Page 5 of Chained to the Horned God

BARSOK

T he sand burns beneath my hooves, a dry, searing scrape that bites through the worn leather straps that pass for footwear.

The heat has a taste here, bitter and metallic, laced with the stench of spilled entrails and smoke-charred bone.

But it’s not the ground that makes my jaw tighten.

It’s the chant—louder now, louder than I’ve ever heard it.

“Bar-SOK! Bar-SOK!”

The crowd screams for me like I’m a god or a demon, like the sounds of their drunken, frothing voices will push blood from stone.

I hate them for it. Every last one of them.

They don’t know my name, not really. They know a story, a creature penned in by chain and myth.

The savage of the pit. The monster who never begs.

They see the horn and the rage, not the rot under the skin.

The arena gates creak open behind me. My shoulder blades twitch, as if expecting a knife.

I step forward into the blazing eye of the sun, nostrils flaring.

My hands grip the trident—a rusted relic with one bent tine—and the shield strapped to my forearm is already cracked down the center like the promise it was forged with.

This isn’t a weapon. It’s a joke, a dare.

Win with this, monster. Make it interesting.

Opposite me, the second gate slams upward with the thunder of iron and rage.

A naga slithers out, coiling across the sand like something spat from a god’s nightmare.

His scales gleam with hues of rotted meat and bruises left too long.

Muscles ripple beneath armor sewn straight into flesh.

Instead of hands, blades hang from his arms, chains snaking back into his elbows, hissing as they spin.

His tongue flickers, tasting the air. His eyes are nothing but vertical slits of malice.

He hisses something I don’t understand, his voice thick with venom and glee. I stare without answering. The moment I speak, I become something softer. Words don’t belong to me here. Only the kill does.

The announcer calls my name again, stretching each syllable until it warps into mockery. “Barsooooook,” he sings, and the crowd loses their minds. Coins fly. Bets are cast. Bloodlust roars down from every tier of stone, and somewhere beneath it all, the beat of a war drum begins to pound.

The naga is faster than I expect. The chains slice through the air with a shriek.

I duck low, the blade grazing my shoulder and laying open a red, raw gash that blossoms across my collarbone.

The pain flashes hot, but it’s clean. Pain I can use.

I twist, driving the trident forward, aiming for the belly, but he coils back just enough.

The bent tine snaps off against scale that’s tougher than steel.

He laughs then—a slick, wet gurgle of sound that pisses me off more than any insult could. I don’t give him the pleasure of seeing me angry. Anger wastes breath. Rage, though—rage is a tool.

He strikes again, chains wide like scythe-wings.

I block with the shield, barely. The impact rocks through my arm and shoulder.

The shield cracks further, the sound splintering through the pit louder than the jeers of the nobles.

My hooves dig into the sand, holding fast as I bull forward, slamming my body into his and knocking him backward. He coils around my leg and yanks hard.

The world turns sideways.

I hit the ground so hard the air punches from my lungs. Sand scrapes into my wounds. I roll instinctively, dodging a blade meant for my throat. I taste grit and copper. My fingers find the trident again. With a roar, I drive the remaining two tines up under his ribcage.

He doesn’t scream. He howls.

The blade breaks again, leaving only one jagged edge jutting out like a fang. His coils spasm. One slaps me across the back, sending shockwaves down my spine. I keep my grip and twist the trident hard.

He yanks away, the metal tearing free with a wet, sucking noise. Blood—dark, thick, reeking of rot—pours onto the sand.

We circle each other. I limp now. He bleeds. We both stink of death.

He lunges again, faster than I expect, and the tip of his chain-blade scores a deep line across my thigh. The pain makes me hiss through my teeth, but it doesn't drop me. It fuels me.

I wait until he overextends, then lunge forward, grabbing the chain at the base.

My hand locks onto the slick, cold metal.

I yank, spinning into him, driving my horned head straight into his jaw.

Bone gives with a crunch. His mouth snaps sideways.

I use the moment of stunned confusion to slam the broken trident between his teeth and into his gullet.

His eyes widen. I feel the spasm run through his whole body. I don’t stop.

I drive it deeper.

