Okay, well, that answers that.

God-cock is apparently very impressive.

Aron flings himself back onto his throne and clamps his hands down on the arms. “This is my temple, is it not? Perhaps you should spend your time obeying my wishes?” His voice is practically a snarl.

The prelate drops his forehead to the floor again. “Of course, Lord of Storms.”

The angry god flicks his gaze over to me. I notice one eye is brown and one is green, and I’m frozen underneath that unusual gaze. “What am I a god of, woman?”

Oh shit, is this a trick question? “Cleavers?”

Someone makes a terrified sound.

His eyes narrow.

Pin drop.

I smile brightly even though the air is so heavy and ominous it feels like I’m about to be throttled from afar. “I should probably point out that I’m not from here and so I don’t know that answer.”

“Battle,” the prelate offers in a thin voice. “Battle and thunder.”

“That was going to be my second guess,” I add. “Don’t see what that has to do with sacrificing maidens. You guys would probably be better off holding a duel or a fight or something.”

The room gets quiet. The prelate stares at me with hot eyes as if he can’t believe that I’m daring to speak. Well, tough luck. Speaking up got me a cushion on the dais, and if that’s the only advantage I get, I’m going to use it. I suspect I’ll be paying for my “privilege” soon enough.

I should have never brought up the butt stuff.

“My servant is correct,” Aron says after a long moment. “You do me no honor with your sacrifice. If you wish to honor me with blood, do so on the field of battle. Release those maidens to go back to their families.”

“They are slaves, my Lord—”

“Then keep them and feed them as you would any other temple slave.”

“Of course, my Lord.” He sounds like he’s chewing glass.

One of the women in the back begins to sob loudly, and I can see the irritation spreading over Aron’s face. He gestures at the woman, who’s weeping as if she’s just now realizing she’s going to die, except she isn’t. “Why does she cry?”

I have to admit I’m as mystified as he is.

The prelate straightens himself, as if finding his spine. “She is dishonoring her master if she is not sacrificed to honor the gods.”

As I watch, Aron pinches the bridge of his nose, as if beat down by all of this. “How is it dishonorable if she is serving my temple at my wishes?”

The woman’s crying eases and her sniffles turn to surprise, and then she stumbles forward, dropping to her knees a short distance away from Aron’s throne. “I only wish to serve, Lord of Storms. However I can, I wish to be of service to the gods.”

I actually feel sorry for Aron for a brief moment, because he looks so frustrated with the situation that his jaw clenches and I suspect he’s moments away from rolling his eyes. “Serve my temple. And quit crying. The gods do not like tears,” he snaps.

All the gods or just this one, I wonder?

The prelate bows and then the other women are dropping to their knees, weeping their thanks. Aron just looks even more annoyed and his hand curls into a fist against one of the arm rests.

He looks like he’s about to change his mind, so I pipe up. “I bet all these new servants of the temple will start their work—their devotion,” I correct, glancing over at Aron, “to the gods early in the morning. Someone should probably show them where they’re sleeping so they can get some rest. It’s late.”

As in, get them out of here so Aron doesn’t lose his shit.

I give the prelate a pointed look but he only glares at me like I’m the jerk for daring to speak up. One of the red-robed priests in the back seems to be smarter, though. He gathers up some of the weeping, prostrating women and begins to usher them down a back hall. The prelate bows to the god and backs away, returning to his chair, and some of the tension in Aron’s jaw eases. The low hum of the room picks up again, conversations going once more.

I’m left alone, sitting at the feet of the crankiest, most beautiful man I’ve ever seen and he looks as if he’s sucking lemons. What he did has made the hard knot in my chest ease a little, though. I touch his leg to get his attention and ignore the spark of electricity that shudders through me. “Thank you—“

“Do not thank me,” he snaps, cutting me off. “If it did not suit my needs, I would not have spoken up. Do not mistake me for a kind, gentle god. I am not one.”

Yeesh. I pull my hand back.

I go back to watching the room, though it seems a lot of people are clearing out now that it’s getting closer to dawn. There’s a lot of yawning and the food laid out on the tables has long since been demolished, and the smell of it is starting to turn. There are puddles on the marble flooring that tell of spilled wine and I delicately kick aside a crust of bread with my foot and try to hold back my own yawn. What happens now, I wonder. Even though I’ve stress-eaten through the entire platter, I’m still hungry, and the long day is catching up to me. Now that the spine-clenching fear of death is gone, I’m exhausted. I’m going to live for another day, and even if I have to deal with Aron and his shit, I’ll take it.

Of course, it’s been one long, never-ending shit storm ever since I got to this place. No wonder I’m tired. I watch as people glance uneasily in Aron’s direction and sneak out however they can. No one knows what to do around the god. I can’t blame them. He’s not exactly shown himself to be a cuddly, kindhearted sort.

Bet they’re regretting this whole “Anticipation” thing now.

I glance up at Aron, but if he notices people are sliding away and leaving, he’s not showing it. He continues to stare stonily ahead, watching the dwindling crowd, and his expression is the same unpleasant one it always is.

It strikes me that maybe he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now. If this is his first time being among people, maybe he doesn’t know that at some point, people go to bed? They don’t sit and glare at the crowd like they’re insulting him with their presence? And if I’m his servant—his anchor—am I the one that has to break the news to him? Because for every person that slips away, there’s another robed one waiting at the fringes of the room, faces a mixture of anticipation and exhaustion. I know how that feels.

I look around for the prelate, because maybe it’s time to be mouthy and speak up about getting Aron a room for the night so everyone can get some sleep. Of course, that might mean I’ll have to “serve” Aron in ways I’d prefer not to, but I’m so tired that I’m willing to just get it over with at this point.

The prelate’s chair is empty, Avalla half-asleep and leaning against the side of it. Did he slip out, too? I scan the room, looking for the bald head in the red robes and find him in a shadowy corner. A chill skitters up my spine as I see that he’s talking to a familiar, pear-headed soldier. My old owner. Sinon.

Both are looking in this direction and talking, and they’re wearing unpleasant expressions. As I watch, Sinon fingers his sword pommel thoughtfully.

I have a bad feeling about that. The prelate looks just as unpleasant, and I suspect they’re not happy with the god they got. Maybe they should have worshipped a nature god instead of a war one.

Their intense conversation continues, and they keep looking over at Aron. I know no one’s a huge fan of the guy right now, but the way they’re talking makes my skin prickle. I think we need to break that up, just in case. I glance up at Aron on his throne and notice that his eyes are a little glassy, his lids heavy. He looks tired.

Does he not know he doesn’t have to stay in his throne all night?

Hesitantly, I touch his leg again. This time, I’m prepared for the shock that ripples down my hand as I graze his skin. “Should I ask the prelate to prepare a chamber for you?”