Johnny bounces on his heels, then leans in, all mock-theatrics and manic delight. “Wanna see something fun?”
He doesn’t wait for permission. Just turns, skips through the ash like it’s snow, and waves us after him.
He leads us to a beam near the center. The rope that once held it aloft? Cleanly severed. Not burned. Not frayed. Cut.
I crouch, lifting the ends in my palm, fisting them.
“This wasn’t collapse,” I snarl. “It was sabotage.”
“Guess who I saw creeping near the rigging about ten minutes before it all came down?” Johnny singsongs.
My head snaps up.
He points.
And there—through the settling smoke, framed by two cracked beams and the haze of blood and fire—is him.
The man in the fur.
Still standing. Pale chest bare beneath the heavy pelt. One hand at his side.
The other?
Stroking himself.
Right there in front of the wreckage. Touching himself slow and steady, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved like this death—this destruction—was the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
And gods help me, he’s not wrong.
He doesn’t hide. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.
Then he reaches down, grabs a dead girl by the hair—yanks her head back, and finishes across her face like she’s an altar and this is his prayer.
Giselle gasps beside me, and then, of course, giggles.
Indie snarls something sharp under her breath.
Lux stares.
“He’s been here all night,” Giselle says, licking blood from her bottom lip. “Saw him in the blood tent. Didn’t even blink when I carved a man open.”
“He was there during the Eagle,” I growl, voice low. “Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.”
Indie nods. “Watched me gut a man with the precision of a surgeon. Smiled the whole time.”
“I thought he was just some creep,” Johnny laughs, eyes wild. “Didn’t think he was gonna bring the roof down.”
“He wasn’t watching,” I murmur. “He was worshipping.”
Lux steps forward. “He cut the ropes. Caused the collapse.”
“To feed the gods?” Indie asks.
I look back at the corpses. At the flames. At the blood still running into the dirt.
“He gave them more than we planned,” I say, my voice low, thick with the weight of ash and blood. “More than we promised.”
Giselle steps closer, brushing soot from her chest with fingers still streaked in red. “So maybe he did us a favor,” she murmurs, like it’s a joke only the gods would get. “Intentional or not, they’re fed.”
