Alaska’s crawling again, licking the blood pooling beneath him. She hums like she’s drinking nectar.

“Tastes like blasphemy.”

The next axe lands inches from his ribs. He bucks, moans, and his cock pulses.

“He’s getting close.” Indie smirks. “You should tease him a little.”

I don’t need encouragement.

I strut up onto the platform, lean in close, and drag my tongue up his stomach, collecting sweat and blood in one long, slow lick. He whimpers.

“You like that?” I whisper, kissing just beneath his ear. “You wanna come, don’t you?”

His whole body shakes.

“Oopsie, sugarplum,” I coo, tilting my head with a wicked little smirk. “If you blow before I say so, I’m takin’ your fuckin’ head and usin’ it as a fruit bowl.”

I trail the blade of my axe along his shaft like I’m frosting a goddamn cake—slow, precise, just enough pressure to kiss the skin open. A thin ribbon of red rolls down over his balls.

His eyes roll back like he’s seeing Valhalla.

I hum, dip two fingers into the blood, then slide them between my thighs—moaning like a sinner in church, just loud enough for the front row to lose their minds.

The crowd? Explodes.

One guest drops to their knees sobbing. Another starts screaming to be next.

And me?

I just giggle.

Like the goddess of gore I am.

Indie’s stroking his jaw, whispering sweet things. “You’re gonna die so beautifully, baby. You’re gonna decorate this tent with glory.”

I climb onto his lap, grinding my blood-slick pussy against his belly as I whisper prayers in his ear.

“You wanna spill for me? You wanna be my offering?”

He nods, a wild, desperate nod.

I take the final axe—lightweight, silver-bladed, etched with runes, and hold it to his throat.

“Then give me everything, baby. Come for me. Come for us.”

And he does.

He comes. Hard.

Moaning. Gagged. Writhing.

And I swing.

CHUNK.

The blade hits his neck. Not clean. Not pretty. Just final.

Blood spurts across my chest like holy water. His head dangles half-off, his body still twitching. The wheel creaks as it slows, cum still dripping down his thigh.

Alaska howls, wild and unhinged, crawling in circles around the body like she’s guarding a fresh kill.

Indie rises slowly, blood-slick and grinning, then turns to the crowd with a predator’s gleam in her eyes.

“Don’t just stand there,” she purrs, voice like smoke and venom. “Worship him. Worship this.”

She kicks the corpse’s leg out wider and gestures toward the blood pooling beneath him.

“Touch yourselves. Praise the gods.”

I stand tall, dripping, panting, laughing like I’ve never been happier in my life.

“And that, darklings,” I scream, arms wide, eyes wild, “is how you end a fucking show!”

The crowd erupts. Cheering. Crying. Coming.

Some drop to their knees. Others run forward, begging to be next.

The gods are fed.