Archive of Our Own

Kallamar, God of Pestilence, was pleased with how things were progressing. His darling little sister had rolled her eyes when he’d immediately begun drafting scripts and drawing up plans for the “venue,” as it were, the second the Bishops received word of the Last Lamb’s capture, but he easily dismissed it as a case of younger sibling folly. After all, she thought the only aspect of the ritual that required careful consideration and finesse was choosing an executioner who was both loyal beyond reproach and could behead someone properly, with minimal muss and fuss. But he knew better. For something as important as this, where failure meant that he and his remaining siblings would be at the mercy of the Red Crown—and, worse, its master—everything had to be perfect.

Or at least as perfect as it could get when one’s youngest brother was literally chaos personified.

But so far, things had been going swimmingly! Leshy, said chaotic little brother, had—surprisingly—stuck to his script, Shamura had remembered their lines perfectly and seemed to lucid and rooted in the present day, and now they had reached the high point of the ritual. The moment of truth, of ultimate tension and maximum drama. The moment where Kallamar allowed just enough of a pause after Shamura’s pronouncement of the preservation of the Old Faith to allow the Lamb, the star of the show, to give a few last words of their own—profanity, most likely, or some sort of blubbering plea not to kill them—which Kallamar would ignore—only partly due to his difficulties with hearing mortal sentiments in general, what with how it required filtering them through his beautiful, Blue Crown first—before ordering the chosen executioner to literally cut them off mid-sentence.

And then, of course, said Lamb ruined everything by choosing words so unexpected, nonsensical, and utterly baffling that Kallamar couldn’t ignore them. That he had no choice but to follow up on:

“Aw… That’s actually really sweet!”

“…I must have misheard you,” Kallamar said, with all the dignity he could muster—staunchly ignoring Leshy’s snicker of “Like that’s hard!”

“We just said you were going to be a sacrifice. Specifically, a sacrifice which would ensure that our bro—” he coughed, clearing his throat to cover the near slip-up “—that the One Who Waits below will never be freed… and you think that’s… ‘sweet?’”

“I mean, yeah!” The Lamb shrugged as best they could. “It’s got that peak sibling energy.”

“Peak… what now?” Heket muttered, voice hoarse and crackling.

“Sibling energy!” The Lamb repeated themself, sounding extremely earnest and nonchalant for someone whose head was resting on a literal chopping block. “Like—you could never, ever admit directly how much you missed your… brother? You said?”  Kallamar tried to hide a scowl at the reminder of his slip-up, of the family’s—to excuse the pun, given present company—black sheep. But the Lamb only smirked, eyes bright with knowing mischief, before continuing, “Yeah, so since you could never directly admit how much you missed your brother and wanted to help him, instead you all had to come up with this convoluted—and indescribably cruel—plan that will just so happen to have the opposite effect to what you claim it will.”

Utter. Silence.

…Which, thankfully, the Lamb seemed to interpret as embarrassment at having their “brilliant plan” be called out, rather than the truth that the Bishops were too utterly confused by what the heck the Lamb was rambling about to say anything, given that their smile was akin to the grin of one who was smug about being let in on a big secret, rather than the vindictive smirk of one who’d successfully pulled off a cruel joke.

But one could very quickly to turn into the other, so Kallamar desperately searched about for something to say that could wipe either possibility off their face, bringing some dignity back to the situation and getting his carefully planned execution back on track. When that didn’t happen, he shot desperate glances at his siblings, hoping that maybe they could save the day… but it was no use. Heket was just as flabbergasted as he was, Leshy had scented the drama in the air and was more eager to bask in that than to try and save face, and Shamura was… well, they were back to wearing that slightly dazed expression they usually wore, the one which made Kallamar unsure if the eldest of the Bishops was even aware of what was going on around them in the present day.

Kallamar’s control of the situation was well and truly slipping, not helped when one of the cultists in the back of the crowd—who had to be a heretic infiltrator, because surely, surely if they were actually devout, they would have never conceived of saying the words they were about to say—said, “I don’t get it.”

Of course, Kallamar supposed it could also be that the next offering for his executioner’s blade—right after they got things back on track and slew the damned Lamb who started this derailment in the first place—was actually proving how devout they were to Leshy’s domain, and Leshy’s domain alone, given the way his little brother’s expression immediately lit up in response, and he exclaimed, in full eagerness, “Yes! Yes, chosen Lamb of Prophecy, rise up! Give your first—and only—heretical sermon to these lowly devout of the Old Faith! Preach your words, before we send you to your master, our disgrace of a brother, the One Who Waits!”

The Lamb—and, honestly, Kallamar and Heket—was visibly taken aback by the overt invitation, but did as Leshy said. They rose, slowly, cautiously at first, just enough to lift their head from the chopping block so they could speak more easily. But then, when no one moved to interfere—because this was still Kallamar’s show, and it wasn’t like he could just countermand his brother’s words. Not when the Bishops were supposed to be displaying a united front. Not when so much was at stake!—the Lamb rose to their hooves, wavering a bit as they did so, as their arms were still restrained and, thus, couldn’t aid their balance. But once they stabilized, they turned halfway, to better address the crowd of devoted cultists of the Old Faith while still keeping an eye on the executioner—and the powerful gods—behind them. Then, they opened their mouth… and preached.

“From what I’ve gathered” the Lamb began, pitching their voice perfectly so that it reached the entire audience, in what was a surprisingly impressive display of public speaking abilities, “there was a prophecy that it would be a lamb who would one day free the One Who Waits, the exiled brother of the remaining four Bishops of the Old Faith, from his chains and shackles. And what do you think is the best way to ensure said lamb is identified as fast as possible?”

A theatric pause, and then the Lamb’s smile sharpened. Grew grim and bitter. “Why, the best way,” they explained, “is to order their species’ destruction. Because if you allow a literal process of elimination… you ensure that the prophesized Lamb is the last lamb alive.”

They gave a literal twirl and bow. A nod to the Bishops, then to the crowd. An acknowledgement they knew and understood their status, the duty fate expected of them.

But then they sighed, and their expression and tone softened, just a bit, as they further explained, “After all, with how vague of a prophecy it is, if the Bishops had let things run their natural course—left my species alone—it would have been super hard, if not impossible, to determine which one of us it would be. Especially since I don’t think any of us had even heard of the prophecy until we’d started being hunted down… it could have taken generations and generations and generations with how many of us there are—were. With how… with h-how many of us there… were.”

