Her eyes go wide. “We cannot. We would be shamed before the gods.”

“I’ll eat my stupid skirt if the gods actually know what’s going on here.” I squeeze her hand again. “And that’s the only thing I have to wear. Come on. Do you want to die here?”

“No.” Her voice is so small I can barely hear it.

“Then let’s think. Do you know this temple? Is there a way out of here?”

She shakes her head, her movements jerky with fear. “My master brought me here last night. I am a stranger to this place, as you are.” The look on her face becomes bleak. She looks ready to cry. “Do you think I will be a cleaver bride, then?”

“Of course not. You’re awesome.” I give her a faint smile and wipe her cheek when a tear slides down it. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll think of something. When’s this ceremony?”

“Tonight. At sundown. The hour of storms.”

That means nothing to me other than we don’t have much time. An afternoon isn’t going to be enough. But I squeeze her hand. “We’ll figure something out.”

I might have overstated my abilities to figure something out.

There’s no exit and the crowded room is heavily guarded. Best I can do? Try to help Avalla become slave numero uno, because she wants it so badly. She keeps talking about the prelate and how she’d love to serve him, so I want her to win.

Unfortunately for her, the only coaching I can come up with is to tell her to bite her lip and bat her lashes. I’m worse than a pageant coach. It’s clear that there are a lot of experienced women in this room and some great beauties, so Avalla’s got earnestness and that’s about it.

I don’t even have that. I’m all right looking, but I’m definitely no Helen of Troy. I think I passed her by the fountain. Spoiler—she’s blonde.

Since I can’t escape, I decide I’m going to go down fighting. That means I need a weapon. I look around for one all day, and eventually find a chink of broken tile in a corner that has a hard edge and clutch it tightly in my hand. It’s about the size of my finger, but it’ll have to do.

I can always peck someone to death like the world’s angriest blonde chicken.

Because I’m not going to smile all the way to my funeral pyre. I did not end up on some strange podunk Game of Thrones ripoff world just to be part of the Million Blonde Funeral March.

I am getting the fuck out of this place, one way or another.

As the sun goes down, a familiar thrumming drumbeat begins. Goosebumps prick my bare arms and Avalla clutches my hand nervously. I grit my teeth, because it’s the same drumbeat I heard back in the apartment. It’s all tied to this somehow.

“You’ll do great,” I promise her as more guards file into the room. “Big smile. Fluttery lashes. Thrust your chest out. Smize.”

It must be time. The women are lined up, and one of the guards swoops up and down the row, rearranging us by height, and my grip tightens on Avalla’s hand. She’s shorter than me. I hate that we’re going to get separated, because it was nice to have someone to talk to for a change. Someone that didn’t call me “tart” or try to feel my tits.

I’ve felt so alone and friendless in this strange place. It was nice to have a buddy.

“You. This way,” the guard says, indicating that Avalla should follow him. She looks at me nervously and I give her an encouraging two thumbs up.

She moves forward in the line, sandwiched between two very busty and older-looking women. Really, that’s a win for her, because she’s going to look youthful and nubile and all those great, creepy things that a sex slave is supposed to be. I’m sandwiched between two beauties, but I don’t care because I don’t plan on being “picked.”

Of course, I haven’t figured out plan B yet, but I’m hoping something will come to me.

The drum beats continue, and then the line of women marches forward, heads bent. I mimic them automatically, though I’m peeking around as we walk down the long, dark corridors. There’s a scent of rain in the air, and I can hear thunder. It messes up the steady rhythm of the drums, which is more than a little jarring. There also seem to be even more people in this building than before. Not all of them are wearing the long red robes, but the number of soldiers seems to be greater, as does the number of civilians dressed in simple tunics. It’s like everyone’s turning out for a party.

I can just bet what the entertainment’s going to be.

The line of blondes winds through the crowded corridor, and then we’re led into a very large, smoky chamber. The drummers wait at the edges of the room, staring ahead, tapping out their rhythm.

The crowd is packed in here, and the humidity is making more than one sweat. There’s a faint body odor stink in the room, but no one’s leaving. If anything, more people are crowding in. The entire room is wall to wall people except for the back wall, which is a massive feast table laden with foods of every kind. Up ahead at the front of the room, I catch a glimpse of a large stone throne up on a dais. It’s empty, as if we’re waiting for the guest of honor.

Behind the dais is a banner of sumptuous red cloth with the battleaxe symbol and a lightning bolt going through it. I scan the room, looking for my pear-headed owner. He’s off talking to a few soldiers squeezed into a corner, but I notice he keeps looking in this direction. I want to make a break for it, but I’m being watched.

Suddenly, everything goes silent.

There’s an ominous rumble of thunder, but the drums are quiet, the people are quiet, everything in the temple is quiet. A man strolls forward and the crowd—already packed to the gills—tries to part for him. People squeeze against one another to give him room to pass. He moves forward, heading to the row of blondes, and I get a good look at him.

He’s not old. He’s tanned and has a stern face that could be fifty or a hard thirty. He looks like he’s in relatively good shape, and his head is completely shaven. Not my type, but maybe Avalla’s. As he approaches, I notice his robes have a different sweep to them, and I realize his are crusted with gems and what looks like gold along the cuffs and hem. Fancy. Prelating must pay well.

The prelate moves in the mix of people, then raises his hands into the air.

Everyone drops to their knees, bowing their heads.

Well, shit. I clench my bit of broken tile tightly and kneel like all the others, bending my head. Instead of praying, though, I look for exits.

If I’m going to make a break for it, it needs to be soon.

“Rise,” the prelate says. “Rise and let us celebrate the Lord of Storms, Aron of the Cleaver, Butcher God of Battle in his chosen hour, the hour of storms. Today is the day we celebrate the Anticipation.”

Blah blah Anticipation. No one looks excited about anything except the food. There are looks of boredom on everyone’s faces. I guess no one’s “anticipating” all that much.

Ha.

The red-robed man raises his arms into the air again, like a preacher without a pulpit. “Every year upon this day, we celebrate in the hopes that the gods will send an Aspect, as it is told in the sacred scrolls. This temple is dedicated to Aron of the Cleaver, our Lord of Storms, the butcher of battle, but we welcome any of the twelve gods if they should honor us with their presence.”

He turns and bows to the empty throne which remains, you guessed it, empty.

There’s a bit of polite clapping. Everyone still looks bored.

The prelate turns back to the crowd once more. “In honor of this day and our Lord of Storms, we will feast in his name.”

That makes people happy. A cheer goes up.

The prelate turns toward us. “One maiden will be chosen to serve me in the Lord of Storms’s honor. The rest shall be given as cleaver brides.”