Outside, the drums are pounding louder, like a heartbeat that’s just found out it’s about to stop. Boom. Boom. Boom. A war beat. A call to bleed. The kind of rhythm that says, “welcome home, sinner.” Makes my spine shiver and my toes curl around the silks.

Then the torches flare, hot and hungry. They know what’s coming.

So do I.

Because he steps forward.

Bjorn.

Not the ringmaster tonight. Oh no, sugarplum.

Tonight, he’s the executioner.

The preacher.

The monster we gift their bodies to, so he can gift them to the gods.

And fuck, does he look the part.

He stalks into the ring like he was carved from rune-stone and baptized in the blood of a fallen god. Bare from the waist up, his massive frame is streaked in dried blood and ancient Norse ink—spirals and bindrunes, ravens and war prayers scrawled across his chest, his arms, even the sides of his damn face. His long dark hair is braided down his back, the sides of his head shaved clean like he’s ready for war.

Which, spoiler alert—he always is.

He’s six-foot-fuck-me, carved out of violence and dipped in religion. A berserker with a battle axe and bedroom eyes.

And that’s all before he even opens his mouth.

The tent holds its breath when he speaks. Even the flames lean in to listen.

“Tonight,” he growls, voice low, mean and soaked in steel, “we offer flesh for favor. Bone for blessing. Blood for balance.”

Mmm. My thighs squeeze just hearing it.

“This is Disting,” he continues, stalking slowly across the altar like he’s sizing them all up. “A festival of survival. Of sacrifice. Of seafaring and slaughter. And for those of you under these torches—this is your final crossing.”

Someone in the front row lets out a moan. Another one sinks to their knees.

“The gods are watching,” Bjorn finishes, eyes flashing like lightning behind a storm. “But so are we.”

He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t need to. His voice slides through the tent like a hot blade through flesh—slow, searing, and dangerous.

I spin lazily in the silks, arcing my back just enough to put on a show. Below me, I spot him.

A man.

Tall. Cocky. Decked out in an expensive coat, high-polished boots, and an ego big enough to trip over. His hair’s slicked back like a discount villain from a daytime drama, and in his hand? A carved drinking horn—traditional, ceremonial, and completely wasted on him.

He’s sipping frothy beer like it’s champagne, pinky lifted, as if the gods give a shit about manners in a tent built from bones and blood.

He looks at me like he’s already decided how I taste.

Cute.

He thinks this is theatre.