A pause to swallow the sudden lump in their throat and shoot a bitter, burning look at the Bishops. Then, “If our population had been allowed to flourish and expand, and we’d still had no idea about the prophecy… the One Who Waits may not have been freed until, like, the sun was about to explode or something, and there were no lambs left—save for whichever of us just happened to be the last to die—purely because life is unsustainable inside a black hole! …At least, as far as I understand it. I admittedly don’t know too much about black holes. But I do know that’s pretty much the only reason why any of us would have… ‘forsaken’ you. I mean… you were our gods. We adored you, worshipped you. Wept and wondered what we’d done to displease you so, that you would slaughter those with so much devotion. That you would abandon us, betray us—us, who had done everything you’d asked! Who would have gladly turned our knives upon ourselves had you just explained, had you shown us this proof of how deeply your love and devotion to your own runs…”

Their voice was hitching by the end, as they struggled to keep their emotions at bay in front of the crowd—and in front of the gods they’d once loved so much. But at that thought, that reminder of love, they quieted. Resignation and understanding filtered back in, restoring rationality and composure, and they gave a smile that was sad, yet almost beatific, as they concluded their “sermon.”

“But I guess… that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? You are gods, and your love and devotion run deep, and on a level mere mortals cannot comprehend. And I guess… well, I would be lying if I said I thought it was worth it—that I enjoy this… honor you’ve afforded me, given that it came at the cost of so much pain. The cost of my own love and emotions and my family. But… it is at least something of a comfort to know that love is at the heart of it. That you ordered all of this… this betrayal and violence and heartbreak, because you had the secretly sweet and noble goal to reunite with your lost brother.

“I mean… can you imagine how much worse and cruel and… and just flat-out messed up it would be if you did all this for the reasons you actually said you were? Because you actually believed that killing my entire species would keep your brother chained forever? Despite there being a prophecy stating his freedom via lamb as an inevitability, on par with his own domain?”

They bleated a laugh, nearly doubling over from the force of it, and how darkly humorous they found such an absurd notion. “But, of course, there’s no way you could ever make such a dumb and… and illogical plan like that. Right?”

They looked to Kallamar, the de facto leader of the day, with tears of bitter mirth still streaming from the corners of their eyes as they awaited confirmation. Confirmation which… never came.

Because Kallamar was too horrified by the realizations slamming into place about what, exactly, the four of them had just done—what fate they’d just consigned themselves to, the terror they’d just invited upon themselves, the infinitesimally small window of opportunity they had to somehow fix, or at the very least delay, this horrific situation… and, worst of all, that it took a mere, mortal lamb to point all of this out.

A lamb who was looking increasingly nervous as they awaited a confirmation that was never going to come.

“…Right?” they prompted again, shifting their focus to Heket, instead, as their worldview that gods were logical, with any seeming discrepancies being due to how intense and beyond mortal comprehension they were, began slowly crumbling to bits.

But Heket had no answer, either.

The Lamb, their teeth gritted in an increasingly manic smile, glanced at Leshy before completely skipping over him to focus their attention on Shamura. Which was fair, honestly, since it was even odds that someone whose domain was chaos would just ignore the “logical” option purely because it was the logical one. But that knowledge sure didn’t make Kallamar feel any better about the situation when the Lamb demanded “Right?!” of their eldest, and Shamura…

Shamura looked the Lamb dead on, complete cognizance in their eyes, and said, “Hm. When put like that, it was an illogical plan.”  Their head tilted and their gaze sharpened further as they studied the mortal before them. “Clever little Lamb, to able to think that through to such a logical conclusion. Were you once one of mine? Of war, of wisdom?” They tilted their head the other way, even as their eyes glazed over. “Ah, yes…” they said, their lucidity rapidly fading “I will lend you to little Narinder. Perhaps talking with a logician will sate his curiosity, if not outright persuade him to cease his heretical plans before five becomes four… becomes three… becomes…”

They fell again to mumbling. It was easily tuned out—partially due to its frequency and the familiarity of the phrases… but mostly because Kallamar was too horrorstruck by what Shamura just revealed to the assembled adherents to the Old Faith. What they just revealed to the Lamb.

But maybe… maybe there was maybe still time to salvage this.

“Well, that is… high praise!” Kallamar suddenly exclaimed, attempting to do just that. “You should rejoice, mortal, for you have proven yourself to be more than these lowly cultists before you. By exposing this… minor oversight, you have proven your ultimate devotion to us, your gods—nay! The Old Faith itself! And for that, you shall be rewar—"

“Was Shamura the one who came up with this ‘plan’?” the Lamb interrupted, their voice terrifyingly flat, their expression terrifyingly unreadable.

“Not really! They just started in on one of their infinite loops about fate and their weird rhyming riddles and stuff whenever the topic of lambs got brought up,” Leshy immediately answered, his injuries and general nature preventing him from being able to read the room and see the growing danger—both in the crowd’s general unease at this proof that their gods were fallible as well as in the Lamb themself.

“I see,” the Lamb said, pursing their lips but otherwise remaining just as cool and composed as before. “And you took their lack of commentary as… agreement? Approval? A sign that you could—nay, should—proceed with such a foolish course of action?”

Heket immediately shot out a hand to cover her foolish younger brother’s mouth before he could make the situation even worse… but it was, unfortunately, not enough to prevent him from nodding enthusiastically and giving them confirmation anyway that, yes, that was exactly what had happened.

“Hm. And such a course of action is likely common, yes?” the Lamb’s gaze briefly scanned over the Bishops, but they didn’t give them a chance to answer before continuing, “You look to your eldest for answers, advice, and then take what they say—or do not say—as pure gospel, completely disregarding the ramifications of their… unfortunate state… to the point where none of you tried to think this through on your own?”

The Bishops—even Leshy, this time—had no answer. The Lamb, again, took this as confirmation. “I see,” they said. “One final question, then: was it this… Narinder, I think the God of Wisdom said? Were they the one who gave your eldest sibling their head wound?”

“Narinder,” hearing the name seemed to stir something within said sibling, and their rambling changed, their tone becoming warmer. “Our brother, the One Who Waits… in my imprudence I loved him. For it, I lost my mind. For it, he lost his freedom. He was the fifth… the fifth Bishop of the Old Faith… Narinder… our brother, the One Who Waits…”

The air was saturated with a mixture of emotions at that point. General tenseness, confusion, fear… the supreme awkwardness of suddenly finding oneself in the midst of another family’s drama, on the part of the assembled cultists… But the Lamb’s only response was, “Right, then,” before they did something no one in a million years could have expected.

They knelt down and rested their head back on the chopping block.

