Shamura clicked their claws together in satisfaction, setting the freshly bound tome on Narinder’s desk with a gentle thud. The leather cover was embossed with a golden sunburst, edges carefully stitched, each page inside inked with obsessive precision. It had taken them weeks to cross-reference old records, interview ancient witnesses (some of whom had been skeletons, others suspiciously evasive frogs), and apply rigorous logic to the Cult’s most sacred text.

“I have corrected the historical inconsistencies,” Shamura declared, posture straight and proud. “Removed exaggerations, clarified the dates of divine interventions, and—most importantly—untangled the rather dramatic narrative surrounding your descent, rebellion, and eventual rise. This is now accurate to within a 92.7% margin of error.”

Narinder stared at them, lounging sideways in his overly plush chair like a cat caught mid-pounce, his golden eyes slowly blinking.

“You rewrote the holy book,” he said flatly.

Shamura tilted their head. “Yes. The previous version claimed you ‘descended upon the world in a comet of fire and glory, scattering stars with a roar that made gods weep.’ You were imprisoned, not meteor-bound. Also, there is no evidence of weeping. And you do not roar. You hiss.”

Narinder tapped a clawed finger against the desk, tail flicking once. “Shamura.”

“Yes?”

“Lying makes me look good.”

There was a beat.

“…That is not how records should—”

Narinder sat up, grin growing. “No, no. See, I like sounding like a cosmic meteor-beast with star-shattering rage. It builds mystique. Inspires awe. The followers eat that stuff up.”

“But it’s inaccurate.”

“It’s marketing.”

Shamura looked genuinely hurt. “So you want them to believe you bite the moon in half to decide the moon cycle?”

Narinder shrugged. “Makes the bedtime stories more fun.”