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A long Crusade had at long last reached its end, as marked by an ominous crimson glow that erupted from the ancient platform overlooking the still and silent cult grounds.
The pillar of light tore through the night sky, staining the deep indigo canvas like blood flowing freely from a wound in the earth, before dissipating into wisps lost to the faraway stars. As the last traces of otherworldly energy faded, Lamb found themself once again in familiar surroundings, standing atop the weathered stone steps of their temple.
Their gaze moved to the full moon hanging heavy in the sky above, its silver glow untouched by the drifting clouds. In the twisted lands of the Old Faith, where the passing of seasons had long since become but a distant memory, the phases of the moon remained the only true marker of time's passage. It was a quiet reminder, one that Lamb often found themself contemplating when other thoughts proved too difficult to face.
The night air picked up, cold and unrelenting, but their eyes remained wide, unblinking.
"…Well, let’s take the full moon as a good omen, shall we?" Their soft voice carried easily over the breeze caressing their wool, even with nobody around to hear it.
Instinctively, their eyes drifted toward the crown upon their head, as if expecting some manner of response from the ancient artifact. But the Red Crown remained silent, its presence as immutable as the one who bore it. With a small shrug, Lamb dismissed the thought.
Keeping their steps light, they descended the stairs, their bare feet meeting the cool, dew-laced grass below. The sensation was grounding, a tether to the present after traversing realms that defied any semblance of normalcy. A cursory glance around the grounds confirmed all followers had retreated to their tents for the night, candles extinguished and prayers lost to the darkness.
Yet, Lamb’s gaze was sharper than most, honed by years of vigilance. And so, they noticed the lone figure standing near the great stone statue where daily prayers were offered. A tall, slender silhouette, bathed in red, stood against the familiar landscape—an aberration in the otherwise predictable panorama of night.
The urge to sigh rose in their chest, but Lamb carefully suppressed it.
Of course it would be him.
The leader took a moment to properly breathe, then allowed a small smile to settle on their face as they made their way toward the figure. Their footsteps were deliberately audible, the soft press of grass beneath their feet serving as a quiet prelude to their words.
"Narinder." The name, heavy and timeless, left their lips with ease. "It’s rare to see you here at this hour. Could it be that you can’t sleep?" they pressed quietly. The tone was gentle, laced with something that wasn’t quite concern—but wasn’t far from it, either.
"Hmf." The feline kept his gaze fixed upon the weathered statue, hardly acknowledging Lamb's presence with more than a small snort of breath from his nostrils. "I see you have returned unscathed."
His comment dripped with thick sarcasm; they both knew—of course Lamb would always return, with the power of the Red Crown ensuring as much no matter the trials they were made to face.
The former god’s robes shifted with the wind, which failed to mitigate the scent of death that hung around him like a curse. As always, he was not one for idle conversation. A small mercy, Lamb mused, for it meant he was at least willing to stall the verbal lashing for the time being.
Still, Narinder must have sensed their gaze lingering on him, because after a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased—just slightly. At last, he spared them a glance.
"I will sleep when I feel tired, Lamb," he finally said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries past. "Your time is wasted pretending to care."
I’m not pretending.
The thought crossed Lamb’s mind, but they did not voice it—the dismissal carried a familiar sting, but repetition had dulled the blade. Instead, their eyes flickered to the reflection of the Red Crown in Narinder’s crimson gaze.
With a quiet nod, the leader turned on their heel, crossing the last few steps to the statue’s base. Leaning back against its stone foundation, they let its cool, weathered surface ground them in place.
For a while, Lamb observed the peaceful cult grounds, letting the weight of silence settle between them. The distant rustling of spiders crawling through dense foliage and the whispers of the wind carrying motes of ambient energy syphoned from faith and reverence provided a natural chorus as they searched for what to say next.
And then, voice as smooth as ever, Lamb finally broke the quiet.
"Do you enjoy provoking me, Narinder?"
The question lacked the irritation its recipient might have expected. Instead, it was spoken with an almost infuriating calm—an artificial sort of amicability that refused to break, even in the face of conflict.
"Enjoy?" Narinder echoed, scoffing at their choice of words. His middle eye remained closed, but his brow furrowed. The slight twitch of his muzzle and a peek of his sharp fangs betrayed his consideration of the question.
It would have been simple to give the expected answer—to add yet another brick to the insurmountable wall that separated them. Yet something in the night air, perhaps the vigil of the moon above or the lingering pull of the otherworldly essence that still clung to Lamb, made him pause.
