The man Johnny pushed first is visibly trembling. Pale. Weak. Not fit for the gods, but they’ll take him anyway.

“Stand up,” I command.

He flinches as he stays kneeling. Stupid.

“Ooooh,” Johnny giggles, rocking back on his heels. “I don’t think he’s listening. Naughty little thing.”

“Maybe he’s broken,” Alaska purrs, licking blood from the back of her hand.

I raise my axe, letting it hum in the air.

The man scrambles to his feet, stammering like he just realized the rules of the game.

“Yes—yes, my lord.”

Johnny claps like a delighted child.

“Look at that! The mongrel speaks. You almost lost your head, little piglet.”

“Would’ve been a shame,” Alaska murmurs. “He’s got such pretty eyes.”

“Mmm, maybe I’ll keep them,” Johnny says, gripping the man’s face, dragging a clawed finger down his cheek. “Pop ‘em right out like candy.”

The man whimpers. Pathetic.

“Enough,” I snap.

Johnny pouts like I just kicked his puppy. “You’re no fun, Bjorn.”

“I’m not here for fun.”

“No, no,” he smirks, “you’re here to—what do you always say? ‘Honor the gods?’ Please. The gods don’t give a shit.”

I step toward him—tall, quiet and full of purpose.

“The gods don’t hear the prayers of madmen,” I mutter.

He smiles wider.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he hisses, eyes shining. “They whisper to me. All the time.”

I believe him.

Which is exactly why I don’t kill him.

He’d like it too much.

I turn back to the altar, pressing my still-slick fingers to the stone, and whispering another prayer.

Let the madness begin.

Alaska leans into Johnny, nuzzling his thigh.

“You’re upsetting him,” she says sweetly.

“Bjorn loves me,” Johnny croons, dragging her leash up tight. “Don’t you, big guy?”

I ignore him.

Indie’s whip snaps across the stone.

Silence.

I step up onto the altar, towering over them all.

Ten bodies kneel before me. Masked, stripped, shaking. Some with tears already trailing down their faces. Some with flushed skin and parted lips, aroused by fear, hard and wet just from being seen.

“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask.

Silence.

Then, one whisper.

“For the gods.”

I smile.

“No. You’re here for me.”

I crouch, dragging my bloody fingers across the woman’s mouth. She trembles, lips parting, tongue darting out to taste the red I left behind.

I rise.

“Tonight, we honor the old ways. Not just with death, but with exchange. Disting is a time for trade. For judgment. For flesh.”

I reach into the basin beside the altar and coat my fingers in the thick, warm blood pooling inside—blood from the kill before the show began. The one no one saw.

I mark the first girl’s forehead.

A rune of devotion.

The next. A symbol of sacrifice.

The third  flinches. I grab his throat, squeezing until his breath catches.