Page 6 of Chained to the Horned God

VALOA

T he roar of the arena has a cadence now.

A cruel, brutal rhythm I’ve come to know like a second heartbeat—low and thunderous at first, then rising to a fevered pitch, always followed by a silence thick with tension.

That silence is worse than the screams. It means someone is dying. .. or already dead.

I live in that silence, down in the repurposed stone chamber beneath the stands where the scent of sweat, steel, and blood clings to the walls like mold.

The torchlight flickers off the damp stone, casting shadows that jerk and twist with every scream that echoes through these halls.

This is where they bring the broken bodies when the crowd is too satisfied to care what happens next.

My hands are raw. My fingers stained crimson from too many makeshift surgeries.

The water here is always tinged pink no matter how often I change it.

There are no proper instruments, no clean linens—only what we scavenge, steal, or repurpose.

I work with bone needles sharpened against rocks and silk thread torn from a dead merchant’s robe.

Nothing is sterile. Nothing is safe. But they keep surviving, somehow.

Barsok is always last.

He comes limping in long after the others have been dragged off groaning or silent, his massive form dwarfing the narrow archway.

He smells of dust, blood, and metal, his body a map of fresh wounds layered atop old ones.

I never speak first. Neither does he. We just look at each other, and that gaze says everything we’re too scared to say aloud.

Tonight, his trident is gone—shattered in the pit, I hear. His chest bears a new gash, shallow but jagged, like someone tried to carve him open and the blade lost the argument. I gesture for him to sit on the stone bench as I wring out a cloth in what little clean water remains.

“You’re late,” I say, voice low and dry as I press the damp fabric to his chest. He flinches, just a twitch, but I notice.

“Got distracted,” he grunts.

“Oh? By what? A naga’s spine cracking under your heel?”

His lips twitch into something like a smile. “Slipped in the blood. Almost made it look accidental.”

I try not to laugh. I fail. The sound bubbles up, small and tired, but real. He watches me, and that look in his eyes—the same one that pins me in place every time—burns a little hotter.

We never talk about that night. The night the world outside our cell faded away and all that existed was sweat, skin, and desperation. We haven’t so much as brushed fingertips since, yet the air between us still buzzes with its ghost. Every time I touch him, it’s there—unspoken, electric.

“You should rest,” I murmur as I dab antiseptic on the gash. It’s a weak brew, made from boiled roots and moss, but it keeps infection at bay.

“Can’t,” he mutters. “They want me back out there in two days.”

“Idiots.”

He chuckles. “Tell them that.”

I smooth a strip of linen over the wound and press my palm flat against his chest to hold it steady as I tie it off. His heart pounds steady and strong beneath my fingers. It makes mine stumble in rhythm.

“You’re good at this,” he says, voice rougher than usual.

“I learned from my father,” I reply, then pause. “He died. During the raid. They killed him in front of me.”

Barsok doesn’t speak, but his hand reaches out—slow, like I might vanish if he moves too fast. He lays it over mine, big and warm and careful. I meet his eyes.

“They made me watch,” I continue, throat tightening. “Then they dragged me away and stuffed me in the belly of a godsdamned ship like I was nothing. And now I’m here, stitching monsters back together.”

“You’re not nothing,” he says. His voice doesn’t rise or soften. He just says it like it’s fact.

I want to believe him. I want it so badly my chest aches.

He shifts slightly, grimacing as the linen pulls at one of the deeper cuts on his side. I press a clean rag against it and start sewing—small, precise stitches, the kind that leave only the faintest of scars. His muscles tense under my hands, but he doesn’t flinch again.

“Will you keep fighting?” I ask, not sure why I’m brave enough to ask it now.

“I have to.”

“Why?”

His eyes meet mine again. There’s a storm there, silent but wild.

“Because if I stop, I forget who I was.”

I don’t press. We all have ghosts snapping at our heels. Instead, I finish the last stitch, wipe my hands clean, and sit beside him on the bench. Not touching. Just close.

