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Chapter Text

Astaroth had been holding his breath for the entire walk to the main chamber. His quick, determined steps echoed through the corridors as he hurried past and his long, deep-purple tendrils trailed behind him, swaying with the movement of the heavy gold ring that bound them.

Memories of the beauty of his realm touched his mind as he crossed the tapestry room narrating the history of Anchordeep through finely braided threads. Once it had been the most breathtaking of the Old Faith’s realms, bathed in the glow of bioluminescent algae, adorned with perfect crystals, and kissed by sunbeams that filtered from the surface, scattering iridescent colours across the sand below.

Since the binding, it had become nothing more than a vast, abyssal tomb, he thought as his frown deepened ever so slightly.

The last thousand years had been a torment for him. The jellyfish general had lived nursing the terror within his chest as he watched, powerless, insanity slowly gnawing at the beautiful soul of his consort, turning it into a temperamental and paranoid mess.

His pace quickened as he neared the heart of the temple, passing followers who moved too slowly for his urgency. An ancient instinct whispered that finally the moment had come to fulfil his ultimate duty.

But he wasn’t prepared for the creeping foreboding that now seeped through the crystal ceilings of the most beautiful of temples. As he marched martially to his destination, he steeled his face to be stone-cold.

He had to be strong.

The moment his foot stepped into the main chamber, a god's thundering voice erupted, raw and demanding.

“Everyone but Astaroth, leave! NOW!” 

The command carried more than anger. To Astaroth’s ears, it concealed pain and fear that rippled through the very walls and under his purple skin like an electric current. Servants, slaves, and disciples alike scurried past him, slamming the massive, ornate doors shut behind them.

Silence fell.

He broke into a sprint as his heart pounded against his ribs. The chamber light was dimmed and the usual brilliance of Anchordeep’s sanctuary was snuffed out. Only the soft glow of the crystals remained, casting ghostly reflections on the tiled floor, just enough to guide his way.

The Bishop of Pestilence sat on the opulent seat of gold and gemstones he so adored. Yet today, it looked neither regal nor triumphant. It looked cold. Unforgiving. A stark contrast against the smooth, azure skin of the god.

Reaching the foot of the stairs that led to the throne, Astaroth sank to one knee, head bowed, hands resting on the beautiful tiles beneath him. Hand-painted turquoise, white, and gold waves were swirling in frozen motion beneath his trembling fingertips, creating a flowy pattern that reminded him of the grace of his lover dancing.

"My Lord, I am here as you commanded. How may I humbly serve you?"
His voice was steady, but laced with concern.

Be strong. For him.

“Astaroth…”

The power and the anger were gone. Only anguish remained in that single spoken word.
Protocol dictated he should wait, head bowed, until told otherwise. But the jellyfish couldn’t keep up the formalities any longer and dared to look up.

Kallamar sat before him, wrapped tightly in his black and gold cloak, clutching it as if it could hide him. But it couldn’t. His body was already misshaping and slipping toward its eldritch form. The beautiful face Astaroth knew so well was splitting into a maw of jagged teeth, his once-brilliant eyes became bottomless pits, void of light while black ichor dripped from his ruined ears and mouth, staining the pristine floor beneath him.
He knew how much his god hated to look that way and be so malformed, but as the storm brewed in Anchordeep, he would rather see him as a gargantuan aberration than dead.

“The end is here. I knew it all along!” Kallamar finally shrieked in panic, tentacles unfurling in every direction. “It is at our doorstep, I tried to warn them! I tried for so long… but I knew… I knew this would not last… I knew it would all collapse down on us…”

Astaroth didn’t wait for him to spiral further. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, then climbed into his lap without hesitation. Against Kallamar’s massive form, he was small and insignificant, and yet he appeared as strong as the ocean waves as he wrapped his arms around him as tightly as he could.
Underneath the fabric, he could feel the heart beating violently and his chest quickly rising unevenly.

“...Kall. I am here.”

Massive shaky arms and tentacles wrapped around him keeping him close.

“It’s ending, Astaroth,” Kallamar whispered, frantic. “I can’t stop it.”

Astaroth did not move. “They have yet to reach your temple, my love. I will stand between them and you.”

“No…! No, no, no…!” Kallamar pushed him away gently, then stood and started pacing in front of the throne like a caged animal.

“Isn’t this my purpose?” Astaroth called him as he followed, confused. “Isn’t this why you summoned me here? To be your last shield as it was always meant to be?”

“NO!”

Kallamar whirled around, his voice cracking through the chamber like a thunderclap. For the briefest moment, something flickered in those black eyes, something desperate.

Astaroth’s heart ached recalling what was there before. He was one of the few lucky ones who still remembered the bright blue enchanting iris uncorrupted by the Crown’s power, and he cherished that memory more than anything.

“You are to leave Anchordeep!”
The god’s voice was strong and unyielding now, but his most loyal follower blinked in disbelief as if he didn’t hear it correctly.

“What?! My Lord, that’s not how it works!” He protested as his own heart started racing, slowly chipping off the general’s stoic facade. “I am your most devoted, I should lay down my life to be your last defence! And if I fail my sacrifice will empower you and save you!”

“I know how it works!” the bishop yelled, freezing him on the spot. “Why do you think I am in such a state!?”

His god looked down at himself, at the wretched form he had become, and let out a guttural snarl, spitting black ichor onto the floor. 
“They are all dead, Astaroth! Sal, Baali and Haby all GONE!”

The thunder hushed itself and spoke in a feeble defeated murmur. “And… I… I can’t take it anymore…!”

He sank onto the cold stone floor, crushed beneath the weight of his grief. Black tears streamed down his face.

“Leshy… Heket… I… I couldn’t save them and I cannot save Shamura, or even myself. This was all written, it was our destiny all along. But I want to force fate to look the other way as it comes to you.”

Astaroth reached out and cradled his face with the gentlest touch, letting the tears stain his pristine white suit.

“You can’t ask me to just leave you… if it’s true that you will perish, then how can you expect me to let you face it all alone?”

