible through thick foliage, shadows dancing ominously around his gathered soldiers.

Her body stiffens beside me, muscles taut, her unease radiating palpably.

“I know,” I reply quietly, voice low, calm, carefully controlled despite the turmoil churning within me. “Neither do I.”

She turns toward me slowly, her eyes wide, glittering softly in the dim moonlight, filled with a mix of fear, concern, and something deeper—uncertainty, maybe disappointment.

She searches my face carefully, gaze lingering as if seeing something unfamiliar, unsettling.

Her hand tightens slightly around mine, fingers trembling subtly, betraying emotions she tries fiercely to conceal.

“You’ve changed,” she whispers softly, voice barely audible, words edged with a strange sadness that twists sharply in my chest.

I exhale slowly, breath shaking faintly, unable to deny the truth of her accusation.

My chest tightens painfully, heart heavy with the knowledge that freedom demands difficult choices—choices I never thought I'd make.

“Maybe I have,” I admit reluctantly, voice rough, words forced past the tightness in my throat. “Maybe I had to.”