The noise above us rises again. Another match. Another soul bleeding into the sand. I close my eyes and let the sounds of violence become a dull hum in the back of my skull.

“I hate this place,” I whisper.

“So do I,” he says.

But neither of us moves.

The manticore is beautiful, in the way a wildfire is beautiful right before it burns everything down.

He arrives three days ago, dragged in chains through the outer corridor, his wings bound in iron hooks and his tail coiled like a loaded spring.

His mane is thick and black, his face a strange elegance of lion and man, and his eyes—those impossible burnished gold eyes—shine like candlelight over fresh blood.

The guards whisper his name like a threat: Malkareth.

The crowd reacts like he’s prophecy made flesh. They scream for him before he even fights, baying like wolves. The blood hasn’t hit the sand, but they’ve already decided he’s their new favorite. It twists my gut, watching Barsok watch him.

That night, Barsok doesn't say much. Just stares off at nothing while I stitch a half-orc’s shoulder back together. I can feel it in his silence, the low hum of something knotted tight and ugly.

By the time Barsok is called to the arena the next morning, the stands are already at capacity, throats already raw from chanting.

I stand at the side entrance, hidden behind a curtain of woven chains, close enough to see the moment Barsok steps into the light.

He towers above the others—arms rippling with tension, horns gleaming beneath the sunlight, the crowd roaring at the sight of him like he’s a living god.

They brought out Malkareth to face him. Of course they did. They want a show. They want blood.

The sand is fresh. A clean slate. That won’t last long.

The horn sounds.

Malkareth moves first, tail lashing through the air with a crack like thunder.

The sound shakes my bones. Barsok shifts to the side, narrowly avoiding the poisoned spike as it slams into the ground where he stood a second ago.

Sand explodes upward in a gritty spray. The beast pivots, jaws opening wide enough to fit a man’s head clean between its fangs.

Barsok doesn’t retreat. He steps forward into the jaws, shoving the blunt head of his trident sideways into the manticore’s mouth. The weapon splinters instantly, but it buys him a second. Just one. Enough.

The two clash in a tangle of claws and fists.

Malkareth rears up, wings thrashing against their chains, his tail coiling and uncoiling like a serpent.

Barsok ducks a swipe of razor-sharp talons and punches upward, driving his fist into the beast’s lower jaw with a crunch that echoes through the amphitheater.

The crowd gasps.

The tail comes again, this time aiming for Barsok’s throat. He catches it. Gods, he catches it . His muscles strain, veins bulging like cords as the poisoned barb trembles inches from his neck. Sweat beads along his brow. The whole crowd rises, breath held in a single suspended moment.

With a roar that shakes the stands, Barsok plants his hooves and lifts.

He lifts the manticore. Over his head.

Malkareth thrashes in the air, wings beating uselessly against his restraints, claws scrabbling at empty sky. Barsok turns in place like a mountain rotating, and slams the beast down hard into the sand. Dust explodes from the impact. Bones crunch. Malkareth goes still, dazed, his chest heaving.

The crowd loses its mind. They chant so loudly the stone trembles. “BAR-SOK! BAR-SOK! BAR-SOK!”

I forget to breathe. I forget where I am.

Barsok stands over the creature, panting, a cracked bit of metal still clutched in one hand. His chest heaves. He could end it. The arena wants him to. They thirst for it.

He doesn’t.

He steps back.

The entire stadium holds still. It’s more shocking than any death. Mercy. Barsok lowers his arms. He looks up—at the topmost stand, where Lotor sits swathed in silks, surrounded by wine and slaves and sycophants.

Lotor stands.

No applause. No sneer. Just a single motion. He turns on his heel and vanishes from view. That’s the closest thing to fury I’ve ever seen on a dark elf’s face.

Barsok walks back into the darkness of the tunnel without a word, leaving the crowd chanting his name like a war hymn behind him.

Later, I find him in the infirmary, sitting on the edge of the table, knuckles still crusted in dried blood. I bring the salve and bandages as always. He doesn’t look up when I step in. But his eyes find mine once I set to work.