“I may be destined to rot, my love.” His fingers ghosted over Astaroth’s face, trembling. “But I won’t just topple down and let them behead me…I will resort to anything, ANYTHING, to keep myself alive… but I won’t be able to challenge the Lamb knowing you too died, my heart is shattered enough as it is. Do you understand?”

Kallamar gently cupped his face, the azure of his skin joined with the deep purple in that chromatic harmony he liked so much… he was an artist after all, even if that trait had been forgotten for a thousand years.

Astaroth searched his eyes, his expression giving in to pleading.

“My order, as your god, would be to drive the knife into your chest until you bled out every last drop of faith for me.” He swallowed hard, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “But this… this is not an order.”

“This is a plea from your husband.”

Astartoh finally lost his composure. Unlike his beautifully emotional spouse, he hardly ever expressed his feelings openly. He was the strong one of the pair, the rock, the unyielding shoulder for Kallamar to cry on. But this time, he was unmade by him. The single glaring thought of losing him dismantled and crushed his armour.

Kallamar hugged him tightly and let him cry on him for a few long moments, but as the temple started to hum with the power of new devotion, the god realised more of his followers were lost in battle. He didn’t have much time.

He reached into his cloak and retrieved a bangle of pure gold, shaped in an elegant spiral terminating with a lustrous pearl that held onto a perfectly teardrop-cut purple crystal, retrieved from the deepest abyss of Anchordeep. He had worn it every day, wrapped around one of his tendrils, when he had been in his natural form.

“Sell it to the smuggler,” Kallamar said, pressing it into Astaroth’s trembling hands. “They’ll give you enough for a house and probably a good patch of land in front of the sea… I am sure…!”

Astaroth’s fingers closed around it, shaking. “I don’t want to—”

“I will find you again!” the Bishop interrupted him before he could protest. “No matter how or where… I will find you again,” he repeated steadying his voice concealing his panic.

The big lavender eyes looked up to him in fear. “You will?”

“Maybe not as I am now… But—”  Kallamar gulped down a heavy knot in his throat, trying to let his broken voice out. “Every time you look out to the sea and the sun glitters playfully over the surface, that’ll be me dancing for you in that golden outfit you like so much… When the breeze carries the salt to your lips, that will be the gentle kiss I reserve for my most beloved after every sermon. And when the seagulls wake you up with their loud chatter, well you always said I talked too much in the morning.”

The general of the god of Pestilence, the steadfast warrior who had never faltered, shattered completely in the arms of his love. He clung to Kallamar, sobbing, as he gently held him, pressing a tender kiss to his head.

“I know... it will never be the same, but even if my body is gone, my love will persist until the day the ocean dries out.” The words were spoken softly and laced with sorrow. “I won’t leave you alone, Astaroth, my soul will find you.”

“Eventually, I will find you…”

“I am so sorry brother…”

“Kall… sorry….”

He couldn’t hear himself cry, nor the voices of his siblings, but the pain was loud and vivid as his throat clenched, his lungs were squeezed in a tight grasp and his chest hurt from the violent sobs.

Kallamar couldn’t dare to look up again and see the names of his most dear carved on those crudely made headstones. 

Haborym, Baalzebub, Saleos… 

Astaroth.

Fate didn’t look the other way, after all. 

Heket’s arms embraced him tight as his body shook with sorrow, while Leshy held onto one of his left hands and wrapped his tail with his quivering tentacles.

The Lamb stood quietly on the edge of the graveyard, watching the bishop of Pestilence diminished by grief and wondering what the hell was exactly going on… The Kallamar they remembered was a coward, yes, but a ruthless bastard nonetheless. The strongest of them combined, the one who had sent them in front of The One Who Waits more times than all his siblings put together, including the literal god of war.

They were now baffled to see him so devastated and broken by the loss of mere disciples. It was… irritatingly odd.

The truth was that Kallamar piqued their curiosity the moment he was lucid enough to speak. While still scared beyond reason, he manifested the polite manners all of his siblings lacked, showed no will to fight back, did not speak about his crown once and immediately wanted to talk to Narinder.

All in all, while the two other bishops were painfully obvious, this one was a complete mystery. And that won’t do, not after what their former god told them about his older brother.

He was a coward, but apparently a skilled schemer acting in the shadows, ready to deadly strike at the right moment… so, what if it was all an act from the squid? Could those tears be fake as well? They didn’t sound fake.

Lambert had to be one hundred per cent sure before finding themselves with a blade to the heart. They wanted to investigate and interrogate him, but be smart about it and catch him alone and unprepared, so they decided to wait and give him time to feel safe enough to lower his guard and then pounce on this supposed dangerous predator.

After being released from the healing bay, still weak, completely deaf, and in pain, Kallamar barely had time to process the sheer torment of learning his spouses' fate before being ushered to his so-called new home. As if the day hadn’t already sunk to unimaginable lows, it somehow found a way to plummet further.

To call that insulting mass of clay, spit, and wood a "house" was generous even by the standards of the most primitive creatures in Anura.

His only solace in this wretched mortal world came in the form of Heket’s steady hand on his shoulder and Leshy’s arm wrapped around him. They were alive. Not well by any stretch, but alive and so was Narinder. For now, that was enough to slow down his descent to madness.

Heket, ever pragmatic, took charge of assigning rooms. His would face east, allowing the morning sun to filter through the window and wake him with light rather than sound. Leshy’s, naturally, was on the opposite side, facing west. The poor worm’s only real use for sunlight was photosynthesis, after all.

“I will bring you food.” his younger sister signed tentatively, her eyes were full of compassion and understanding. “But you need to rest now and recover a little from the shock.”

“...”

He didn’t feel like speaking right now. That sorry excuse of a voice he felt in his throat couldn’t possibly be tuned for a polite answer.

“I’ll be here! I can even make tea if you like, I learnt not to burn the kitchen down since the last incident!” Leshy chimed in trying his best to be as cheerful as possible. He heard his brother cry countless times before, but never this way, never like THAT.

“...” 

He nodded, forcing a small smile that his little brother couldn’t see. Then, without another word, he opened the door to his room and slowly closed it behind him.

For the first time in his brief mortal life, he was truly alone.

