Page 33 of Chained to the Horned God

VALOA

S pring rolls in on the back of jasmine and rain, softening the sharp edges winter left behind. The air smells clean, alive with blooming things and fresh cut wood. Even the stones seem to breathe easier.

The city holds its breath too.

Election day.

Never before in Kharza’s blood-soaked history, have no blades been drawn to claim power. No assassins slip through alleys. No torches light up the night.

Just ballots.

The people line up in rows—merchants, miners, ex-slaves, scholars, warriors, farmers. They vote beneath banners strung across the square, children dancing around their legs, laughter floating up like incense. It feels like something holy.

A half-orc wins.

Strong hands. Steady heart. Clear eyes.

A dark elf noble loses.

Gracefully. With a bowed head and a tight smile. He shakes hands with his opponent. There are no riots. No blood.

That’s the miracle.

Barsok stands beside me, arms crossed over his chest, watching it all unfold with this strange, quiet look on his face.

“They offered you a seat,” I remind him later.

He shrugs, gaze turned toward the garden, toward the lemon balm pushing through the soil.

“I’ve done enough ruling,” he says. “Let someone else steer the ship for once.”

I don’t argue.

He’s right.

We walk the streets together that evening, our fingers laced, steps slow and easy. The cobblestones are warm beneath our feet. The people smile when they see us. Not out of fear. Not out of debt. Just... affection. Familiarity.

“Barsok!” someone calls. A butcher’s boy, waving a knife still slick with pork fat.

“General!” shouts a baker, flour dusting his apron like snowfall.

“Builder,” mutters an old woman, bowing slightly.

He greets each one with a nod, a grunt, a smile when he thinks I’m not watching.

Statues are going up.

One of him—horns proud, jaw set, hammer slung over his shoulder.

One of us—locked in an embrace, carved from white stone so polished it glows.

I hate it.

“I hate it,” I tell him.

He just laughs.

That deep, throaty laugh that shakes the dirt and scares birds from trees.

“It’s not us,” I add.

“Of course not,” he says. “It’s who they need us to be.”

“Still.”

“I know.”

He kisses my temple.

We pass the square and someone’s strung up lanterns shaped like stars. A child runs past, trailing ribbons, shouting nonsense. A pair of dwarves argue about grain prices in the background.

Kharza breathes.

So do I.

In. Out.

Beside him.

Always.

The stars blaze above us like they’ve been set on fire just for this night. I lie back on the thick wool blanket, still warm from Barsok’s body. The fire’s dying down, but its embers glow red-gold like old blood. I watch the sparks drift into the night like memories fleeing a war-torn past.

Barsok shifts beside me, and I feel the weight of him in the earth. He’s enormous. Every inch of him speaks of power—of battles won, of chains broken, of blood spilled and survived. But when he touches me now, there’s a gentleness to him that breaks me open more than any blade could.

“You keep looking at me like that,” I murmur, “you’re going to have to do something about it.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just breathes, slow and deep. His nostrils flare slightly. His golden eyes, bright as molten metal, scan my face like he’s memorizing it again for the hundredth time.

“I want to,” he says finally, voice gravel and thunder. “But I still don’t know if I deserve to.”

I reach up, fingers threading into the silver line of fur that trails down the center of his forehead, tracing it like it’s a road leading home.

“You do,” I whisper. “You’ve earned every piece of this peace.”

Barsok lowers himself onto his side, one massive arm curling around my waist. His touch makes me feel small—fragile in the best way. Not weak. Just… held.

“You smell like fire and lavender,” he rumbles against my neck, his breath warm as a summer breeze. “It drives me mad.”

“Good,” I say, slipping a thigh over his hip, pulling him closer. “Go mad.”

He kisses me—slow and deep, like he’s drinking from the last spring in a dead land. His tongue tangles with mine, thick and warm, tasting like smoke and pine. I moan into him, hips rolling against the hard ridge growing beneath his loincloth.

When his hand moves down, rough and deliberate, I gasp. His fingers—thick and calloused from years of war—slide under my tunic, finding the bare skin of my stomach. I arch into his touch.

“Take it off,” I say, already tugging at the leather straps of his chest harness. “I want to feel you.”

Clothes scatter. Fur and skin, leather and linen.

I’m naked beneath him in seconds, his eyes roaming my body like it’s sacred ground.

His cock hangs heavy between his legs—thick, dark, inhuman.

My breath catches. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, the sight of it sends heat rushing between my legs.

“You’re so fucking big,” I whisper.

His lip twitches. “You like that.”

“I love it,” I breathe, reaching down to wrap my fingers around the base of his cock. It’s hot, pulsing, impossibly hard. “I love you. ”

Barsok groans, hips jerking into my hand. His voice is ragged. “Valoa…”

He pushes me gently onto my back, kissing a trail down my throat, between my breasts, across my stomach.

When his tongue finds my pussy, I cry out—sharp and loud and broken.

