“I did not fail you,” I whisper through clenched teeth. “This was not my hand. Forgive me.”
I close my eyes, breathe through the smoke, and offer a second prayer—this one rougher, more guttural. A string of Old Norse slipping from my lips like a wound reopening. My voice is raw. Furious.
Behind me, Giselle touches my face, breathless and grinning like a girl drunk on war.
“Bjorn,” she gasps. “The gods aren’t angry. Look around.”
I glare at the chaos. The ruin. The screaming.
“They’re gorging,” she says, fingers curling in my braid. “Even the ones who didn’t come here to die are bleeding for them now.”
Her voice is soft but sharp, cutting through my rage with something fierce and bright.
I glance at her. My Valkyrie. My chaos.
She’s not wrong.
All around us, the gods feast.
And somewhere in the smoke, I know—we'll find the one who fed them best.
“They wanted this,” Giselle whispers beside me, her fingers brushing ash from my jaw, her grin wicked even through the smoke. “They want it all.”
I grunt, dragging her through the wreckage of the center ring. My grip on her is tight. Not because I doubt her—no, never her. But because I would carve a warpath through flame and ruin to protect her if I had to.
Around us, the tent groans like a wounded animal. One of the side beams slants dangerously inward, catching fire at the seams. The air is thick with the stench of burning fabric and flesh. Screams rise through it, some shrill with terror, others soaked in ecstasy. It's impossible to tell which is which anymore.
We reach the clearing between the side tents and the bar, where the smoke thins just enough to breathe. Half the tent is a ruin. The other half? Still alive. Still screaming.
The crew converges—staggered but whole.
Indie stumbles into view first, whip still clutched in one hand, a smear of soot smeared across her cheek like war paint. Her leathers are scorched at the edges, and there’s fresh blood running down one thigh—but she’s upright, fire in her eyes, jaw clenched like she just survived a battle and is pissed it ended early. The scar on her face—the one carved by her father—gleams red in the firelight, like the gods remembered it.
Lux is close behind her, shirtless, his chest streaked in soot and blood, hair wild and sticking to his face. He’s dragging a heavy metal beam clear from the path, gritting his teeth as he shoulders the weight.
“Indie,” he snaps, reaching for her, eyes raking over her like he’s scanning for wounds. “Are you hurt?”
She snorts, flinging her whip over her shoulder. “Takes more than divine fire and falling timber to kill me.”
He brushes ash from her collarbone with more care than I’ve ever seen from him—tender, almost reverent—and I see it then. Real concern. Not the performative kind he gives the crowd. No, this is something deeper.
I make a mental note to ask about it later.
Behind them, cirkies are dragging buckets toward the spreading fire, soaking cloth and dousing flames. The ones who weren’t crushed are moving like warriors now, slipping through the smoke with soaked towels, with water jugs, with grit.
To my left, Giselle brushes soot from her thighs, hair wild around her shoulders, eyes still gleaming like she’s ready for me to devour here all over again. She catches me watching and grins—all teeth and blood.
“Look who didn’t die,” Johnny crows, skipping into view, his coat half-melted at the hem, face smeared with soot and blood and what I hope isn’t brain matter. Alaska stalks behind him, leash trailing from his hand, her collar jingling with bones.
He throws an arm wide, gesturing toward the smoldering chaos.
“Well, that was dramatic.”
I ignore the sarcasm, scanning what remains of the center ring. Bodies everywhere—some moving, some not. Screams taper into gasps. The tent didn’t fully collapse, but enough of it did to kill at least a few hundred. The ring is half caved in. Torches still burn. The altar still smolders.
“What happened?” Indie asks, her voice sharp.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” I growl.