And that’s when it hit him.

Silence.

Not just the absence of sound, but something deeper, more terrifying, like a void where noise should be, but wasn’t. No voices, no movement, no reassuring presence filling the space around him. Everything was painfully still, trapped inside a suffocating bubble of nothing.

A ghost of fear trailed icy fingers down the back of his neck.

How could he live like this? How could he protect himself and his family? How could he function?

His breath hitched.

What if speaking wasn’t natural to him anymore? He had spoken with the Lamb. He had spoken with his siblings. But how had his voice sounded? Was it off-key? Distorted? Ugly?

Gods.

He clutched his four arms tightly against himself, fingers digging into his own skin, grounding in the only sensation that still felt real. He needed to stay calm. To breathe. To process everything rationally, as Shamura taught him.

Shamura…

A violent shiver ran down his spine. He swallowed hard, forcing every horrible thought back down where it belonged.

No.

Not now. No more pain today.

Instead, he grabbed onto the shallow, the trivial, the little things that asked nothing of him, anything to keep the deeper thoughts at bay. He examined the room and noted every imperfection in the architecture and critiqued every choice of colour and ugh, what was that yellow rug about?!

Finally, his eyes spotted a mirror hanging on the wall.

What did he look like? Yes, that was shallow enough.

He made a few shaky steps toward it with his new… “legs”. 

He promised himself he would make a mental list of every single defect of this new mortal vessel as soon as he reached a reflective surface. But he could easily put “legs” on the top of the list without even checking the rest of himself out.

What is with “legs”? Why do I have to be burdened with such inconvenient bone structure?
A sea creature shouldn’t have “legs” or even dream of having them. Who in their right mind would wish for “legs”? More convenient on the surface? I severely doubt so!

The four arms, at least, he could tolerate.

He had grown accustomed to them. Shamura had forced him to use the crown’s power and mutate his body for a better grip on weapons despite his many protests. Still, whenever the god of war wasn’t breathing down his neck, he would always switch back to his tentacles.

Perhaps… he could force them back now. Perhaps he could have them again.

He focused.

No.

He was stuck with arms and stiff ugly legs.

A sudden pang of pain pierced between his ribs again. Astaroth had legs.

Being born in Silk Cradle far from water, he was the only one of his last spouses with legs. Back then he found the little trait of his husband very charming, but on himself? A disgusting sight.

He gulped down the thought, he needed to focus on shallow things…

The mirror. Right.

Kallamar stood before it, staring at his reflection.

…

HIDEOUS.

The face of the squid in the mirror twisted with disgust and fury. Was this really him? He had expected his ears to be unacceptable, but the rest of him was supposed to be at least decent! His head had once been regally elongated and not this triangle shape, his skin used to be luminous, catching every sliver of light. His lips had been fuller and elegant.

And now? His face: ugly. His torso: wrong. His proportions: off. And…was he short?!

OH GODS!

How could his mortal vessel be so... malformed? He might as well have been in his eldritch form; there was no difference in his eyes.

Well, at least those were pleasantly azure, the same hue he was born with.

But that was the only redeeming feature of this dull, meaty prison he was now forced to call a body!

After his fourth (or was it fifth?) fit of crying that day, Kallamar finally tore himself away from the merciless reflection. He grabbed the first piece of cloth within reach and threw it over the mirror, blinding its cruel judgment.

That was when another grim realisation struck him! He would have to wear whatever the Lamb demanded. He had been given a temporary grey sleeveless robe as he was let go of the healing bay, but his official follower garb was there waiting for him.

The brand-new bright red robes stood out starkly against the insultingly beige bedsheets.

With a sigh, he changed into them, only to immediately regret it. Too large and too uncomfortable. It was evident four-armed followers weren’t exactly common, but cramming both sets into a single sleeve, no matter how oversized, completely restricted his movement. And his tentacles? Only four remained, yet they still needed space to move them freely without lifting the whole robe in an embarrassing display. He made a mental note: priority number one, cut proper slits for mobility.

The only silver lining was the hood.

Large enough to swallow his entire head, to shroud his face in merciful darkness.
That was a comfort. At least this way, the world wouldn’t have to see him.

As he finally decided to put a stop to this dreadful day, he found out that his torment wasn't nearly over. Sleeping in his new house was much more difficult than sleeping in the healing bay ward. 

There, he would entertain himself by observing the primitive instruments and techniques employed by the so-called medics and have a field day on his mind imagining each way he could improve everything in just a day, two at worst.

In his new room, there was only him, a lit candle and the silence.

Not a single item that would be his own, not even a little crystal to remind him of Anchordeep and no one to hold. In the pitch-black darkness of the night, he started asking himself if it was worth living like this, but he forced the thought down again. This was new and so scary, but as long as he had his brother and sister, he would be fine, everything would be perfectly fine… and with life also came the opportunity to speak to Narinder, finally.

But what to say? He regretted their action and he regretted not finding a better way to resolve the situation, but at the same time, there was a fault on Narinder’s part as well. He talked to him several times, tried to make him understand the problem with his ambitions, but of course why ever would he listen to him? 

Why would anyone ever listen to Kallamar?

He sighed feeling the heavy exhale travel from lungs to throat to mouth and escape his lips.

Regrets fester like untreated wounds. He would gladly take all of the blame if that meant mending the old bond… after all, what was there to lose? They were all mortals, there was no power imbalance between the siblings, it was all new. So yes, Kallamar would apologise on behalf of everyone, even on behalf of Shamura. If only his younger brother would acknowledge any of them.

He turned and twisted between the poor quality beddings until he grabbed the pillow with all four arms and hugged it tight, burying his face into it.

Too cold.

Too silent.

He hated sleeping alone.

Chapter Text

Kallamar barely stepped outside unless absolutely necessary and never without at least one of his siblings by his side. He had to admit it was embarrassing, but the thought of navigating a bustling village without his hearing was more than he could handle.

So instead, he observed. Concealed beneath the shadow of his wide hood, he absorbed whatever scraps of information he could about the cult, its structure, the mood of its followers, and the rhythm of life in this strange new place, all while carefully avoiding the Lamb.

