Page 28 of Chained to the Horned God

VALOA

W e glide through the jungle like spirits slipping between worlds, barely touching the ground, barely breathing.

The humid night air is thick enough to chew, heavy with the fragrance of rotting vegetation and blooming orchids, so lush it threatens to suffocate.

Every step sinks slightly into the damp earth, muffled by layers of decaying leaves and soft, fertile moss.

Vines brush against my face, wet and cool, whispering against my skin like fingers of ghosts, sending tiny shivers of dread down my spine.

Mike’s soldiers—human and half-orc alike—move ahead of us, rifles at the ready, eyes glittering in the shadows.

They clear our path with quiet efficiency, cutting vines with careful precision, each movement silent yet synchronized.

Their expressions are blank, unreadable beneath the shadowed moonlight, their loyalty radiating from them like heat off burning coals.

Something unsettling simmers beneath the surface, devotion too intense, too fervent, setting my nerves on edge.

Barsok moves beside me, a silent specter, imposing yet reassuring, his massive presence a comforting weight in the oppressive darkness.

His heavy silence worries me, his eyes stormy and distant, thoughts clearly somewhere else.

Every now and then his fingers brush gently against my arm, as if reassuring himself I'm still here, tangible, real amidst this nightmare we're forced to navigate.

Each fleeting touch sends a wave of warmth coursing through me, mingling with the quiet dread already settled deep within my bones.

At nightfall, we settle into a makeshift camp beneath tangled branches and lush, sprawling ferns.

Silence hangs thick, oppressive, pressing down with the weight of unspoken thoughts and barely restrained tension.

Fires burn low, muted flames casting flickering shadows across faces hardened by battle and uncertainty.

Mike stands at the center of it all, a shadowy figure outlined by the faint glow, voice low yet commanding as he lays out his plans.

“We strike Kharza at dawn,” Mike announces quietly, eyes glittering fiercely, words dripping with conviction and dangerous charisma. “They won’t expect it—shock and awe will win the day.”

His followers hang on every word, eyes wide, reverent, reflecting back an unsettling fervor that twists sharply in my gut.

The way they watch him isn’t respect or loyalty—it’s worship, blind devotion dangerously close to fanaticism.

Unease coils sharply within me, suspicion growing steadily, tightening its grip around my heart like creeping vines.

Barsok shifts restlessly beside me, muscles tensed, coiled like a spring, each movement radiating quiet unease and cautious distrust. His eyes never leave Mike, narrowed sharply, clearly seeing the same unsettling signs, the dangerous edges of this man’s seemingly benevolent charisma.

I reach out gently, touching Barsok’s hand softly, a quiet reassurance in the suffocating tension.

“Something’s not right,” I whisper softly, voice barely audible, edged sharply with dread, worry clear in each tense syllable.

Barsok exhales slowly, fingers tightening briefly around mine, jaw clenching tightly, muscles flexing beneath dark fur. “I know,” he murmurs roughly, voice low, wary. “His people look at him like he’s a god, not a commander.”

I glance around uneasily, watching soldiers clustered tightly, eyes fixed reverently on Mike, expressions glazed, fiercely loyal, disturbingly devoted.

My stomach knots sharply, dread and suspicion coiling fiercely within me, intuition screaming urgent warnings.

“It feels like he’s not building an army?—”

“He’s building a cult,” Barsok finishes grimly, voice edged sharply with quiet menace, eyes darkening dangerously. “Dangerous man with dangerous followers.”

Mike continues speaking, words smooth and rhythmic, charismatic voice carrying softly through the night, captivating, enthralling.

He gestures expansively, eyes lit fiercely from within, movements graceful yet commanding, captivating his audience effortlessly.

“Kharza will fall—not because we have greater numbers, but because our spirit is stronger, our cause righteous! They’ve oppressed us for too long, trampled on our dignity. Tomorrow, justice is ours!”

Cheers erupt softly, murmured fervently, quiet yet fierce, fervent whispers echoing through the jungle night.

My chest tightens painfully, suspicion and dread twisting sharply within me, every instinct warning me fiercely—this isn’t righteous anger or desperate hope.

This is dangerous fanaticism, devotion twisted and manipulated into something volatile, deadly, unpredictable.