“You fought different,” I say.

“He was a killer,” Barsok replies. “But he didn’t deserve to die.”

“Neither do you.”

He doesn’t answer. Just lets me touch him, tend to him, exist beside him in the wake of the storm.

We never talk about the first kiss. But the space between us shrinks every time we sit together.

Later that night, I slip into Barsok’s cell carrying a rusting tin with fresh bandages and half a stolen peach wrapped in cloth.

The air is thick with the odor of sweat, antiseptic herbs, and lingering fear, but when I step inside, it feels impossible that violence still rules beyond those bars.

He’s seated against the wall, eyes closed, breathing steady.

A single torch guttering in the corner casts long shadows over his massive frame.

I kneel beside him. The peach is warm in my palm, syrup-soft and fragrant. I hold it out. “You hungry?”

Barsok opens one silver-slitted eye and cracks a grin that tugs at his jaw scar. “Fine. But you better not try to sweeten me up.” He takes it gently.

I tug the rind off a slice and offer it. It tastes of sun and earth, sour and sweet all at once. He chews slow, thoughtful. I find a tin on the floor and pour fresh water on the bandages. The cloth is damp enough to soften, just a little stinging when I press it into the cut above his hip.

We sit in silence while I stitch. The sound is rhythmic—thread pulling through leather and old flesh.

Outside, I can hear the faint drip of water from the cistern and the distant squeak of chains as guards change shifts.

Close enough to remind me that we’re still prisoners, but just far enough to let peace settle over us.

Barsok breaks the silence. “Crowd’s roar today… made me feel like a shadow, not a hero.”

I pause in my stitching. “I thought they cheered for you.”

He snorts softly, a sound like a steamed-out horn. “They don’t know me. They know the myth. I’m just the shadow behind it.”

I press the last knot. “Heroes bleed, too,” I murmur, brushing a strand of my red hair from his forehead as I lean down to clean the wound.

He breathes out slow. “I don’t bleed the way you do.”

I swallow tight. “I remember the first time I stitched a wound. My father’s arm when he’d fallen off the ladder in the fields.

The cut was long and ragged, bone tilting.

I wrapped him to keep the bleeding down, heart pounding so loud I thought I’d faint.

He looked me in the eye and said, ‘You’ll heal more than arms with that touch, Valoa. ’”

His gaze softens so that blue eyes shimmer silver in the torchlight. “Your father… he sounds formidable.”

I laugh softly, though there’s sadness behind it. “He was. Gentle with his hands, strong with his heart. He never judged a cut, just fixed it.”

Barsok shifts so he’s looking at me. His head bobbles slightly, heavy with exhaustion and relief. “He sounded like a good man. I would’ve liked to meet him.”

My chest tightens at how much warmth is packed into that sentence. “I would’ve liked you to meet him, too.”

Silence drapes over us again. I tuck loose stitches into place and finally rise, perching beside him with my knees pressed to his hip. Our breath fills the space between us, slow and intentional. Nothing more needs to be said.

He watches me, my hair, the bandages, then finally reaches for my hand. Fingers as thick as tree branches curl around mine—but careful, not crushing. I feel the pulse in his wrist, slow and steady, like the sea in morning calm.

“I dreamt you were alive,” I whisper. “My hand reached, and?—”

My voice catches.

His hand squeezes. “And now I am.”

We lay side by side on the rough stone floor, not touching, but not apart. His shoulder aches but he doesn’t shift. My cheek rests on the edge of his arm. Our breaths fall into the same rhythm—two struggling souls lighting the same dark.

Sleep drifts in gentle waves. I dream of his hand brushing mine across that gap between us, snug and warm. Then I wake, eyes adjusting to the faint torch glow, and find it already there. His fingertips curl over mine, thumbs brushing my skin like an apology, like a promise.

The air is quieter now, softer, as if the cell itself holds its breath to avoid disturbing this fragile moment.

I don't fear sunrise. Because somewhere in the tangled silence, I’ve found something like hope.