He found a small solace in Leshy’s constant chatter… or rather, in lip-reading it. His younger brother had been spared from physical labour due to his condition, but that hadn’t stopped him from stumbling headfirst into trouble and picking up fights. The thought of Leshy being thrust into this new life, completely blind and alone, made Kallamar’s heartache. His poor brother…

But he had also learned something interesting: he had made a friend! A farmer named Tharen. 

From what Kallamar could gather, the creature seemed kind enough, and by the Ancient Ones, Leshy desperately needed someone who could keep up with his “peculiar” behaviour. He couldn’t deny his own curiosity, either; he was eager to finally meet him at lunchtime and assess his character.

Yet their first shared meal with the cult turned out to be far messier than expected. Finding anyone in that tangle of animals was nearly impossible: the common area was cramped, the food lines disorganized, and chaos reigned unchecked. He had plenty of thoughts on how the Lamb could improve the dining situation, but for now, he kept his head down, spoke as little as possible, and clung to Leshy’s side like a lifeline.

What a sight they must have been: one deaf, the other blind.

The food was atrocious, barely edible, but filling enough to send people back to work on a full stomach. Kallamar prodded at it idly, forcing himself to think of it as medicine before swallowing each bite with reluctant determination.

When his gaze drifted to Leshy, he saw that his little brother barely managed a spoonful or two before pushing the rest aside. Troubling. He was far too thin beneath that oversized tunic…

I must speak with Heket as soon as possible. He thought, observing the brother’s twig-like arms. She must have known something he didn’t, and together they could find a gentle way to approach their youngest sibling. For now, it was best to let it slide, this wasn’t the place for such discussions.

As they made their way home, eager to leave behind the exhaustion of the day, they passed by the graveyard and Kallamar’s heart clenched.
"Brother… did you know your disciples and your Witness are buried here too?”

He couldn’t suppress his curiosity. 

The graveyard was decently kept and watched over by the massive, three-eyed statue of Narinder. Below it, their crowns rested like trophies or perhaps as their metaphorical graves, and around them lay the tombs of their most devoted followers. At first, he found that particular setting rather distasteful, but with how things turned out for Narinder and for them, it was more amusing than he realised.

“...Yeah. When I started bumping into gravestones, I decided to feel them. That’s how I found—”

Kallamar gently squeezed his arm, cutting him off. “Please, slower… I can’t keep up yet. I’m sorry.”

Leshy swallowed, guilt flickering across his face.

“No. My bad, Kall.” He took a breath, then continued, making sure to enunciate. “I found out when I first ran into the graveyard. I started feeling the headstones… and yeah, my friends are here too.”

“Did you ask the Lamb about them?”

“No, of course not!” Leshy raised his voice in outrage, tail rattling. “I don’t want to talk to the Lamb! Especially not about something this personal.”

“But aren’t you curious?”

Leshy hesitated, jaw tightening. “Well… yes. But I’d rather die than ask them anything. They’d see it as weakness.”

Kallamar’s expression tensed. He understood, the Lamb was their jailer after all and he, too, went out of his way to avoid them. They showed patience and mercy, but it was unpredictable at best and after everything… they weren’t worthy of trust.

Several days and sleepless nights passed before Kallamar gathered enough confidence to step outside on his own. He had spent countless evenings with Heket and Leshy, relying on their patience and guidance to improve his lip reading skills and shape his voice into something he could bear, something as close as possible to what it once was.

Through their feedback and hours of relentless practice, he learned to control the volume, to find the right vibrations in his throat. It wasn’t perfect and perhaps it would never be, but at least now when he spoke, they assured him in all honesty, that it sounded like him. 

He soon discovered that feeling the vibrations of his own voice provided an unexpected sense of comfort. It was grounding, familiar in a way and because of this, he gradually abandoned signing unless absolutely necessary and sometimes he even held entire conversations with himself in his room. If his siblings found it odd or bothersome, they never said a word.

As he walked at a quick pace through the cult grounds in the first light of dawn, a bittersweet thought crossed his mind: Haborym had always mocked him, saying he loved the sound of his own voice. I guess they kept being right despite everything.

The morning chill was setting on his shoulders and he feared he would catch a cold, but this wasn’t just a walk to stretch his horrible legs, but a mission that he couldn’t afford to delay any longer.

As he stood before the blue-crowned funerary monument, Kallamar let out a deep sigh, his gaze lingering on the eye that had been his companion for most of his life. There was a dull ache in his chest, but he refused to let it take hold.

Without hesitation, he set down the bucket of water, the rag, and the small gardening spade. Then, rolling up the oversized sleeves of his robe, he knelt before Astaroth’s headstone and got to work.

By the time he reached the third grave, his eyes were puffy and red from crying and his arms ached.

Baali would have to forgive his slower pace, but Kallamar took solace in the thorough work he had done so far by clearing away the moss, pulling up the weeds, and scrubbing the stones until their original colour shone through once more.

He could hear her sultry voice echoing in his mind, smooth as silk and teasing as ever.

“Well, aren’t you getting a lil’ lazy, my Lordling? Get your godly ass up and let’s go spar! I need you strong to keep up with me on the dancefloor.”

A small, fleeting smile crossed his lips, but it came with another tight pull in his chest, adding to the deep ache already settled in. For a moment, he let himself linger in the memory, in the warmth of her voice. But only for a moment.

Then, with renewed resolve he pushed forward, working faster.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

He kept going, one set of hands scrubbing diligently while the others carefully chiselled the moss from the indentations of his wife’s name.

“Kallamar?”

Baalzebub’s tombstone, he noted, must have been one of the first. The stone was more weathered, the grime settled deeper into its cracks.

“Oh right, you can’t hear me…! I’m so sorry!”

A sudden touch on his shoulder sent a jolt of panic through him. He recoiled, tentacles lashing out instinctively as he tumbled backwards, landing hard on the damp earth. His heart pounded violently against his ribs, but as his eyes focused, he took in the apologetic face of the Lamb.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…!” They were speaking clearly enough for Kallamar to read their lips. 