Barsok growls softly, chest vibrating subtly, fingers tightening protectively around mine, tension radiating powerfully from his massive form. “If he’s planning a slaughter…”

“We can’t let it happen,” I whisper fiercely, voice sharp yet cautious, pulse quickening sharply, heart hammering painfully beneath my ribs.

Mike’s eyes shift suddenly toward us, gaze locking briefly onto mine, expression shifting subtly—darkening, calculating, filled with something unreadable yet deeply unsettling.

My breath catches sharply, dread pooling darkly in my gut, intuition screaming warnings of danger, betrayal, hidden agendas.

I force my expression neutral, steady, even as panic surges fiercely inside me.

Mike smiles slightly, eyes glittering knowingly, turning back smoothly to address his followers, voice pitched low yet powerful, words resonating deeply, captivating and dangerous.

“Tomorrow marks our rebirth—our emergence from oppression. We’ll show them our strength, our resolve. Tomorrow, we fight!”

Cheers rise sharply, voices low yet fervent, eyes shining fiercely, devotion radiating palpably, dangerously.

Mike stands at their center, a prophet and warlord in one, his very presence commanding obedience and fervent belief, charisma cloaking dangerous intentions beneath smooth, compelling words.

I shiver sharply, dread coiling tighter within me, gaze flickering uneasily toward Barsok, silently communicating my fears, concerns, fierce suspicions.

His expression hardens subtly, eyes blazing fiercely, silently promising protection, resolve clear and unshakable.

Fingers tighten fiercely around mine, reassurance in the quiet strength of his grip.

“Stay close,” he murmurs roughly, voice low yet steady, edged sharply with quiet menace, fiercely protective. “Whatever happens, we face it together.”

I nod slowly, heart swelling fiercely, strength and courage drawn from his unwavering support, his quiet yet powerful presence beside me.

The jungle breathes softly around us, alive yet oppressive, darkness thick and impenetrable, shadows whispering quietly with hidden threats and lurking danger.

Each heartbeat echoes sharply, dread and determination mingling fiercely, resolve steeling sharply within me, vowing silently to protect those I love from whatever darkness Mike’s dangerous charisma might unleash.

Around us, followers murmur fervently, eyes shining fiercely, devotion radiating powerfully, unsettling and dangerous.

Mike moves quietly among them, posture confident, presence commanding, words dripping smoothly, effortlessly captivating.

Suspicion sharpens fiercely within me, intuition warning urgently of betrayal and hidden danger, desperation fueling quiet resolve.

Barsok’s presence steadies fiercely, silent reassurance in the quiet strength radiating powerfully from him. Together, we watch warily, vigilant, prepared to face whatever dangers Mike’s dangerous charisma might unleash, hearts hammering fiercely, determination sharpening fiercely within us.

Tomorrow dawns with uncertainty, danger lurking beneath charismatic promises, devotion twisted dangerously, volatile, deadly.

We cling fiercely to each other, strength drawn from our unyielding bond, vowing silently, fiercely—we won’t be manipulated, won’t be sacrificed for ambition masked as freedom.

Together, we’ll survive, fiercely protecting each other from whatever darkness lies ahead.

The jungle presses in tight, a green furnace choking with silence and secrets.

I’m sweating, not from the heat this time, but from the way Barsok looks at me—like I’ve become the enemy for questioning the path we’re walking.

His shoulders are broad and rigid, his jaw tight, arms folded across his chest like a wall he won’t let me scale.

“He’s dangerous,” I snap, voice too sharp, too brittle. “You see it too. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Barsok’s nostrils flare, eyes narrowing as he glares down at me. “We need him.” His voice is low, gravel dragged across steel. “We need freedom.”

“Not like this,” I hiss, stepping closer, my hands balled into fists. “Not with cult chants and dead eyes and powder kegs. Not at the cost of our souls.”

His silence is worse than yelling. He just stares at me, jaw clenching, something flickering behind his eyes. Maybe doubt. Maybe guilt. But he doesn't say it. Doesn’t say anything.

The fire between us isn’t warmth. It’s heat you don’t come back from.

I turn from him before I do something stupid, something permanent.

My feet crunch through loam and fallen petals, boots slick with dew and regret.

I lean against a tree, closing my eyes, trying to slow the hammer in my chest. I love him, gods help me.

Even now. Especially now. That’s what makes this so much worse.

We’re drifting. Each argument a fraying thread in the rope that once bound us so tight I thought we’d never come undone.