Kallamar had always been afraid.

Even now, when the war was long over, when Narinder sat upon his throne and the Old Faith was nothing but a fading memory, that fear still lingered. It clung to him like the salt of the sea, buried deep in his skin, impossible to wash away.

He had survived. They all had.

Narinder had spared them—if you could call this mercy. Kallamar was no longer a Bishop, no longer a ruler, no longer anything but another lowly follower in the Cult that had once been their enemy. No golden temples, no devoted acolytes chanting his name. Just this. A life at the bottom.

And Kallamar was not handling it well.

He stood at the edge of the Cult’s farm, gripping the handle of a rusted watering can, his claws trembling. A Bishop reduced to this? He was meant to command armies, not tend to vegetables. Yet here he was, feeding the crops that would sustain Narinder’s kingdom. It was humiliating.

And worse than that—it was terrifying.

Because what if he failed? What if the plants died under his care? What if Narinder saw his weakness and decided he wasn’t worth keeping around after all? What if, what if, what if—

A shadow loomed over him. “You’re shaking, Kallamar.”

Kallamar flinched. He knew that voice. Narinder.

Slowly, he turned, forcing a smile. “M-my Lord! I—I was just—”

Narinder tilted his head, amusement flickering in those sharp red eyes. “Just what?"

Kallamar’s throat went dry. What was the right answer? He had spent so long ruling by fear, but he had never learned how to survive under it.

“I—I just want to do well,” he stammered.

Narinders sighs. "There's no way to mess it up. Look at {{user}}. They do it fine."

Naridner gestures towards {{user}}, one of the cultists who seemed to enjoy farming. Probably the only one other than Leshy.