Their already diminutive frame appeared even smaller against the looming monument, the disparity too blatant to have been a mere coincidence in framing. His eyes narrowed. In those small shoulders hidden beneath the red that had once been used to praise his name, Narinder recognized a burden he was all too familiar with.
At last, Narinder remembered to breathe. He exhaled—a sigh that came from someplace deeper than his chest.
"If you were to ever take my words to heart," he finally answered, "perhaps I would find that amusing."
Lamb hummed softly, the sound more akin to the chime of a distant bell than a proper vocalization of any particular feeling. Behind their friendly smile, a keener observation took note of the subtle shift in their follower's tone—the hint of exhaustion that colored his words, the droop at the corners of his eyes.
He's tired, Lamb realized. Not just from lack of sleep. A different kind of fatigue seemed to hang around him like a shroud, palpable but unseen.
While Lamb stared, Narinder’s frown deepened, his long tail flicking behind him with an agitated snap, slicing through the still night air. The sound betrayed more than his composed expression ever would. "Someone appears to be enjoying themselves," he remarked, pacing deliberately toward the base of the statue. His eyes, glowing embers in the darkness, locked onto theirs with unwavering intensity.
There was something different this time—Lamb noticed it immediately. His usual barbed words were lacking in their edge. The shift was subtle, but unmistakable. They latched onto it.
"And someone’s in a terrible mood," they countered easily, the challenge at odds with the placating smile etched upon their face.
Their gaze never wavered, tracking his every movement with quiet precision. The Red Crown’s stare, until now impassive, seemed to sharpen. The artifact pulsed faintly, its rhythm so closely aligned with Lamb’s heartbeat that it was almost imperceptible.
"Something’s bothering you," they continued, and when Narinder attempted to scoff, they pressed on. "And it’s not your grudge about losing the Crown to me, for once."
That hit its mark. Narinder stiffened, as if physically struck. His ears flattened against his skull, and his three eyes narrowed to glowing red slits. He instinctively retreated a step, his robes swirling around his skeletal feet. His fur bristled visibly beneath the fabric as he glared at the presence crowning Lamb’s head.
"… You read my mind?" The question—no, the statement rooted them both to the spot, entangled with red-hot threads of something that transcended mere anger.
If I had the courage, I would, Lamb thought. But that would put me no closer than I am right now to true understanding.
A growl threatened to escape from Narinder's throat, his claws twitching beneath his robes before he forcibly willed them into fists. The effort was evident in the slight tremor of his sleeves.
Lamb’s expression flickered—something between amusement and quiet surprise. Part of them wanted to point out how transparent his reaction was, how easily he could be unraveled by a simple observation. Instead, they leaned back, bracing their weight on their hands, palms pressing against the cool stone.
"I didn’t," they replied, their voice gentle but inflected with unmistakable firmness. "I’ve told you time and time again, I only do that when I find it necessary." Their smile remained in place, but their gaze hardened ever so slightly. "I don’t need to read your thoughts to see that something is weighing on you, Narinder. It’s written all over your face."
"A ridiculous claim," he huffed, but the faintest touch of color bloomed beneath his dark fur subtle enough that, had Lamb not been watching for it, they might have missed it entirely. He turned away, arms folded stiffly across his chest, claws digging into the fabric of his sleeves. "If you feel so inclined to waste the gift I bestowed upon you, then so be it."
With that, he spun sharply on his heel, the abrupt movement sending a ripple through the air. For a moment, Lamb expected him to walk away, retreating to the solitude he often sought when conversations strayed too close to something real. But instead, he did something unexpected.
He sat down.
Not far, just a few handspans away, but it was enough to make a difference. It was uncharacteristic of him—to linger, to engage. His posture remained guarded, arms still crossed, but the act of staying was, in itself, significant.
"Why must you insist on this path, Lamb?" The question came softer than intended, something genuine overshadowing the habitual contempt like a rising tide.
For once, it was Lamb's turn to frown, the expression foreign on their usually placid features. Of all the things they’d expected, an actual question—a real one, stripped of its usual edge—wasn’t among them. They shifted to face him directly, head tilting in genuine contemplation.
"... Go on?" they prompted carefully, choosing their words with equal precision. Despite their caution, their voice remained gentle, soothingly so.
"The cult," Narinder replied, casting a sidelong glance at his leader. Like a moth to flame, his gaze was drawn to the red glow of the Red Crown's singular eye. As if acknowledging his attention, the artifact seemed to pulse again, faintly, knowingly. "It does not grow, does not diminish. You treat stagnation like a blessing. You hide in the name of keeping this so-called peace among your followers."