His body was still buzzing from the unexpected touch and the terror of being alone in front of his jailer. He swallowed, forcing himself to speak as he controlled his tone.

“I-it’s fine… It would just be easier if you tapped on the floor really hard or came into my field of vision slowly.”

“My bad, really. I’ll keep that in mind,” they said politely, too politely for his taste. Then, they extended a hand to help him up.

Kallamar was terrified. Images of Purgatory flashed in his mind as the merciless Lamb tore his flesh apart with those very hands. They clawed and gripped and squeezed while ichor spilt incessantly on the floor of his temple. He trembled before them, inching backwards.

No one was around to protect him! No one would hear him if he screamed. And even if they did, would they care? This was the leader. Defiance was not an option.

What would the Lamb think if he refused?

“It’s ok, really. I am not going to hurt you… I promise.”

They had caught his fear. Bad. He needed to stay calm.

Everything is perfectly fine.

Everything is perfectly fine.

His hand reached shaky but obedient until it met theirs. They were smaller and shorter than him, but their grip was firm as they pulled him up with little effort.

Nothing happened, they didn’t hit or claw…. good… He relaxed taking a few deep breaths.

“So, what are you doing out here this early in the morning?”

“...Cleaning.”

Lambert’s gaze flickered between him and the now-pristine graves. They had stalked him for a while, waiting for a moment like this, catching him alone and unguarded: it was time to find out if this bishop was truly as dangerous as Narinder said. But before diving into his mind, they would give him the chance to converse as normal people would.

“I see. Want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what, Lamb?” His instinct was to retreat, to pull up his hood, to coil into himself and escape. But he forced an upright posture, even tried to smile.

“Well, it’s not every day I see a bishop of the Old Faith on his knees, scrubbing his disciple’s tombstones. Can we agree that’s… unusual?”

Kallamar tightened the grip on the rag.

“Spouses.”

Lambert blinked. “What?”

“They are not just my disciples and my witness… They are my husbands, wife and spouse...”

The knot in his throat returned, thick and suffocating.

“…All of them?”

“Indeed.”

Lambert finally connected the dots. The tears, those hadn’t been fake! The grief, the pain in Kallamar’s voice, it was real. All of it.

“I didn’t know,” they admitted, lowering their head respectfully. “I just assumed they were disciples… like my own. My condolences.”

“...Thank you.”

Silence followed.

Lambert’s mind stirred with conflicting emotions. One part of them felt the grief radiating from Kallamar, heavy and almost too painful to witness. The other part, the darker one, found satisfaction in seeing such profound loss overshadow one of their most hated enemies. The Bishop of Pestilence deserved nothing less.

“Did they have a good life?”

The question snapped them out of their thoughts.

“What?”

Kallamar hesitated as if the words tasted bitter on his tongue. “I was wondering if… if they lived well here. If their days had at least a bit of joy. If they… passed peacefully.”

It was so difficult to ask, especially to his captor. It made him look weak, and Leshy would surely mock him for it. But this was far more important than his pride.

Lambert considered their answer, thinking back to a few years prior. “I would like to believe they lived a good enough life. They stuck together, and I think that made them happier in the end.”

A flicker of warmth kindled in Kallamar’s chest. They had stayed together.

“…But they were definitely one of the most difficult bunch!”

“What do you mean, Lamb?”

Lambert grinned, the pieces of the puzzle finally clicking into place. “Narinder tried to warn me about your followers. ‘Kallamar’s disciples are fiercely loyal to their god, they won’t bow to anyone else. You should kill them immediately.’” they mimicked the deep tone in Narinder’s voice even if it would be completely lost on this occasion.
“I didn’t want to believe him at first, but ah, dissenters, the whole lot! They saw the pillory more times than your brother did. They tried to assassinate me a few times, you know?”

Kallamar stiffened. “Did—did you kill them?”

“NO! Of course not. That’s Old Faith Style, not my own. Also, they never ever threatened anyone in my flock aside from myself and worked diligently.” Lambert waved a hand dismissively. “So I just kept an eye on them… and dodged Astaroth’s blade a few times. I never figured out how he made those damn weapons out of thin air. But no biggie. They all passed away peacefully, except Baalzebub. She fell off a roof trying to ambush me from above.”

Kallamar held himself still, willing his emotions to remain unreadable. But inside, among the excruciating sorrow, pride swelled in his chest. They didn’t forget him. They had stayed loyal. They had tried to avenge him. They still loved him after so many decades.

His tears fought to emerge as he was due another long cry, but not in front of the Lamb.

Lambert chuckled, shaking their head. “I get it now! They didn’t just worship you. They loved you.” Their voice softened, tinged with something like awe. “It’s… incredible. I should have known. And—oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so casual about it. I am afraid my own perception of death is somewhat distorted.”

And yet, that casual attitude made the Lamb seem far more mortal than Kallamar had expected. He studied their body language, searching for deception and found none. Either they were far more skilled than him at hiding it, which he severely doubted, or they were simply… normal.

“…It’s fine.” He offered a small smile before kneeling once more, resuming his careful work on the Baali’s headstone. “If you could spare some of your precious time… Would you be so kind as to tell me more about them?”

“Of course!”

Lambert settled down in front of him, smiling warmly as they straightened the folds of their fleece. A quiet relief washed over them as, once again, Narinder had been far too paranoid.

A merciless bishop of the Old Faith wouldn’t love this much. He wouldn’t kneel in the damp dirt to scrub clean a piece of stone like a mere janitor, nor would he cry with such raw intensity over the loss of a follower. And those actions spoke louder than any words ever could.

When Narinder was a god, his cultists were nothing more than tools to amass power, just as Lambert had been merely a vessel. But here, before them, was a god who had loved his followers. A god who mourned them. They never thought one like that could exist in the pantheon.

Of course, a thousand years of isolation hardly nurtures love or compassion, yet the contrast between brothers was so stark that Lambert couldn’t help but wonder: was Kallamar truly the cruel schemer Narinder described? Was he really waiting for the right moment to drive a dagger into their back?

For now, they decided to not pry into his mind and accept that what they could see was a mortal before them, with raw emotions and a wounded heart.

