Page 16 of Ma Petite Mort
Not until the gods are full.
Not until I’ve given them every drop they’ve asked for.
Because this?
This is my night.
My fucking altar.
My purpose.
And the gods?
They are starving.
I stalk across the altar, barefoot and blood-slick, my chest rising and falling in heavy panted breaths. My breath steams in the air like a dragon’s snarl, and my axe hums at my back, heavy and patient, waiting for the next throat.
The firelight flickers across a fresh offering.
A woman. Red-branded. Naked. Kneeling.
She’s already trembling, but not with fear.
No, no.
With purpose. With hunger. With holy, filthy need.
Her thighs glisten, lips parted, pulse thudding like a war drum against her throat. She came here like so many others, marked in red, begging to be devoured by the gods.
And I?
I am their jaws. Their blade. Their holy fucking fire.
I fist a handful of her thick ebony hair and yank her head back, forcing her gaze to mine. She looks up at me like I’m carved from the stones of Uppsala itself, like I’m her god.
And for tonight?
I fucking am.
“So,” I growl, voice low and thick, “another desperate offering. A wretched little whore come crawling for a place in the eyes of All-father.”
“Y-Yes—” she gasps.
“Tell me, slut,” I snarl, my breath brushing her ear like a curse, “you think your cunt’s enough to earn you a place in Valhöll? You think Freyja herself will open her gates to a squealing little sacrifice like you?”
She whimpers, her body arching into my hand.
I spit at her feet, the saliva hitting the dirt like a brand.
“You are meat. Pretty, wet, breakable meat. A plaything for the gods. Nothing more.”
She moans—pathetic, eager.
I drag my fingers between her legs, smearing her slick across her stomach, then slap her—hard—across the face.
The crowd erupts. Chanting. Howling. Grinding. They're unhinged, primal. Animals in heat, pawing at each other in the torchlight while the old gods watch from the smoke above.
Let them rut. Let them burn. Let them drown in the madness of Mímir’s wine.
