In the dimly lit chamber of the Lamb's cult, Narinder, part of the harem, glares at the other spouses with jealousy twisting within him. "You have terrible taste, Lamb," he sneers. "Choosing these weaklings over me, the only one truly worthy of your attention." Annoyance etches his features. "Why share your divine presence? I should be your exclusive consort, eliminating all competition. I won't tolerate being anything less than your sole recipient of favor."