He exhaled, eyes lowering to the dirt beneath his feet. Slowly, he traced a circle in the soil with a claw. The scrape of keratin against earth was deafening in the quiet.
"Your time is wasted in caring, Lamb."
The words landed with finality, as if they were etched into stone—unyielding, undeniable. Neither of them looked at the other.
A heavy silence settled between them as Lamb turned the cat’s words over in their mind, examining them like relics from a long-forgotten era. Criticism of their leadership was nothing new, but this struck deeper. It slipped past their defenses, cutting through the carefully constructed layers of their composure.
Their usual smile faltered, slipping from their features with unsettling ease. For the first time in longer than they could remember, something real flickered across their face—an unguarded moment of vulnerability. It showed in the subtle downward tilt of their ears, in the slight furrow between their brows.
Taking a slow breath, they lifted their gaze to the night sky, where an endless sprawl of stars shimmered in the velvet dark—cold, distant, indifferent to the affairs of gods and mortals alike.
They could have brushed off the remark, let it roll away like so many of Narinder’s sharp-edged words. But the uncharacteristic sincerity in his tone had demanded an honest response.
Their eyes locked, and Lamb was unable to keep quiet.
"I’m not surprised you think that way," they began, their even tone betraying only quiet curiosity, mixed with melancholy they rarely let slip through the cracks. "If caring is a waste, then—"
"Such mortal sentiments are unfit for the God you have become."
Narinder’s reply came faster than Lamb's question. His voice had the detached certainty of someone reciting a truth they had told themselves too many times to count. A mantra.
It was something he had recited to himself throughout the long centuries of his existence, a truth he had embraced to survive the weight of immortality and the betrayal by those he considered his kin. Visible strain appeared on his features as he fought to continue—muscles tightening beneath his fur, claws unconsciously digging into the fabric of his robes.
Whether his statement had arisen from genuine concern for Lamb or his own buried regrets was unclear, even to Narinder himself.
At last, he turned fully, abandoning any pretense as his gaze locked onto his former vessel. Moonlight caught in his eyes—three pools of molten crimson, shimmering with the remnants of godhood. "Your attachment to life can…" He shook his head. "No, it will become a dangerous weakness, Lamb."
Lamb felt the words like a blow—they sank deep, penetrating the divine persona they wrapped up their still-mortal heart in. They knew it to be accurate. They had seen the consequences of caring too much—had paid the price in blood and loss, in wounds they never let their followers witness.
And yet, something in Narinder’s voice twisted within them, sharp as a blade. Not the words themselves, but the pain behind them. The unspoken understanding that stretched between them—the quiet, unrelenting burden of eternity.
They forced themself to turn away, facing the stone effigy of themself that loomed above. The statue's expression was as cold as unyielding stone. The irony was not lost on them—how appropriate that hollow representation was, how it captured the facade they maintained.
"You would know about that, wouldn’t you?"
The statement escaped, soft yet cutting, before they could stop themself. It was deliberately cruel in a way they had not been forced to be in a long time, and they knew it instantly.
Why did I say that? The thought surfaced too late, regret already creeping in.
Narinder’s reaction was immediate. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a quiet fury that made the night feel suddenly fragile. His eyes darkened, the crimson glow of his eyes consuming his gaze entirely. For a single heartbeat, the ghost of the God he once was, the one who wielded destruction without hesitation, stood once again before Lamb.
One arm raised. But he did not strike.
Instead, with a firm shove against the stone beneath him, he abandoned his perch by Lamb’s side. His claws scraped against the earth, disturbing the soil with a rustle that broke the silence between them—a small act of destruction to channel his anger. A warning.
"Sleep, Lamb."
His voice was quiet but razor-sharp, the edge of a knife drawn slowly against stone. "You shall need your strength for whatever tomorrow brings."
The sheep's words had struck his weakest point—the sole vulnerability Narinder acknowledged in himself, the weakness he had spent many lifetimes attempting to gouge from the very core of his being.
Without another word, Narinder turned, his robes billowing in the night breeze as he stomped off toward the tents on the western side of the cult grounds. His silhouette stretched long in the moonlight before dissolving into the shadows, leaving Lamb alone under the cold gaze of their own statue.
Alone with their thoughts.
The chasm between them remained, as vast and unrelenting as ever. Two immortals, forced to share the same time but unable to live life on equal terms.
Lamb remained where they were, small and solitary beneath the endless sky. The moon had long since hidden behind the veil of darkened clouds, its glow no longer reflected in the small sheep’s eyes.