So they spent the morning with him, sitting under the looming watch of The One Who Waits, spending their time engaged in quiet conversation, talking about the worst group of dissenters the Cult of the Lamb had ever seen.

Chapter Text

Kallamar came to understand many things. 

The first, and most important, was that the Lamb was not as terrifying as they could have been and not even close to being the vile and intolerable creature his siblings described.

Through their long talk in the graveyard, careful observation, and analyzing the general behavior of their followers, he reached a conclusion: the Lamb was a patient and merciful creature. They led with a firm hand, but offered redemption more often than punishment. His own spouses were proof of that.

It was a striking contrast to what he had expected after their brutal encounters.
Yes, Kallamar had succeeded in killing them again and again, but each time, they returned drenched in the blood of his people, striking without hesitation. And with every death, they grew stronger, cutting down more of his faithful, siphoning away his power until he was left utterly defenseless.

Then came Purgatory, a nightmare that will forever haunt him. The Lamb’s blade, the crimson tide, the helplessness… every night he jolted awake with pounding heart, gasping for breath as he relived those moments mixed in with old painful memories.

But encouraged by his discoveries, he decided it was time to formulate a plan, a logical and calculated strategy to help himself and, most of all, Leshy and Heket.

The Lamb was polite and even pleasant to spend time with, and he suspected they craved the company of someone who wouldn’t worship them.
If they turned out to be his friend, they would grant him favours, maybe even show leniency toward his younger, reckless brother, maybe even spare a resurrection or four— No, he shouldn’t hope for that so gingerly.

But where to start? Their little graveyard talk was a good first step, but if Kallamar had learned anything from millennia of playing on the treacherous chessboard of gods against gods, it was that survival often meant knowing when to kneel.

So, he did.

The bishop of pestilence sat through every sermon, watching the Lamb as if they were an intricate puzzle waiting to be solved. The way their ears flicked ever so slightly at certain words, the measured stillness in their posture when delivering reassurances, the brief, almost imperceptible tightening of their jaw when forced to grant a requested ritual they did not favor.

Each detail mattered.

He stayed quiet, shielded beneath his hood, sitting through the chaos of the cult’s requests, he could make sense of with just lip-reading. Some were reasonable pleas, begging for the Lamb to save a loved one. Others were trivial, bordering on ridiculous, like asking them to deliver love letters or fetch trinkets. And then some made his stomach churn.

No sane person would truly ask to eat filth, right? That had to be the fastest way to get sick he could think of. It had to be a test of the Lamb’s patience. Surely. Yet, they didn’t say no.

The cult leader never faltered outwardly, but he caught the telltale signs: the slightest twitch of an eye, the way their perfectly composed smile wavered just enough to betray irritation before snapping back into place.

These tiny cracks in their mask were valuable. They allowed him to construct a plan, to mold his own words and actions in ways that would keep the Lamb pleased or, at the very least, uninterested enough to let him move freely.

When the time came to make his own requests, he would be ready.

His siblings, of course, were utterly disgusted.

“Why are you even going? Who the fuck cares about what they say!?” Leshy snarled as, yet again, Kallamar got ready to go out to attend the sermon.

“Brother, we are stuck here, we might as well try and figure out how it works,” he defended himself.

“I get that, but like EVERY SINGLE MORNING, Kall? How many times do you have to go through their victory over us before getting sick of it?”

Kallamar sighed deeply. “It’s not that. It’s simply a show of goodwill, and I want to see Narinder. Is that so bad?”

Leshy bit his lip at the mention of his older brother. But before he could respond, Heket intervened, cutting the conversation off.

“You… BOW… you… ACCEPT… No matter… the reason… You… COWARD… Shame on… you!”

She yelled at him, straining her throat so much that blood started seeping through her bandages. 

All that to insult him… great.

He inhaled deeply and stepped away from the door, hurrying to the first aid kit in the cupboard. With swift movements of his four hands, he prepared fresh bandages and disinfectant to clean his sister’s wound. She watched as he removed the drenched linen cloth, hissed as his gentle touch wiped away the excess ichor, and then secured the new dressing in place, neat and clean.

Their eyes met, and she noted tears in his. Yet her expression didn’t soften, and his resolve didn’t waver.

He left the house without another word, stepping fast toward the temple, carrying on his shoulders the scorn of his own kin. Nevermind, he was used to that. It was a weight he knew all too well.

Good to see things never really change.

When he was finally satisfied with the first phase of his plan and gathered enough information on the Lamb’s character, he decided to go for part two: the act of goodwill.

“You wish to work?”

Lambert asked as Kallamar approached them after the sermon with a proposal.

“I believe it is about time I put my skills to use. After all, I owe you for sparing my siblings and me, and I am nothing but grateful. It’s only fair I contribute somehow.”

Narinder wasn’t far away, and his eyes narrowed in distrust as the slimy coward of his brother talked to Lambert. How dare he speak to them so freely? Surely the squid was planning something foul.

“Well, what an unexpected request, but a very welcome one! ”

Kallamar noted the smile on the Lamb’s face broadening and their eyes widening in surprise.

“But… what can you do? Please, I mean no offence, but I think the range of jobs for you is not as wide.”

They showed him an opening, now to test just how far he could push it.

“As you might recall, I am an expert in combat and weaponry. Your guards and missionaries could benefit from training.”

“Oh no, no no no no!” They waved their cloven hands frantically in front of them. “While I am sure you could teach them well, there is no way I am putting you anywhere near a weapon. I still have phantom pain from that time you skewered me with the sword. So I am sorry… but that’s out of the question.”

Trusted to handle a job, not enough to handle a weapon. Noted.

“Maybe you can contribute something that doesn’t involve violence or weapons. What else do you excel at?”

Kallamar pondered, his eyes pensive underneath the hood. “I could work at the healing bay as a medic or apothecary.”

“Heal and make medicine? You? The literal god of Pestilence?”

Lambert couldn’t hide their surprise this time.

“I understand the confusion. My brother probably forgot to tell you about my talents. Before being a fully trained warrior, I’ve been a healer, and joined Shamura as a field medic for centuries, studying diseases, mastered surgery, and made ointments and cures for said maladies. Before spreading the plague, I would know how to heal it.”