He licks me slow, savoring every moan, every twitch.

His muzzle fits perfectly between my thighs, his tongue long and thick, curling inside me until I’m shaking.

“Please,” I gasp, grabbing at his horns, rocking my hips against his mouth. “Please, Barsok, I need you inside me.”

He rises above me like a mountain, his shadow blotting out the stars. He strokes his cock, watching my face as he aligns himself with my entrance. I spread my legs wider, aching, wet, ready.

“Say it,” he growls, the tip of him pressing into my pussy, stretching me wide. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” I pant. “I need you. Fuck me, Barsok. Fuck me until I forget everything but your name.”

With a low snarl, he pushes in—inch by impossible inch. My breath comes in stutters. He’s too big. He’s perfect. I stretch around him, my walls clenching, pulsing, taking him deeper than I thought I could.

“Gods, you’re tight,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me down onto his cock until he’s buried to the hilt.

We stay like that for a moment, our foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, hearts pounding. Then he moves.

Slow at first. Deep. Every thrust sends sparks through me. I clutch at his back, at his horns, at anything to keep myself grounded. The world dissolves. There’s only us. Only this.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispers against my ear. “Like you were made for me.”

I bite his shoulder, moaning as he drives into me harder, faster. The wet sound of our bodies fills the night, mixed with gasps, cries, broken whispers.

“Don’t stop,” I beg. “Please, Barsok, don’t ever stop.”

He flips me over, pulls my ass up, and slams back in. I scream—pleasure clawing up my spine. His hand tangles in my hair, the other gripping my hip, guiding his thrusts.

“You’re mine,” he growls, deep and primal. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I sob, pressing back against him. “I’ve always been yours.”

My orgasm crashes through me like a wave breaking stone. I convulse around his cock, muscles clenching, body shaking. Barsok roars, thrusting deep one last time as he spills inside me, heat flooding me in thick, pulsing bursts.

We collapse together, bodies slick with sweat and love and everything in between. His arms wrap around me, holding me like I’m the last truth in a world full of lies.

The fire crackles. The stars blink. I believe that this— we —might just last.

The salt air hits me first. It wraps around my shoulders like a shroud and pulls me back in time.

My lungs fill with the memory of it—brine and kelp and the faint metallic edge of old ships.

The sea is endless in front of me, blue stretched out to kiss the sky.

Wind howls through the cliff grasses, whistling like old ghosts.

Barsok doesn’t say a word.

He just leads me by the hand, our footsteps sinking into damp sand, waves lapping at our heels. His grip is steady, calloused, warm. The same hand that once held a blade now only holds mine.

“This is the place,” I say.

I don’t have to explain.

He knows.

It’s where they unloaded us. Where chains bit into my wrists and collarbones. Where the guards shouted and shoved, and I dared to dream of rebellion between mouthfuls of sea-soaked bread.

Now it’s just water and sky and peace.

Barsok drops his pack behind a dune. He kicks off his boots, rolls up his trousers, and steps into the surf. The cold makes him shiver, but he doesn’t stop. He turns to face me, water cresting around his calves.

“Come here,” he says.

I follow.

The tide pulls at my ankles. The sand shifts beneath me. But I walk into that water like it owes me something.

When I reach him, he cups my face in both hands, fingers rough and reverent.

“You saved me,” he says.

The words are heavy with truth. No flourish. No poetry. Just fact.

I smile, throat thick. “We saved each other.”

He kisses me.

Not like it’s the end of the world. Not like it’s the last time.

He kisses me like it’s the first breath after drowning.

The kind that fills your ribs with fire and makes the blood in your veins sing.

We stand there, locked in that kiss, while the waves crash around our knees and the sky turns the color of spilled wine. His forehead rests against mine when we break for air, both of us breathing like we’ve just fought a war.

In a way, we have.

But there’s no more fighting today.

No plans. No running.

Just us.

I curl my fingers into his tunic, draw him close, press my ear to his chest. His heart thuds steady beneath skin browned by sun, scarred by battles won and lost.

“I’ve never felt lighter,” I whisper.

He hums deep in his chest.

“Because you laid it all down,” he says. “All the hurt. All the fear.”

I nod.

I believe him.

I am free.

Free of the past.

Free of the chains.

Free to choose.

Barsok slips his arm around my waist, and we walk the shoreline until the stars come out. The moon rises fat and gold over the sea, casting silver across the tide. Crabs skitter across the wet sand. Sea birds cry in the distance.

We sit on a flat rock and share bread and olives, just like we used to in the cells, except now the salt on our lips is sea spray, not tears.

“This place isn’t haunted anymore,” I say.

He tilts his head. “No?”

I shake mine. “No. It’s holy.”

He nods like he understands.

We stay until the tide threatens our toes, then head back up the dunes, arms slung around each other like anchors.

The world feels big again.

Like anything could happen.

Like everything still could.

And we’ll face it, together.