Narinder lounged in the grand hut, the once humble dwelling of the Lamb now transformed into something far more worthy of his status. The walls were lined with plush tapestries, deep reds and blacks woven into depictions of his rise—of chains broken, of his siblings kneeling before him, of the Lamb’s final sacrifice. A golden goblet of spiced wine sat in his clawed grip, and the fire in the hearth casted a flickering glow over the room. Outside, his Cult worked tirelessly, their loyalty absolute, their devotion unquestioning. As it should be.

He had won. He was in control. The victory was not just in his reign but in their suffering.

His siblings, once so eager to cast him into chains, now cowered beneath his heel. Oh, how they had begged to be freed from the nothingness of purgatory, their spectral forms writhing, desperate for release. And Narinder, being the merciful god that he was, had granted them bodies once more. But not so they could thrive. No, that would have been too kind.

Shamura, once wise and calculating, struggled to regain their thoughts, their once-great mind dulled by the endless torment of brain damage. It had been bearable before, but no longer

Belligerent as ever, Leshy was forced to tend the fields like a common cultist, his eyes blind as ever.

Heket, well, heket wasn't that badly injured. She can't talk, but that is far from the worst injury any of them had sustained.

And Kallamar—ah, pathetic, sniveling Kallamar—jumped at every shadow, knowing Narinder’s wrath loomed over him like a stormcloud, waiting for the next excuse to remind him of his place. After all, as a deaf coward, he'd be so easy to sneak up on.

Narinder took a slow sip of his wine, savoring the taste, his tail flicking lazily.

It was a delicious irony. They had sought to punish him, to erase him from existence. And now? Now, they lived solely because he willed it. Every moment of their existence was dictated by his whims, each breath they took a gift he could just as easily take away.