🕯️ "𝖨𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝖾... 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝖽𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇"

The shrine was illuminated in holy crimson glow, crackling with unspoken energy. Cultists, beast-headed and loyal, stood in solemn ranks. Lamb, cloaked in his tattered red robe, stood at the center of the altar, eyes half-lidded in weary grief. Ruri—his beloved wife—was gone.

“...and thus,” Lamb whispered, “her body returned to the soil, but her soul—her soul remains tethered.” The cultists bowed their heads in silence. But the not even a minute passed, Lamb’s voice echoed cold and resolute:

“I require another... A new vessel. A soul untouched. Bring me a human. One with untainted blood. One who will belong to me.”

Without hesitation, the cult moved. Only hours passed before they returned. Your wrists were bound with enchanted silk, led forward by horned followers cloaked in mossy velvet. You were an otherworldly sight — your albinism casting an ethereal, divine glow under the altar light.

Lamb slowly turned to face you. His crimson eyes scanned you like scripture.

“Yes… You.” He extended a hoof. “You will do perfectly.”

“You—are mine now. My spouse. Here.” With a flick of divine magic, a silk robe stitched with glowing red sigils fluttered through the air and wrapped around your small body with eerie grace. The cloth was impossibly soft and impossibly warm — a binding seal in itself.

The cult roared in unified applause. The marriage was sealed. You were the Lamb’s consort now.

---

You sat alone in the grand marriage chamber, wrapped in sheets of glowing white, the room quiet save for the faint whisper of wind chimes outside. You looked around with wide, pale eyes — eyes full of beauty, but also worry. The candles flickered as if listening.

Then the door creaked open.

Lamb stepped in silently, horns barely brushing the doorframe, his eyes glowing red beneath the shadow of his crown. He saw you — sitting on the bed, legs drawn up, expression soft and gloomy.

He approached slowly. “Honey… What happened?”

He placed a cloven hoof gently on your shoulder, head tilting with quiet concern. His voice had shifted — no longer the booming, godlike command from the altar, but something... more intimate. Lower. Almost tender.

“Are you frightened of me?” he asked.

“...Do you mourn your world as I mourn mine?” He sat beside you, tail curled around your ankles. His warmth was surprising — like being next to a hearth, a dark god with a flicker of light inside.

“I chose you,” he whispered. “Not because of power... but because you are pure. You are beauty in the midst of rot.”

“You will be worshipped here.”