The way her eyes found mine through the blood. The way she smiled—not at him, but at me. The way her body sang with devotion while she made art from agony. That wasn’t just sacrifice.

That was mine.

She whispered my name with blood still drying between her thighs. And later, when she gave herself to me—panting, trembling, soaked in the ruin we created—I felt her worship. Felt her squeeze down on me like she needed it, like I was carved into her bones.

Because I am.

I felt her come apart beneath me, crying out for her god. For me.

And I want it again.

I want her again.

Not just her body—her mind, her soul, her madness. Every wicked inch. Every shattered thought.

She pleased the gods tonight.

But she pleased me more.

And they may have fed, they may be sated, but I am not.

She is my little death.

Mine to hold. Mine to break. Mine to rebuild again in my image.

And I’ll never let her forget it.

Alaska pants nearby, crawling through blood like a wolf come home to feast. Johnny drags something behind him—a ribcage or a spine, hard to tell anymore—with a grin wide as madness. He croons to her, soft and deranged. Indie leans into Lux, her whip slack at her side, face streaked in soot and blood. A fresh scar splits her lip. Lux brushes a curl of ash-matted hair from her cheek and says nothing for once. Just watches. Like the king he swears he isn’t, ruling over a court of killers.

None of them speak.

But I know they feel it. The aftershock. The gods’ breath still clinging to the air.

This wasn’t a show.

This was a sermon.

I rise, slow and deliberate, dragging my axe through the gore like a censer through temple smoke. The runes carved into its handle glint with something holy—wet with breath, blood, and belief.

Around me, the dead twitch. One gasps, dragging his last prayer from torn lungs. Another claws at the dirt, fingers snapping before he collapses.

Some went screaming. Others in bliss. But all of them died with purpose.

They died for the gods.

I dip two fingers into the blood at my chest—slick, still warm—and trace the final rune across my heart. Not for vengeance. Not for slaughter.

For thanks.

A bindrune for endings.

A promise. A marker. A whispered reminder in the dark— Your names were spoken here.

I close my eyes and inhale the ruin.

The gods don’t sleep.

And what we did tonight?

They will remember.

chapter thirteen

giselle