He felt a subtle headache, like something prodding in his mind. Was the Lamb trying to read through his words with the power of the crown? Of course, they had to, it was only natural. But what he revealed was nothing but the truth, so he allowed the intrusion without opposition.

“You’ll find I’ve been sincere,” he concluded, letting them know he knew.

The feeling vanished the moment he finished the sentence, and the Lamb looked taken aback by the sheer notion Kallamar could feel their peeking. But they have seen only the truth in his words. They spotted memories of heavy volumes with formulae, numbers they couldn’t understand, drawings of organs, limbs severed, open chests, sutures, and instruments they had never seen before, along with relieved soldiers and smiles.

“...I see.”

A long pause followed and Lambert could practically feel Narinder’s eyes stabbing the back of their neck, demanding they did not comply with the request… and yet, what leader wouldn’t take the chance to strengthen one of the most important assets in their cult? The healing bay was essential, and their most skilled nurses and medics had no professional training but the one passed on by their predecessors.

“I accept. The healing team could use four experienced hands…” Their smile disappeared as they took a step closer and pierced Kallamar’s blue eyes with their own deep black ones. “But I warn you. I will check on you and if I catch the scent of a weird illness, you are going to meet your spouses. Am I clear?”

A shiver ran through every inch of Kallamar’s body, from head to tip of his tentacles. There, that was the limit. The sore reminder of who bore the crown on their brow.

“Perfectly clear.”

As Lambert took a step back, they shifted to their warm demeanour. “I’ll be introducing you to the medical staff in the afternoon, so I expect you to be there after lunch. Until then, enjoy the rest of your morning, Kallamar.”

“I’ll be there. Thank you, Lamb.” He bowed his head respectfully, like every other follower would and left the temple with a steady pace.

As the main hall grew silent, Lambert felt a familiar presence seething behind them.

“Have you lost your senses, vessel?” Narinder stepped beside them, his eyes burning with hatred as they trailed over the figure clad in red robes and a hood.

“Quite the opposite, Nari.” Lambert turned to him with a bright smile, unfazed. “The cult is in dire need of medics, and it just so happens that he has the skills we require. I’d be a fool not to put him to work.”

They paused, sighing. “You’ve told me plenty of terrible things about him, yet somehow neglected to mention that he’s a skilled doctor. Unless, of course, what I saw in his mind was a lie. Was it?”

Narinder scoffed, tail flicking in agitation.

“No, it wasn’t a fabrication. But his skills are irrelevant! You’re exposing yourself and the cult to a sickness you can’t even comprehend. He’ll spread it under your nose, and you won’t even notice until it’s too late! You never should have spoken to him, let alone indulged him in graveyard conversations.”

His tail lashed again, betraying his nerves. He didn’t trust his brother with weapons, but he trusted him even less without them.

Lambert exhaled slowly as their temper frayed. They had endured Narinder’s mood ever since Leshy returned, and his paranoia had only worsened with each sibling’s arrival.

“How am I supposed to know where he stands if I don’t speak to him?”

They took a steadying breath, then grasped Narinder’s paws in their cloven hands, squeezing gently.

“He isn’t dangerous, Narinder. He isn’t a savage like Leshy or a zealot like Heket, and so far, he hasn’t done anything to suggest he’s scheming against us.”

Their thumbs brushed over the bandages on his knuckles, a small, soothing motion.

“I haven’t forgotten who he is or what he’s done. But I’ve given all of you a chance and it’s only fair he gets his. Besides, he’ll be surrounded by people all day long, constantly watched, and I’ll personally check in on him regularly. If he steps out of line or breathes the wrong way, I will know immediately. So… trust me?”

The cat didn’t agree but conceded to the Lamb’s decision. 

He hated how little control he had over his own enemies, he hated that someone else decided what to do with them and not him. Leshy and Heket, he could stand to tolerate as long as they stayed out of his way, but Kallamar… The squid was malady itself. His mere existence made his stomach twist uncomfortably, and to make everything worse, he knew that someday he and Shamura would be reunited.

“Ugh…” his tail swayed in annoyance as he stepped out of the Temple to tend to his duties.
 
To see them both again getting along perfectly, understanding each other with a nod of the head or a glance. He hated how perfect their relationship had always been. Of course, he would never admit to his jealousy, but he strived to be Shamura’s favourite only to see them always turn to his older brother for counsel, opinions and even menial tasks like braiding their long, silky hair.

He remembered asking them once if he could do it, only to be denied in favour of Kallamar, AGAIN.

Could Narinder bear to see that once more? To endure this torment?  

But then why should he care? His sibling betrayed him, so why would he want to be in their favour? That rivalry between brothers was long dead and buried. Shamura deserved nothing but hate, and so did Kallamar.

His fist clenched so tightly the aches in his arms began to flare under the bandages, and that stabbing pain reminded him, he had to calm down. It was Lambert’s problem now… he needed to trust them more.

The Lamb on the other hand, kept feeling a buzzing sensation in their chest for this unexpected turn of events. Were they looking forward to introducing Kallamar to the medic team so much? Yes, they found themself thinking. It was something new and when you have been leading the cult for centuries, new is good, new is thrilling. What could the former bishop bring to the table? His siblings didn’t give anything new to the cult so far, so curiosity was eating at them.

Of course, Kallamar would be there on time.

He had taken lunch alone in the peace of his new lodging while carefully plotting his approach. He would present himself with politeness, keeping a low profile. Diligent in his work, yet drawing as little attention to himself as possible. A far cry from his past methods that often saw him being the light in the middle of a room full of moths, but a necessary strategy to gain the trust of his new colleagues, and most importantly, the Lamb’s.

While he waited, his eyes roamed over the building’s structure, clearly a provincial setup. The main entrance opened onto a waiting hall, with a corridor stretching toward the ward rooms. He had seen two so far, but there were more. Four in total? Did the doctor have an office? Was there a dedicated surgery room? He couldn't be certain. His observations, limited to what he had seen firsthand, only confirmed one thing: the place was tiny.