His tail lashes, striking wild. One final twist and the trident’s edge tears through something vital. He sags.

When I release the weapon, he collapses in a heap, the chains unwinding in slow, twitching spasms. His chest shudders. Once. Then again. Then not at all.

The arena is silent for a heartbeat.

Then the screaming starts.

“Bar-SOK! Bar-SOK!”

Their roar crashes over me like a tide. Their lust, their glee—it curdles in my stomach. I raise what remains of the trident high overhead, the weapon cracked and blood-soaked. I don’t smile. I don’t bow. I let them scream.

My eyes rise to the royal box, where the worst of them waits. Baron Lotor leans forward, his white hair gleaming like spider silk under the shade of his parasol. One hand rests on a goblet, the other tangled in the hair of the human girl kneeling beside him. His smile is wide, toothy, pleased.

He raises his glass to me.

I stare back, cold and unmoved.

I turn my back before the gate even creaks open, the broken trident dragging behind me through the sand like an anchor. The blood trail I leave is thick. The pit drinks it all.

They throw me meat still steaming and a bowl of wine that smells half-spoiled, but I take it just the same.

I need the protein, the burn. My jaw aches from gritting it through the fight, and my ribs feel like someone stomped them with a hammer.

The wine helps dull the edge, but it’s the company that does more for me than any drink.

Valoa crouches behind me, her fingers cool and insistent as she threads a needle with shaking hands. I know that tremble isn’t fear. It’s fury. Worry turned hard and sharp. She’s angry that I’m alive but in pieces.

“You’re a damn fool,” she mutters, pulling the thread tight through a tear along my shoulder. “You let that snake bastard get behind you.”

“I had it under control.”

“You almost had your kidney on the outside of your body.”

I grunt, half in pain, half in amusement. She’s scolding me again, and gods help me, I like it. It’s the kind of anger that reminds me I’m still a person and not just a weapon on legs. She talks to me like I matter. Not like something caged and broken.

Her hands press a poultice against the gash above my hip. The sting is immediate, and I bite back a snarl. She hears it anyway.

“I told you to stop catching blades with your ribs.”

“I’ll try to duck faster next time.”

She thumps the back of my head gently with her knuckles. “You better.”

There’s a silence after that, but not the empty kind.

It’s the thick sort, filled with unspoken things.

Her breath tickles between my shoulder blades as she works.

I feel the warmth of her knees brushing my sides, the faint scent of herbs and sweat clinging to her skin.

She's so damn close I can feel her heartbeat. That’s the kind of thing you don’t forget.

Not after years of only hearing your own echo in the dark.

She finishes the last stitch with a hiss of satisfaction. “There. Try not to tear it open again for at least a day.”

“No promises.”

She leans against the wall beside me, folding her arms. “You enjoy it, don’t you?”

“The fighting?”

She nods, not looking at me.

I think about lying. About pretending it’s all for show. But she deserves the truth, even if it makes her hate me.

“I don’t know anymore,” I say. “Maybe I used to. Maybe it was the only time I felt like I was in control. But now…”

“But now?”

“Now I fight so they don’t forget I’m dangerous.”

That makes her glance over. Her eyes are tired, but there’s a sharpness to them. A keen edge like a scalpel.

“They’ll never forget that,” she says. “You scare them even when you bleed.”

I don’t respond. I drink the rest of the wine, letting the bitter aftertaste coat my tongue. There’s something crawling beneath my skin tonight. It’s not just the fight. It’s the weight of a plan forming, slow and awful and real.

The cell door creaks open without warning. The guards don’t speak. They never do. But the figure that steps through isn’t one of them.

Beltran.

He moves with the arrogance of someone who believes in his own cleverness. His cloak swishes behind him like it has somewhere more important to be. His eyes flick to Valoa, then settle on me.

“You look worse than usual,” he says, a thin smile playing on his lips.

“I didn’t realize you cared.”

“Oh, I don’t. But your survival is… advantageous.”

Valoa stiffens beside me. Her fingers curl into fists, but she stays quiet. Watching.

Beltran steps closer, hands behind his back, the picture of noble grace hiding a snake’s heart.