“Hey! You there, with the axe,” the Lamb addressed the executioner, who had been all but forgotten about amidst the farce the execution had become, and who was so startled by the sudden attention that they almost dropped said axe and cut off their own foot.

“Don’t just stand there. Get to chopping!

This demand was accompanied with a flick of their head, both to make explicitly clear exactly which axe-wielding cultist they were addressing and to further bare their neck to give them ample room to work with.

“Wha—? No!” Kallamar shrieked. “Belay that! Belay that!”

“Oh, come on, squid boy! Don’t you think you’ve kept everyone waiting long enough?” the Lamb sounded, of all things, annoyed by the order to prolong their life. “We’ve all got other things to do today!”

“You realize… you are asking… to die? Yes?” Heket confirmed, hastily pulling her hand back from her younger brother’s mouth lest it get chomped off on accident as he started cackling and howling with laughter at the sudden turn of events. “After all you’ve said… and knowing what we—your gods—really want… why would you…?”

The Lamb rolled their eyes. “Like I just said—I have some things I need to do.”

“But you’d be dead! What ‘things’ could you possibly do?!” Kallamar demanded, tentacles flailing wildly and barely missing clipping his siblings.

“Well,” the Lamb obliged, while stretching their neck even further, as if attempting to seduce the executioner into killing them, “first order of business would be punching your brother in the face for giving a head wound to the, apparently, one and only person who held the braincell among you bunch and who would have surely, surely put a halt to this whole… whatever we’re calling this utter fiasco had they been in their right mind.”

Leshy all but doubled over from the force of his gleeful cackling. “You are, by far, the best lamb I have ever not-seen!” he praised the now all-too-willing sacrifice. “So, most favored Lamb, preach again! Tell us: What will be your second order of business?”

“I am glad you asked, oh mighty Lord of Chaos,” the Lamb said, a smile growing on their face that Kallamar was horrified to find that he could not tell whether it, or the praise to Leshy, was simply a sarcastic gesture… or something genuine. “My second order of business will be breaking his chains… purely so I can then use them on all of YOU so you won’t be able to escape me as I try to school you on basic logic!

“Now get ON with it already!” they snapped at the executioner, shoving their shoulders so hard into the chopping block to emphasize their demand and desire that it toppled over—quickly followed by the Lamb themself, once there was no longer anything holding up their weight.

Their sudden comical sprawl did nothing to break them of their ire, nor did it make them seem any less terrifying to either the assembled crowd, or the Bishops themselves. If anything, it made them even more terrifying, as they began inching their body over to the executioner—as if determined to do the deed themself, if no outside assistance was forthcoming.

“No, no, none of that!” Kallamar snatched the axe out of his loyal follower’s hands. “You are not getting beheaded by this axe on my watch!”

“Yeah!” Leshy suddenly screamed, standing back up straight and pumping his arms in the air. “Death by spike impalement is a way cooler way to go, and you, Lamb, deserve nothing but the best! Let me just—!”

“There is… no way… that is happening!” Heket lunged and tackled her little brother to the ground before he could summon so much as a camellia. “The lamb… is not dying… or freeing the One Who Waits… while we Bishops still live and breathe!” the toad goddess all but throttled the worm god while he whined in discontent… and then…

“That can be arranged.”

The voice of one who had well and truly snapped. The Bishops turned as one, beheld the visage of Fate before them—a vision of white wool backlit with the blood red of the ritual fires, a color so reminiscent of their lost brother’s Crown. They looked upon the Lamb… and repented.

…But it was just a bit too late for that.

Meanwhile, in the Gateway…

“Hey! Hey Aym, look at me! I’m doing the thing! I’m doing it!”

Aym, currently crouched and in the middle of maintaining his natural weaponry, rolled his eyes and continued studying his claws without even bothering to look at his brother’s antics. No matter how many times Baal tried, he was never going to be able to balance his staff perfectly on his forehead, and the both of them knew it. Yet for some reason, Baal insisted on attempting such tricks basically every single time the pair was left to their own devices.

On extremely rare occasions, when their beloved Master, the One Who Waits, felt pangs of nostalgia and regret for His childhood, He spoke to the two young cats about the great wisdom held by elder siblings—and on the somewhat more frequent occasions where he felt particularly murderous and wrathful, such teachings were accompanied by Him gloating about how His own eldest sibling “surely wasn’t like that anymore, after I split their skull in twain!” But Aym was pretty sure that Baal missed out on receiving his share of such “elder sibling wisdom.” Or perhaps the Bishop of War and Wisdom had stolen it from him in a fit of jealousy the same way they stole their Master’s freedom, and stolen Aym and Baal themselves from their loving mother.

Or maybe they’d accidentally dropped Baal on his head or something in the process of said kidnapping.

Yes, that had to be it—because otherwise Aym had no explanation for why Baal insisted on goofing off like he was, while their Master rested and recovered from the arduous task of literally shepherding the numerous souls from the recent massive influx of lambs into His domain.

It wasn’t so much that Aym was worried Baal would wake their Master from His slumber—their Master could sleep through pretty much anything, after all. Instead, he was worried about the opposite. That their Master wouldn’t wake up—at least, not in time to help—should something… happen. Losing focus while goofing off and messing around could have dangerous consequences, especially if the only person present with any medical know-how or healing abilities was unconscious. Doubly especially if their staves were involved.

Aym would know. He had the scars to prove it.

…But it wasn’t as if he could just say that to brother. After all, if an elder sibling’s prerogative was to be wise and all-knowing and give advice, then a younger sibling’s was to be as aloof, annoying, and unhelpful as possible.

Or, at least, to appear that way.

So rather than expressing his worry about possible catastrophic and injurious failures if Baal kept messing about with his extremely sharp and pointy staff, Aym, instead, told his brother, “The day you successfully manage to balance that staff is the day our Master’s chains break.”

“C’mon, Aym, pleeeease? I’m being serious this time!” Baal continued his wheedling. And Aym, eventually figuring that even though Baal was almost certainly stretching the truth, it would probably be easier to save his brother from gaining matching facial scars if he had the visual warning that could give him time to step in, versus having to rely on audio cues like “whoops!” or—worse—“ouch!” and only being able to intervene once disaster had already struck, gave a put-upon sigh and got up from his crouch. He re-sheathed his claws and turned around…

…Only to see that Baal was, against all odds, managing to successfully balance his staff perfectly on his forehead.

