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.

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.”