“You’ve become quite popular,” he says. “The crowds love you. Even the merchants are wearing minotaur sigils now, thinking it brings them luck. You’re more than a gladiator now. You’re a symbol.”

“Symbols don’t bleed like this,” I growl, jerking my thumb toward my stitched-up side.

“Exactly.” His grin sharpens. “That’s what makes it real.”

He paces a slow circle around me like I’m some warhound he’s considering buying. I keep still. Barely.

“There’s opportunity in your fame,” he says. “You could be useful. To the city. To me.”

“Useful how?”

“Lotor is… unstable. Dangerous even to his own. There are those who would see a different ruler on that throne. Someone with sense. With vision. But change requires fire. You, Barsok, are fire.”

I meet his gaze, my voice low. “Go to hell.”

Beltran doesn’t flinch. He only chuckles and pulls a small, silver token from his pocket, dropping it into the dirt in front of me.

“Think on it,” he says. “There’s more to your story than blood in the sand.”

He leaves before I can answer.

Valoa exhales sharply. “I don’t like him.”

“Neither do I.”

“You’re thinking about it, though.”

I nod, staring at the token where it gleams like a lie in the dust.

“If I get close enough to Lotor,” I murmur, “maybe I can break the chain.”

“Or hang yourself with it,” she warns.

I look at her then, really look. Her face is still smudged with blood, her hair tied back with a scrap of cloth, but her eyes burn like emerald fire. She's scared. Not for herself. For me.

“Maybe,” I say. “But I’m tired of being someone else’s beast.”

She doesn't reply, but she moves closer, pressing her side to mine, grounding me again in something real.

We sit there in silence, both of us staring down a path neither of us wants to walk but knowing, somehow, we’re going to walk it together.

Valoa stays with me that night. She doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to.

The way her eyes hold mine says more than words ever could.

We’re both shaking—not from cold or fear, but from the pressure of something building between us that neither of us knows how to name.

It’s raw. It’s real. It’s a wound and a balm all at once.

The cell is quiet. Outside, the arena’s drums have long since fallen silent, and the corridors beyond these bars echo only with the muffled sounds of chains and water.

I sit against the wall, my legs sprawled, ribs bandaged and bruised.

She settles beside me slowly, deliberately, like she’s still not sure this is allowed.

Her hand brushes mine, tentative at first, then firm.

Our lips meet again. This time it isn’t gentle.

There’s no ceremony to it. No slow exploration.

Just hunger. Desperation. Like we’re trying to swallow the pain out of each other’s mouths.

She climbs into my lap, straddling me with a kind of wild grace, her fingers gripping the sides of my face like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.

I hold her waist, feeling her pulse beat beneath her skin.

Her breath is hot against my cheek, ragged and full of need.

When she pulls back to look at me, her eyes shine in the torchlight. “Barsok,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” I manage, though my voice is lower than it should be. Rough with emotion.

Her tunic falls to the side as she shrugs it off, baring a map of scars that cut across her torso and back. Some thin and white like old whispers. Others newer. Angrier. My hands tremble when I reach for her, but not from hesitation. From reverence.

She is not delicate. She is not fragile. But tonight, I touch her like glass because she deserves to be worshipped.

My mouth follows my fingers. I kiss every mark she carries like it’s a prayer. Her shoulder. The arch of her collarbone. The crescent just beneath her ribs where a blade nearly took her. She breathes out my name like a secret and wraps her arms around my neck, burying her face into the crook of it.

“You’re not a monster,” she says. “Not to me.”

Her words hit harder than any blade. I don’t deserve them, but I accept them like a sinner drinks from a holy cup. Because I want to believe them.

We come together like broken things trying to be whole.

There is no violence in it. No savagery. Just two people remembering what it feels like to be wanted without pain. Our bodies move slow and then fast and then slow again, finding rhythm not in lust but in sorrow and hope tangled into one. When it’s over, we don’t speak.

Words would ruin it.

Her head is on my chest, my hand in her hair. I feel her fingers trace lines across the old scar near my hip, idle and soft. Her breath warms my skin. I haven’t let anyone this close in years. I forgot what peace could feel like.

She kisses my jaw, lazy and content.