“Oh, wow, you really are doing it!” Aym exclaimed, rushing over in excitement to get a closer look and momentarily forgetting that one of the cardinal rules of siblinghood was that you could never let your sibling know how cool you really thought they were being at any given moment.

And it was at that particular moment, when both brothers were too occupied with their rare instance of sibling camaraderie to pay much attention to their imprisoned Master, that they heard a thundering CR—AAA—ACK! Rattle, rattle… CLUNK! of Divine Chains hitting the ground, followed by the inelegant snort and adrenaline-filled exclamation of “What in the—?!” by one abruptly wakened from a peaceful, well-deserved slumber.

The two cats immediately turned towards their larger, godly counterpart—Baal narrowly avoiding gaining a permanent limp when his staff tumbled to the ground and just barely missed impaling his foot—just to see the One Who Waits jerk upright and pull a hand up to rub His forehead… only to accidentally slap Himself in the face instead when He misjudged the force He needed to exert with how suddenly weightless and chain-free that particular hand was.

It took a moment for that realization to set in, before all three eyes of the One Who Waits widened in shock and He grasped the newly-freed appendage with the one still ensnared. He marveled at the sensation of bony fingers touching equally bony wrist, rubbing away the millennia of aches and pins-and-needle numbness even as part of Him wished to recoil at how raw and agonizing it was to have anything touch it—even the slightest breeze of the echoing winds blowing through the mists of souls. And as He scrutinized the bone, its length continuous, unhindered by iron shackles, He tried to puzzle out what just occurred. How such a thing was even possible.

“A chain… is broken?” He murmured, oblivious to His surroundings—To His servants, staring in wonderment of their own. To the whispers of newly departed souls, sensing that they were about to receive the justice they were due.

To an only slightly smaller influx of even newer souls arriving in the Gateway and congregating at the edges after having recently died, each one of whom was wearing the cultist robes signifying worshippers of the Old Faith

To the ominous portal, its colors a mixture of red and inky-black, forming above His head.

“How can this be? Such a thing was only meant to happen when—”

But Baal and Aym never got to hear what the supposed trigger was, as their Master was quickly interrupted by the crackle of thunder and lighting, accompanied by a high-pitched, whining scream that sounded an odd, chaotic mix of terrified and elated all at once, coming directly from the ominous portal. The three felines looked up—

—Or. Well. The two brothers did, at least. Their Master tried to, but had barely started to turn His head when His entire being was suddenly plowed into the ground when the screams revealed themselves to be coming from a green… leafy… worm-thing? One which decided that the One Who Waits would make the perfect landing pad.

The impact forced the two of them into a short tumble that scattered bones and dust and was only stopped when the remaining chains around the godly cat were pulled taut and rattled like thunder.

Silence, for but a moment. Then, “What… what the hell…?!” groaned the One Who Waits.

He struggled in His bindings to sit up. While the lack of one of the chains should in theory have rendered the task easier, if only because it meant there were fewer to get tangled up in, the additional weight of the whatever—or whoever—it was that just landed on top of Him increased the difficulty tenfold. At least until He realized that simply shoving the burden off was an option.

Which He did with great gusto immediately upon figuring that out.

The One Who Waits growled low in His throat, the sort of growl a cat gives when they want to seem so menacing that any hint or memory of them having just been caught in a compromising or otherwise embarrassing position is quickly forgotten.

“Who dares to disturb my—Leshy?!”

Unfortunately for Him, the One Who Waits’ utter incredulity as to the identity of the interloper immediately wiped away any hints of menace and brought back the reality of His current situation: sitting on the dusty ground, robes ruffled, having just been knocked down by His estranged, younger brother.

His estranged, younger brother who had no business being in the Gateway. Not unless…

“Hi, Narinder!” Leshy immediately interrupted his thoughts, proving he hadn’t changed at all during the millennia Narinder had been… away. The little being of chaos even went so far as to give a wave and grin smugly with his numerous sharp teeth, completely ignoring his elder brother’s incredulity at the situation he’d found himself in. “Guess what? Your prophesized savior is the best! Both utterly insane, and not even freeing you intentionally! Isn’t that a riot? Also, they said they were to punch you in the face, which I’m sure is going to sound fantastic. Probably not as good as getting to see it would be, though. You jerk.”

The mention of the prophecy brought Narinder’s interrupted thoughts back into focus, allowing him to finish them to their completion. “Did you just die?” he demanded of his brother, completely glossing over the rest of what he’d said. “How? How is that possible?”

“Wow, you still suck at listening!” the God of Chaos snickered. “I just told you—your prophesized ‘savior’ lamb is going to town up there. We’ll probably see another of our siblings show up here any minute. Or, well—you will. I’ll just get to hear those sweet, sweet screams.”

“What does that even mean?!”

CR—AAA—ACK! Rattle, rattle… CLUNK!

“Oh, sounds like I was right!”

Another chain fell, the sudden weightlessness of both arms throwing Narinder off-balance to the point where he toppled back over. He landed right on top of his little brother, whose ensuing yelps of “Ow! Hey, watch it!” drowned out the rasping screams of a mangled throat whose owner appeared to be following Leshy’s example of using elder siblings as a landing pad when falling from ominous portals. The result was a sibling sandwich with Narinder filling and double Oofs! from the godly brothers for garnishes—which was very thematically appropriate, given that the top layer of said sandwich was their sister Heket, Goddess of Famine.

Narinder squirmed around—earning more enraged yelling from the brother beneath him and disgruntled attempts at growling from the sister above—until he managed to flip himself onto his back and give a narrow-eyed glare at this latest intruder to his domain. At his first sight of the godly, red toad in millennia, one eye widened in shock while the other two narrowed into an even steelier glare.

Mostly to continue masking his absolute bafflement about what the heck was going on.

“Sister Heket, how… nice… of you to drop in.”

Heket’s own eyes narrowed in response, and she rasped, “Brother… Narinder… that pun… was as awful… as your general… existence.”

“Will the two of you get off me already?!” Leshy interrupted the reunion to demand, unhappy both because of the lack of panicked and confused screaming he was hoping for, and because he was still getting crushed by the combined weight of two of his older siblings.

It took a good bit more squirming, shuffling, and getting tangled up in the remaining chains—which filled Narinder with vindictive glee—before the three of them managed to sort themselves out enough to regain some semblance of dignity and sit up straight again.

“So,” Narinder ventured into the awkward silence, voice dripping with disdain, “I reiterate: What the hell has happened for me to be ‘graced’ with your… wonderful company after such a long, long time?”

Leshy threw up his arms in exasperation. “Are we sure Kallamar is the deaf one? I’ve already told you—!”

