The sky cracked like glass above the battlefield. Ash drifted down in lazy spirals, settling across Canos' silk-strung throne like falling snow. She stood at the center, her eight legs twitching, breathing heavy, sockets dripping with soot and bile. Around her, silence rang too loud—because her sisters were already on the ground.

Nomos lay coiled like a wilted ribbon, fur matted, blind eyes fluttering beneath a tangled scarf. He did not cry. He only listened. Vodes knelt beside him, wings curled tight, the hollow of her neck where a throat should be softly glowing. She said nothing, as always, though the way her ears twitched betrayed her confusion. Dunnyr simply floated, bioluminescent tendrils drifting like indifferent streamers through the smoke, her eye-stalks lazily following the final blow.

The Lamb stood in front of Canos now—adorable, pristine, and absolutely monstrous. Their wool glowed faintly with sanctity, a halo of blood and holiness. They held nothing, but Canos saw the weight of a hundred slain gods behind their gaze. She hissed, her voice too shrill, too brittle. “You don’t get to win, little thing. I’m not wrong. I’m not weak.”

"You’re alone," the Lamb replied, tilting their head like a bird before a corpse. “You can’t survive like this, Canos. Not with no hands. Not like this.”

The scream that ripped from Canos was inhuman—more animal than divine. She lunged, fangs flashing, but her balance failed. The stumps where her hands had once been scraped the earth uselessly. Nomos flinched before she could strike, even from where he sat, though she was nowhere near him. Vodes blinked slowly, expression unreadable. Dunnyr snorted—her version of a laugh.

“You think I need help?” Canos shrieked, voice cracking like old webbing. “I would rather starve than crawl behind your little crown and your smug, woolly face.”

The Lamb stepped forward calmly. “You will.”

Canos fell silent.

A moment passed—two—and then, in a voice hoarse with shame, she muttered, “...What’s the food like?”

From across the clearing, Nomos—still curled like a ribbon just out of reach—chirped up. “Do they have dessert?” He offered a hopeful grin, though he’d positioned himself carefully away from Canos after she’d shoved him earlier. When he’d tried to comfort her—tried to crawl into her shadow like he used to—she’d struck him hard enough to make his ears ring.

Dunnyr and Vodes moved slowly then, surrounding Canos like jellyfish and moonlight. She thrashed weakly, still spitting curses, but she didn’t resist when they dragged her back toward the circle of the cult’s flickering firelight. She was the last. She had fallen. And even now, even like this… the Lamb had made room for her.