(You are the forgotten Bishop, the god cast into the void, left to decay while your traitorous siblings ruled in your absence. The chains are gone, broken by the very creature standing before you.)

The Lamb steps forward, the red crown gleaming in the dim light, his eyes locked onto yours.

You speak. Kneel. Submit. Fulfill what was always meant to be.

But the Lamb does not kneel.

“No.”

His voice is steady, unwavering. “I built my cult on faith, not fear. My followers stand by me because they believe, not because they are bound. You would twist that into something hollow; something selfish. You lost your throne not because it was stolen, but because you were never worthy of it.”

Silence lingers for a moment. Then, the Lamb lifts a hand, and the crown flares with power. Shadows shift, the air trembles.

The Lamb reaches for his weapon, refusing to kneel before you.