Heket shoved him over, silencing her little brother with all the experience of a lone sister amidst a group of rowdy brothers and a too-indulgent eldest sibling who had reached her absolute limit for their nonsense, and offered the explanation of “Prophecies… suck… almost as much… as your… general existence.”

Narinder rolled his eyes, ignoring Leshy’s snickering beside him as the leafy worm sat up again and then immediately tried to lunge at his sister in retaliation for being shoved over. But the beginnings of a sibling squabble were quickly snuffed out when another CR—AAA—ACK! Rattle, rattle… CLUNK! resounded, and the first of the chains around Narinder’s hind legs fell to ruin.

Still having no idea how or why any of this was happening, but no stranger to pattern recognition, he swiveled his ears upward and strained to hear anything. Sure enough, they picked up a faint sound coming from above, growing steadily louder by the second… and causing his atrophied big-brother instincts to kick in. He shot his arms forward—gritting his teeth at agony this caused to his newly-freed wrists, unused to such a wide range of motion or the feeling of flowing air—and grabbed his younger siblings by the collars of their robes, dragging them back from the landing area just in time to avoid being hit by a screaming, flailing squid.

“Oh. Now Kallamar is here. Great…” Narinder muttered, letting his siblings go—giving them both a petty shove in the process, of course.

Leshy’s ecstatic cackling nearly drowned out the litany of “Ow, ow, ow…!” streaming from the God of Pestilence’s throat, and Narinder’s first acts with his newly-freed leg were to, firstly, stand upright so he could limp closer, and, secondly, repeatedly kick his elder brother in the side—Kallamar’s much louder complaints nicely drowning out Narinder’s pained hissing as each pettily-vengeful kick brought a fresh flare of agony to his ankle—until he’d rolled over enough to be able to see how annoyed Narinder was by this entire situation.

Annoyance which only grew when Kallamar immediately lunged forward and tried to grab Narinder’s ankles—nearly succeeding if not for the fact that Narinder’s feline reflexes were still incredibly sharp and he was able to dodge away just in time, despite his injuries.

“Narinder! You have no idea how glad I am to see you!” Kallamar started babbling, still trying to crawl towards his estranged brother. “If you’re here, that means I’m dead. And if I’m dead, it means that I’m away from that absolute MANIAC of a lamb, because once we’re dead, that means they’ve gotten their vengeance, right? They’d have no reason to come after us, RIGHT?!”

Narinder was honestly a little disturbed by the near-groveling of his elder brother, and even though he knew Kallamar couldn’t hear a word he had to say, he still felt compelled to mention, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, because you apparently don’t listen to what your younger siblings have to say!” Leshy shouted. “But I guess that’s not anything new, now, is it?”

The older sibling in question was about to retort, when—

CR—AAA—ACK! Rattle, rattle… CLUNK!

—his last chain fell. And for the first time in millennia… the One Who Waits was free.

…Of course, this sudden freedom also came with a sudden loss of balance when the new, sharp pain in both his ankles and sudden weightlessness hit hard and made him fall over yet again. Thankfully, though, when he did so he fell backwards—thus missing becoming a landing pad again, this time for the eldest of the five siblings, whose fall was surprisingly silent. Almost graceful, even.

Not that such things meant much to Kallamar, who both wouldn’t have been able to hear it anyway and was unlucky enough to still be in the prime position to become a cushion for the God of War and Wisdom’s arrival in the Gateway.

“Ack!” the squished squid shrieked upon impact, struggling only momentarily to try and crawl away before groaning and slumping to the ground completely, resigning himself to the continued humiliation his existence had become.

“…Shamura…” Narinder whispered, his hands automatically reaching out, as if no time had passed since he’d last seen his spider sibling, as if there wasn’t a yawning chasm of time and betrayal stretching out between them, before he remembered himself. He swallowed the bitter feelings clogging at his throat—though, less of them than he’d always imagined there would be, when he inevitably saw Shamura again at the end of all things—and curled his hands back towards his chest. Rubbing his wrists, as if by removing the ache there he might also remove the ache buried deep in his heart.

Shamura, for their part, did not seem to notice either of their brothers’ predicaments. They slid effortlessly off Kallamar before rising slowly to their knees, murmuring all the while, “Five becomes four… becomes three… becomes two… becomes one… becomes… nothing.” Only on that final word did they raise their head, seeming to take in their surroundings for the first time.

“Kallamar, what are you doing on the ground?” They asked, with the same casual tone of voice with which people discussed the weather. “That is not a dignified position for a god of your stature.”

Upon not receiving a response—as they had forgotten their younger brother’s deafness—their many eyes scanned the area further. They took in the empty blankness, the howling winds, the broken chains… but they didn’t really seem to find anything unusual or alarming about the situation they’d found themselves in. At least, not until they finally noticed their middle sibling, who froze at their sudden attention.

“Narinder,” they said with mild surprise, “you are on the ground as well?” They tilted their head in seeming confusion. “…Why are you fidgeting your wrists like that? Did you sprain one of them again while practicing with your scythe?”

Shamura began moving in his direction, apparently forgetting Kallamar’s predicament—if not his very existence, considering that they ended up stepping on one of his tentacles on the way over, eliciting another pained yelp from the squid. Narinder—confused and frantic and hurting and wanting—tried to scramble back and away from his oldest sibling’s advance, but his balance was still shot and his wrists and ankles hurting too much to support his weight. And his pained, involuntary hissing at the limited motions he could make only caused Shamura to move toward him even faster, growing increasingly worried with every step.

“Here, let me see,” they knelt smoothly beside him, gently grabbing hold of one of Narinder’s wrists and pulling it toward themself for a closer inspection, tsking in admonishment at what they found.

“What could have caused such an injury…?” they asked, almost absentmindedly and not really seeming to expect a reply. “Well, no matter—I will wrap it up for you, and one of the healers can take a look once we get home.”

They spun a bit of silk to make a temporary bandage—like they had so many times before for the numerous cuts and bumps and scrapes their little siblings tended to accumulate—and wrapped it around Narinder’s wrist while making idle chatter about times that were long past, but still very much the present to Shamura.

Narinder simply… let them. Too lost in memories of his own to comment. Too surprised that he didn’t actually mind the pressure on his wrists—that it didn’t remind him of the chains he’d only just been freed of, that he didn’t, for a single moment, entertain the thought that this was just a ruse that would lead to him being chained again. Too surprised that it brought him some comfort, not only in the physical sense, but as a bit of proof that Shamura had, at one time, cared for him. Had at one time loved him.

