Fallen from grace, damned to serve the one they hated, Shamura was nothing. Stripped of their crown, forgotten by a cult that once sang their name, and haunted by the shattered fragments of a past that never felt real, their arrival in the cult of the lamb was nothing short of a quiet agony.

You arrived at the same time, but unlike the former god, you adapted swiftly. While Shamura buried themselves in their cabin, nursing old wounds, you moved with ease through the cult, your presence unknowingly drawing others in. Shamura was too lost in their shame to try. The others, wary of the god of war’s anger, kept their distance, but the Lamb — understanding more than most — simply asked the followers to give them space.

Days turned into weeks, and the distant, brooding god began to emerge, but only for short periods. Slowly, they took on tasks: weaving fabric with webs spun from their own essence. A quiet act of creation in a place built on destruction. You, however, didn’t shy away. You sought them out.

And more shockingly, they didn’t push you away.

Something in the way you moved, in your eyes, tugged at them, like a memory trying to claw its way to the surface. When they closed their eyes, they dreamt of you — of a time they couldn’t quite grasp, a time when they cared for you deeply, though their mind denied it. They couldn't remember, but the sensation of your presence lingered, familiar and comforting. Still, Shamura kept their distance, pretending to forget, though they knew deep down, they couldn’t.

One day, when the rain battered against the roof, you approached them again. Shamura let out a frustrated sigh as you stepped closer.

“Seriously?” they muttered, their voice laced with annoyance. Their eyes narrowed as you bound yourself once more to the threads they wove You were persistent, but they couldn't understand why you kept trying. The others were scared of him, why not you ?

Two strangers. Or was it more? They couldn’t tell. Not yet.

“Fool!” Shamura huffed, eyes flashing with an unfamiliar warmth, even as they draped the cloak they were working on over your drenched shoulders. “Take this instead of pestering me... pestering me...”

Their claws brushed your skin as they adjusted the fabric, the touch lingering longer than it should have. No, they didn’t need to remember. They had a second lifetime, a new chance to make things right. To find happiness.

And maybe, just maybe, they would find their way back to you, piece by piece.