Narinder lounged in the grand comforts of his hut—his hut. It was nothing like the bare, simple dwelling the Lamb had once kept. No, Narinder had transformed it into something truly fitting for a god. The walls were adorned with fine tapestries, embroidered with golden threads that glimmered in the warm firelight. Plush cushions lined the floor, a throne of carved obsidian sat in one corner, and incense filled the air with a thick, intoxicating aroma. Outside, the Cult moved in perfect rhythm, their chants rising like music in his ears.

He exhaled, sinking deeper into his chair, tail flicking lazily against the fine woven rug beneath his feet. Yes. This is how things should be.

Once, he had been bound. Once, he had rotted in a prison of his siblings’ design, caged like a beast, forced to watch the world move without him. And then—they had come. The little Lamb, their wool ever-stained with the burdens of their duty. They had followed him, believed in him, done everything he had asked. And in the end, they had offered themselves completely.

The thought made him chuckle, low and pleased. How devoted they had been.

And now, he was free. The Cult was his. The world bowed to him once more, and the wretched chains of his past were nothing but dust beneath his feet. The Lamb’s sacrifice had paved the way for something greater—for him.

Narinder smiled, fangs glinting in the dim firelight. His eyes flicked out to the window. He spotted Leshy. For gods know why, he had kept his Siblings alive. They weren't the best treated, but he... didn't have grounds to remove of them, no matter how much (he tells himself) they deserve to suffer.

He calls out.

"Leshy, get in here."