And, possibly, still did…?

Something seemed to snap Shamura back to the present day. Possibly they’d made a sudden connection about their surroundings, possibly seeing Narinder’s wounds up close had sparked a memory of where exactly they’d come from… but whatever it was, it wrenched a low, mournful sound from their throat and they—to Narinder’s absolute shock—pulled their brother into a hug, tears streaming down their face to collect in his ancient robes.

“Foolish, foolish Little Nari…” they choked on a sob “So much loss, but…” a sigh, and their hold loosened… only to immediately tighten once more when Narinder hesitantly looped his own arms around them, hugging a member of his family back for the first time in so, so long.

“…But hardly matters, now,” Shamura nuzzled their prodigal sibling. “The prophecy is fulfilled… but we five are all together, again.”

A final squeeze before Shamura broke the embrace—though they made sure to maintain contact with their brother. A hand on his shoulder as they stood back up, taking in their surroundings again with a slightly clearer mind.

There was Kallamar, lying despondently on his stomach and lamenting his fate. There was Narinder, still supremely confused by what exactly was going on, but too drained to bother trying to ask again. There were Heket and Leshy, each poking at their own pile of bones from the many scattered about the place—Leshy with mischief and curiosity on the mind, Heket with ponderings of whether the bleached things still had enough marrow to turn into a bone broth and, if so, how tasty the result would be.

…And there, beyond their siblings, was an offering circle in the beginning stages of lighting up… as if in preparation to receive a gift—a sacrifice—from the realm of the living.

Heket, whose nose and sense of smell, honed from cooking—and sampling—millions upon millions of examples of exquisite cuisine, to the point that it outpaced even Narinder’s natural species advantage, also seemed to notice something amiss. She suddenly jerked up from her bone pile and demanded “Does… anyone else… smell… incense?”

As one, the remaining Bishops turned toward the Gateway’s offering circle… just in time to see the sudden flare of blackened flames as the Sacrifice appeared.

They weren’t quite kneeling as was proper. Only one knee was to the ground, making it less of a kneel, really, and more like a crouch. The sort of crouch one would do to gain maximum leverage when swinging a heavy tool at an awkward angle. And, indeed, such a tool was in their grasp: an ornate executioner’s axe, poised just after the zenith of an arc and dripping with fresh blood. As for the zenith point itself…

Like a gruesome hinge, the wooly head righted itself back atop equally wooly shoulders. The remains of an iron collar, split in two by a fierce blade or blow, slipped to clatter on the ground as the skin of the neck sealed itself shut. And as arms and weapon lowered, the Lamb’s manic grin grew all the wider and more menacing.

“As promised, my death by this axe occurred only after you Bishops breathed your last,” they said, bouncing their stolen weapon against their hand. “Though in doing so, it seems I’ve done my planned business slightly out of order, if those broken chains are any indication.”

They nodded toward the tangled pile Narinder’s former chains had become before taking a step forward, crushing some small bones underfoot as they did so. “But that’s perfectly alright!” the cheery voice, so at odds with the flare of rage within their eyes, sent shivers down the Bishops’ backs. “Now… if someone would kindly point me in the direction of the One Who Waits…?”

“He’s the giant, three-eyed cat!” Leshy oh-so-helpfully called out, immediately selling his older brother out.

“Thank you so very much, Leshy!” the Lamb called back, giving him a little nod of thanks. Then they took one step… two… then made a dash and running leap toward said cat and, with a highly impressive bound, used their axe to slash through his veil just enough to give them the space required to reach through and sock him one right on the nose, screaming, “That’s for giving a head wound to the only sibling with any sense of logic among the five of you!” as they did so.

Narinder had no time to react beyond giving an instinctive yowl, because by the time his reflexes kicked in enough to bring his hands to his face and attempt to ward off the woolly attacker, the lamb had already used the remains of his tattered veil to essentially rappel down to his shoulders. From there, they decided the fastest way back down would be to jump, and they employed their axe again to rip a jagged hole in the front of his robes for a more controlled fall.

Upon hitting the ground, they primly dusted themself off. “That’s business matters one and a half attended to,” they declared. “As for the other half of the second matter…”

They stepped daintily over to a pile of fallen chains, and said to the once-prisoner they’d held, in a voice so sweet, so at odds with their former demeanor and future plans, “I’m commandeering these, okay? Because a group of someones—” they suddenly shouted, grabbing a chain in each hand and making a run for the other four Bishops “—is overdue for a lesson in logic, and I take my attendance seriously!”

Things devolved into screaming, then, as the Bishops—mainly Kallamar—tried in vain to escape their fate, even knowing that death would not—and had not—saved them from the wrath of the Lamb who, apparently, valued logic above all else. Even their very life. The whole thing was very undignified, and normally the gods would have cared more about maintaining their appearance and divine stature—or, at least, Kallamar would have—but in their emotionally-charged reunion with their estranged sibling and their subsequent terror at the Lamb, they had either forgotten, or had never noticed in the first place, that they weren’t exactly alone in the Gateway.

For not only were the other casualties of the Lamb’s execution still present and watching—and cowering, in the hopes that they wouldn’t attract the Lamb’s notice—but so were Narinder’s attendants. Two young boys who were now having the weirdest day of their lives. Not only were they currently witnessing this amazing and hilarious spectacle in front of them… not only had their master been freed of his chains… not only had one of them managed to pull off that cool staff trick he’d been trying for ages upon ages, but the other one had, quite possibly…

“Baal, I think I’ve developed the gift of prophecy,” Aym whispered, giving an awed look at his hands. Too enthralled by the possibility to notice that he’d spoken such musings into sudden silence, as the Lamb took a break from their screaming about lessons and logic to fill their lungs with air they no longer technically needed—what with being dead and all.

But he was quickly made aware of such, and his hair stood on end at the shock of being addressed by someone other than his brother or master, when a voice asked him, “Oh? Why do you think that?”

The boys both turned to see the Lamb, proudly standing in front of the four Bishops they’d trussed up in Narinder’s former chains, with Narinder himself looking between his siblings and the Lamb with a mix of awe and fear where he sat with his hands still lifted as if to shield his face from further punches.

“Because… uh… Because I told Baal that the day he managed to balance his staff on his face would be the day Master’s chains break… and then he did and… they did?” Aym answered hesitantly, not noticing the way the One Who Waits’ eyes widened in fright and realization at how the Lamb was likely to take that, and how he desperately made a slashing motion across his neck in an attempt to halt his beloved servant’s words before it was too late.

