She slumps.
Not dead. But wrecked.
Used.
Perfect.
“Flesh for fire,” I murmur, dragging a rune across her back with a streak of her own blood. “Blood for balance.”
The crowd erupts.
They scream like zealots, clawing at the air, moaning into each other’s mouths, bodies thrashing in unholy rhythm. Someone throws a severed hand onto the platform—it slaps wetly against the wood, twitching like it still wants to participate. Another masked guest offers up their own body, kneeling, arms outstretched, tears and blood running down their cheeks in equal measure.
The fire roars.
The gods are fed.
And Brúnhildr drinks deep.
But the hunger isn’t gone. Not yet.
“The gods grow bored,” Lux calls from the edge of the platform, his voice cold and slick like polished bone. “Will no one reward her sacrifice?”
“Use her,” Johnny sings, spinning in place like a blood-drunk ballerina. “Share her with the gods. Let her ruin mean something.”
A ripple of hunger rolls through the pit. A dozen hands twitch upward, but only one man steps forward.
Burly. Wretched. Reeking of rot and old liquor. His black band is stained, his pants already undone. His mask hangs crooked off one ear, revealing pockmarked cheeks and a crooked sneer.
He climbs the steps without invitation, eyes locked on the girl slumped over Brúnhildr’s spine like a broken doll.
“Reward her,” I growl. “Let the gods watch.”
He grunts, grabs her by the hips, and yanks her off the horse. She slumps to the floor in a heap of sweat and blood, limbs limp but still twitching, moaning low in her throat.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He drops to his knees beside her, dragging his filthy hands over the insides of her thighs where blood still runs in slow rivulets. He moans like it’s mead. Like it’s holy. His fingers tremble as he spreads her legs, mouth falling open, breath catching as he leans in?—
Not out of reverence.
Out of greed.
He buries his face in the mess she left behind. Slurping. Groaning. His fingers dig deep, leaving bruises as he gorges himself on the offering like a starving disciple before an altar.
The crowd roars louder. Someone faints. Someone else comes just from watching.
“Blessed be the mad,” Johnny whispers, grinning wide enough to split skin. “Blessed be the blood.”
I stand tall above them all, dripping, silent, the gods still hot in my lungs.
And below me?
One woman’s sacrifice becomes a feast.
Brúnhildr doesn’t just drink tonight.
She inspires worship.
