“Y-Yes—” she gasps.

“Tell me, slut,” I snarl, my breath brushing her ear like a curse, “you think your cunt’s enough to earn you a place in Valhöll? You think Freyja herself will open her gates to a squealing little sacrifice like you?”

She whimpers, her body arching into my hand.

I spit at her feet, the saliva hitting the dirt like a brand.

“You are meat. Pretty, wet, breakable meat. A plaything for the gods. Nothing more.”

She moans—pathetic, eager.

I drag my fingers between her legs, smearing her slick across her stomach, then slap her—hard—across the face.

The crowd erupts. Chanting. Howling. Grinding. They're unhinged, primal. Animals in heat, pawing at each other in the torchlight while the old gods watch from the smoke above.

Let them rut. Let them burn. Let them drown in the madness of Mímir’s wine.

From the side of the altar, Johnny slithers in, cackling. He’s painted like death, gore already smeared across his teeth, eyes wild with glee.

“Oooh, look at this one,” he purrs, crouching beside her like a feral thing. “All shivery and shining. You gonna share, big guy?”

“The gods want her writhing,” I snarl, jerking her head to the side and exposing her throat. “Make her beg for their blades.”

“With pleasure!” Johnny sings.

He loops a leash—when the fuck did he leash her?—around her neck like he’s walking a dog. His teeth drag across her shoulder, fingers pressing into her ribs with too much force to be loving.

“You like pain, little pig?” Johnny hisses, dragging his nails down her spine. “You like knowing your last orgasm’s gonna happen while your guts are spilling across the stone?”

She sobs.

“Say it,” I snap, voice like thunder beneath the tent.

“I want it,” she wails. “Please. Sacrifice me.”

“Good girl,” Johnny whispers, licking the shell of her ear.

I lift my axe.

The crowd gasps.

The torches scream.

“Flesh for favor. Blood for balance. Death for the gods.”

I press the blade against her chest and carve the first rune—Tiwaz—for the warrior’s death. Then another—Kenaz—for fire. For knowledge. For the sacred agony she’ll carry to the other side.

Her blood rushes free, hot and slick, soaking her breasts, running in rivulets down her belly. Still, she moans. Still, she wants.

Johnny hums as he pulls a weapon from behind him—Alaska’s axe. The smaller one. Its polished handle slick with old sin.

“Let’s give the gods a show,” he croons.

He spreads her thighs and sinks the blunt handle deep into her. Her whole body jerks, mouth falling open in a soundless scream.

“That’s it, scream for Odin,” I murmur, dragging the tip of my axe across her collarbone.

Alaska crawls in like smoke, tongue already out, licking up the trail of blood and slick between the woman's legs like a devout little beast.