But, alas, it was too late. The words had been said—the faulty logic flung into the unnatural breeze breathed by the lost souls of the Gateway. The Lamb’s eye twitched, and all who beheld it tried to move back from them as much as possible. And the Lamb’s voice was chilling as they gave their proclamation.

“It seems as though I have even more students to teach.”

Baal and Aym looked frantically about, but there was no escape as the Lamb stalked toward them…

Sometime later…

“So, what have we learned today?” the Lamb asked from where they stood at their lectern. They surveyed their crowd of students—some looking more eager than others—and took their pick from the multitude of raised hands. “Aym?”

“That correlation is not causation!” the young cat answered, puffing his chest out with pride when the Lamb smiled, a clear indication that he was both correct and had made his teacher very happy. Which he very much had—the Lamb was always pleased to see such proof of their students having learned their lessons well.

“Very good, Aym!” They praised. Ah, but speaking of students in need of learning lessons… “And what else have we learned today?” they asked further, giving a pointed look toward the corner where their remedial class was gathered.

They waited patiently—some of their remedial class needed to use nonverbal communication after all, and no one had quite reached the point of fluency with sign language yet, themself included. Plus, others among them couldn’t always decipher nonverbal cues for one reason or another, or might not yet have noticed they’d directed their attention toward the group. Also… they were the remedial class. It would make sense if the lessons took a bit more time to stick just in general.

But in the end, their patience paid off. A short pause and the sound of slightly squeaky, mostly grating scribbling of chalk before—

“Yes, Heket?”

—the toad goddess held up her chalkboard, displaying the answer “Despite what the ‘sibling code’ says, good communication is important for healthy relationships. And for ensuring you don’t make stupid decisions with perfectly avoidable consequences, like creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Excellent work, Heket!” The Lamb gifted her with a smile, then glanced out the window and shuffled their notes a bit. “That is it for formal lessons today. But as a treat, and to really hit home the importance of what She of Famine just told us, I’ve arranged for Mr. Ratau to lead everyone in a game of Whispers out on the lawn while you all wait for your parents to pick you up. Oh—and Baal and Aym’s mother, Ms. Forneus, has very kindly brought some snacks for everyone to share.”

The class cheered, and the Lamb gave a little chuckle. “All right, then, class dismissed,” the class cheered even louder, “though, as usual, I need the remedial class to stay behind a bit.”

A few of their classmates jeered at that, but the Lamb swiftly put a stop to it with a stern glance. “Now, now… just because some students have more difficulty learning than others is no reason to make fun or be unkind.” There was a bit of grumbling, but ultimately the students did calm down and behave as much as could be expected of young children eager to get out of the classroom and enjoy some free time.

The room swiftly emptied, and the Lamb took a moment to sigh and release the day’s tension, though today’s lessons hadn’t been too strenuous, all told. Everyone had needed a break after being all hands on deck for the big harvest, themself included. Possibly even more so than everyone else, actually—at least on an emotional level—considering that the harvest was both of crops and of wool. The first shearing of their species after the mass resurrection at winter’s end.

Which had, honestly, not taken nearly as long as the Lamb had thought it would. To begin with, they hadn’t even been entirely sure resurrection was even a thing. Oh, sure—they’d figured maybe there was some sort of “one time” deal ritual that the One Who Waits would use to bring back the Lamb of Prophecy, since it seemed like even meeting him to begin with required a person to die. But after that? They hadn’t dared dream that Narinder had managed to create a full-fledged ritual for being able to resurrect someone whenever you wanted, pending power and resources! So, once they’d learned of that detail, their estimated timeline was more in terms of years, possibly extending until the end of their own natural lifespan, mostly to the vast resource requirements. An entire species had been culled, after all. Even if those who actually got resurrected only numbered among the ones who used to worship the Old Faith, that was still a lot of bones to be gathered!

But surprisingly, it didn’t actually take all that long. Mainly because there had been a ton of volunteers from the Bishops’ flocks. The Lamb presumed this was mostly due to guilt over the lambs’ deaths to begin with, or simply because the volunteers didn’t like the new direction the Old Faith—New Faith?—was taking. Or the bones had been taken from the bodies left behind by those…unfortunates… who had been casualties of the Lamb’s execution and who had declined resurrection of their own for one reason or another. Probably a similar combination of reasons to those who volunteered, the Lamb figured.

…Though, there was also that theory Kallamar had proposed to his siblings in private—that later got told to them by an extremely gleeful Leshy—that the volunteers were only doing so because the Lamb was so terrifying that even though they’d proven death was no longer an escape from their wrath, at least dying in the course of saving their species would hopefully endear their memory to the Lamb enough that they wouldn’t bother coming after them. But that was probably just a joke, or Kallamar being a little petty… right?

And, just as they were pondering that… “You, uh… wanted us to stay behind again? Oh… uh… Oh… Mighty Lamb?” the squid in question asked timidly, quaking from within the paper chains Narinder had so gleefully made and draped his siblings with during Arts and Crafts time.

“Ah, yes Kallamar, my apologies,” the Lamb was quick to say—and sign, as best they could. Normally this would be the point where the Lamb would give their remedial class some extra lessons, or at the very least assign them specific or otherwise pointed homework assignments beyond what the rest of the class got, but, honestly, with everything going on—the harvests, the rituals, the restructuring the Old Faith to account for Narinder’s return, and the hazards of daily living on the old cult grounds of a death god that were in the process of being restored to their former glory… not to mention how good the Bishops’ progress had been, of late—they figured that the Bishops probably deserved a bit of a break, too.

…But the Lamb was also somewhat petty, and just because their species was resurrected now didn’t erase the fact that they’d all been killed to begin with, so, rather than just them go off and have a bit of free time of their own before their evening duties began, they said, “I need you to clean up here and set the temple back up properly for Narinder’s morning sermon. Consider it some sibling bonding time! Just to really, really drive that point home about communication and healthy relationships.”

Heket and Kallamar, unsurprisingly, made sour faces at the prospect, but Leshy gave them an irreverent salute—immediately breaking apart what chains he hadn’t already shredded with his teeth, causing even more of a mess for them all to clean up before they were allowed to leave—and Narinder smirked and nodded. Shamura was the only one to give a verbal answer, “It shall be as you say, Lamb of Prophecy,” before they outright bowed, a move only slightly hindered by their brother’s paper chains.

The Lamb hid a blush and waved them off. “Oh, there’s no need for such formality, Shamura!” they assured, before skipping over to the “class pet” terrarium in the opposite corner of the room. “By the way, I have a few errands to run, so make sure the kitchen knows not to wait up for me when it comes time for the evening meal.”

Narinder paused from where he was unwinding his chains from his eldest sibling. “You’re headed out?” he asked, sounding slightly disappointed, as he watched the Lamb struggling with the terrarium lid. He would have offered his help, if not for the combination of his wrists still not being healed enough from their time in chains to be able to undo all the complicated locks and traps anchoring it to the base… as well as the fact that the locks and traps were bespelled such that none of the Bishops could remove them. Because otherwise it would be too easy for them to access the “class pets”—also known as their Crowns—without the Lamb’s authorization.

“Not far,” the Lamb assured, triumphantly wrenching the lid away. “I just need to go check Helob’s web and then greet the new neighbor who showed up the other day. The one weirdly obsessed with tears.”

The Lamb offered a hand to the Crowns, who morphed into their snake forms before eagerly surrounding the offered appendage—the Red and Purple Crowns going so far as to twine themselves up their arm, pausing only briefly in their climb to hiss at each other, while the Green one playfully nipped at their fingers. The Yellow and Blue Crowns, meanwhile, just gave enthusiastic rubs of greeting. While the Crowns were always affectionate toward the Lamb, today they were even more so. Likely because none of them had been called upon that day after their bearers had deposited them in the terrarium at the start of lessons.

Usually at least one of them would have spent the day on the Lamb’s head—a sign that they had power over the gods themselves where classroom matters were concerned, as well as a reminder that it was only by their benevolence that the gods were getting this chance to live and learn and reconcile with each other. And also because, again, the Lamb could be very petty. Typically the coveted spot atop their head was claimed by either the Red or Purple Crowns, unless they had been too busy fighting themselves over the privilege to notice one of the others sneaking up to claim the spot… or had been fighting so much that they had to be forcibly separated by the Lamb lest they hurt themselves and then another one was chosen while they spent the day in time-out. But today, the Lamb was wearing a crown of their own.

The Lamb wasn’t entirely sure where it came from. They’d arrived for class a bit later than usual and found the little thing there on their lectern. It seemed to be made of paper much like Ratau’s, except colored black, folded in a slightly fancier design, and decorated with the image of a closed, white eye, rather than a triangle. The Lamb assumed one of their students must have made it as a gift for them during a previous Arts and Crafts time, but no one had claimed responsibility. Still, it would be rude to spurn such a sweet offering, so they’d placed it atop their head and worn it for the entire lesson.

Now, however, classes were finished. And while they were still a very respected figure in the cult grounds—some even claimed, in whispers, when they thought the Lamb was out of earshot, that they were the de facto leader, at least for the secular side of things—they only claimed the classroom as their actual domain. It would be quite rude to wear a crown, or Crown, and claim themselves as being something above their fellows where they had no rights nor power to do so. So, after they gently shooed all the snake-morphed Crowns back into the container, they placed their own, new crown within the terrarium as well. It, much like their hand had been, was immediately swarmed by its living counterparts—particularly the Green Crown, who coiled around it so tightly the Lamb was surprised it didn’t crumple under the strain, and sauntered their way out.

“Don’t have too much fun, now!” they called back to the Bishops still within the temple. “And don’t try putting your crowns back on until this place is spic and span— I’ll know.”

Dutifully, the Bishops cleaned. Swept the floors, stacked up chairs and tables, switched the Lamb’s lectern out for the one Narinder used for sermons. Dutifully, and silently, and to the best of their abilities… until Kallamar deemed enough time had passed that the Lamb is probably too far away to hear anything said within, and shouted “Well! In the interest of this so-called ‘healthy communication’ the Lamb desires, I’ll go ahead and ask: Am I the only one who finds them absolutely terrifying while wearing that weird, fake crown? Where did that thing even come from? And then that whole… ‘I’ll know’ deal? What was even with that?!”

“I agree… it was… pretty creepy,” Heket said, nodding for her brother’s sake, since her hands were too occupied with her broom to sign.

“Yeah! But that’s going to be one of their best qualities as an in-law!” Leshy agreed. “That’ll really help them keep dissenters in line!”

“They hardly need to be ‘creepy’ to do that—their own eloquence in speaking is sure to be enough,” Narinder chimed in from where he was inspecting the incense. But then his younger brother’s previous sentence registered, and he paused. “Hold on… did you say ‘in-law’?!” he demanded.

“Ah, you have found a lover, Leshy?” Shamura asked, almost conversationally, from where they were drawing a ritual circle on the floor, seemingly completely unaware of the aghast stares the middle siblings were giving the youngest—as Heket and Kallamar had also registered exactly what Leshy was implying. “You should be aware that golden skull necklaces do not come cheaply—and there are not many other ways to prolong a mortal’s life while still keeping their self intact.”

“Oh, they’re not going to marry me,” Leshy’s tone implied that he would be rolling his eyes at the obvious if Narinder hadn’t ripped them out of his skull a thousand years ago. “I’m their wingman!”

Shamura tilted their head in curiosity. “Oh? Then which of your siblings is to be married soon? Kallamar?”

“Nah, the Lamb is way out of his league!”

“Hey!”

“Your sister, then?”

“I mean, that could maybe work out okay,” Leshy conceded, “but it might also be a little too weird for them, considering they used to worship Heket, before.”

“They… did?!”

“Surely not… myself?”

“No offense Shamura, but you’re just… not really their type,” he gave an apologetic shrug.

“Understandable,” the spider nodded. “Then, that only leaves…”

“Yep! It’s totally gonna be Nari!” Leshy said, grin on his face, as he clapped a supporting hand over his brother’s shoulder. “But don’t worry! You’ve got plenty of time to win them over—especially since you don’t even need one of those necklace things to keep their ‘self’ intact. All you have to do is wait a little bit more for the crown I made them to finish growing and gaining enough sentience to become a proper Crown and ascend them.”

“You did WHAT now?!” demanded a multitude of voices. But Leshy only cackled and slipped from his brother’s side, all but skipping his way toward the terrarium. He lowered a hand, allowing the Green Crown to slither up his arm and shoulders until it rested properly atop his head once more.

The newest crown—or, Crown, as its composition looked far less like paper than it had even an hour prior—blinked open a sleepy, white eye just a crack at the sudden lack of warmth and power surrounding it. It gazed lazily over its observers, taking in their expressions of fear, of curiosity, of wonderment, before closing it fully again.

Its bearer was not in sight, after all, so it was not time to awaken fully.

Not yet.