He sighed, reminiscing about the grandeur of his hospital in Anchordeep. He caused most of the illnesses, yes, but he had also been the cure for all. His expertise had shaped every doctor and nurse who served under him, his knowledge woven into the very fabric of the institution.

A small, bittersweet smile tugged at his lips. That was where he had met Saleos.

The dodgy jellyfish was posing as a doctor, using his patients as live specimens to test his abominable concoctions, boasting of miracle cures that could mend any affliction. What an audacious bastard. Kallamar had adored him instantly.

Naturally, the months of flaying, torture, and the eventual imprisonment were inevitable consequences for one so arrogant as to place himself above his own god. But oh, what a charming piece of filth he had been. 
He used to call Kallamar "my sweet Panacea," the cure to all his suffering.

A deep sigh reminded him just how sharp the pain in his chest was, but before grief could fully settle in, Kallamar noticed the Lamb slooooowly drifting into his field of vision, waving gently.

“Hello, Kallamar.”

“Good afternoon, Lamb.” He nodded respectfully with a smile, quietly relieved that they had successfully learned not to startle him.

“You looked pensive. Nervous for your first day?”

Kallamar did his best not to interpret the question as mockery. “Just enough, but I am ready whenever it is most convenient for you.”

The introduction to the other team members was brief, as there were only three of them, after all. A moth apothecary named Malthys, the seal medic Giah, and a Bernese dog nurse by the name of Aurelia. Of the three, he had only met the latter before, and she was competent enough since she had been the one to patch him up upon his arrival.

“This is Kallamar, fresh out of Anchordeep,” the Lamb announced with their usual formal tone. “He used to be a doctor, so I thought he would be a great addition to your already excellent team. Please be aware that he is fully deaf, so be mindful of that when speaking to him or approaching him.”

The squid smiled politely and lowered his hood. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Malthys and Giah stared.

A familiar pang twisted in his chest. Of course, they would stare…he was hideous.

The Lamb, sensing the moment, stepped forward and said something to the team, something Kallamar didn’t catch, before skipping off with a carefree wave. 

“The pleasure is all mine!” Giah chimed in the moment their leader was gone, stepping forward with an eager smile on her pleasantly round face. “It can get a little hectic around here from time to time, but we’re a tightly knit team. We handle every emergency together, and I’m sure you’ll fit right in! You will love it here, I’ll love you here—I mean, you are so welcome here, and—wait, have we met before? I would remember a face like that!”

Malthys sighed and patted the overly excited seal on the shoulder, his long violet wings with golden accents unfurling slightly. “Stop that. You’re making a fool of yourself,” he murmured adjusting the glasses on his nose bridge before turning to Kallamar with a composed nod, extending his hand. “It’s good to have someone new. I look forward to working together. And if there’s anything I can do for you, please, just ask.”

Kallamar politely returned the gesture, shaking his hand. “I will keep that in mind. Thank you both for the warm welcome.”

Aurelia grinned widely and signed for him instead of talking. “Good to see you again. Not delirious or vomit-y anymore, I see.”

“All thanks to your efforts.”

“Ah! Aren’t you a good-mannered one?” She wagged her tail. “You seemed polite even while throwing up your guts. People are going to like you, I can tell! But now, let's get you to work.”

The day had been calm: just a couple of patients with upset stomachs and a sprained ankle. Nothing that camellia tea and bed rest couldn’t fix. Kallamar made an incredible effort to remain humble, observing quietly as the others instructed him on procedures he found basic, sometimes even wrong. He held his tongue, nodding along, but the feeling of being watched never left him.

Not just glanced at. Stared at.

He resisted the urge to pull his hood back over his head as it would be unprofessional. And better to look ugly than incompetent, even if it was a close call…

Of course there were many questions thrown his way about his past, mostly by Giah, and he came up with the most believable story he could. He worked as a doctor in a village that was razed by heretics. The Lamb saved him, but he was injured and lost his hearing. Easy really. No one had any trouble believing a story that was shared by so many in the village.

And by the end of the day, Kallamar had a clear grasp of what needed improvement or, in some cases, complete restructuring.

For starters, there was a doctor’s office, but it had been repurposed as a storage room. That wouldn’t do. An actual office would allow for proper diagnoses, preventing patients from being clustered in the wards together for too long before their ailments were even identified. Then there was the so-called apothecary room, better described as an apothecary’s closet.

Malthys, slender as he was, had to tie up his wings with a ribbon to avoid knocking over vials while working. Completely unacceptable. And the outdated medical knowledge being used? A patchwork of old wives' tales and half-remembered transcriptions in tattered books. As for the instruments… Ancient Ones preserve him. He had to physically slam a hand over his mouth to keep from blurting something out.

His reason told him to keep quiet. His instincts screamed for immediate action.

Once at the shelter, he hurried through dinner with Leshy and Heket (who was still mad at him), before locking himself in his room. He spent the night feverishly jotting down notes, sketching new instruments, drafting suggestions, refining formulas, and frustratingly talking to himself.

They aren’t even using menticide mushrooms as painkillers! What do they think healing is? Waving crystals around and handing out bouquets of camellias? Unbelievable.

He wished he could say he held no resentment, that he didn't blame the Lamb. But that would be a lie. They had destroyed his dominion, his books, his knowledge, his temple, his hospital and salvaged nothing, branding everything as heresy. Yet, here they were, running a cult that, if left in its current state, could be crippled by something as mundane as an outbreak of stomach flu.

The following day, the former bishop marched toward the temple with the determination of a sleep-deprived squid on a mission, carrying a thick stack of papers neatly arranged, meticulously detailed, and utterly non-negotiable.

Low profile…? Well, that didn’t last long, it had never been him. It wasn’t before, and it certainly wasn’t going to be now.

“Good morning, Kallamar! What… is all this?” Lambert tilted their head, staring at the stack now occupying their desk in the quiet of their office, tucked behind the temple’s main chamber.

“It is the future of your healing bay, Lamb.” Kallamar’s tone was polite and measured. "Yesterday, I observed. Today, I offer you solutions.”

“Your staff is motivated and competent but lacks the resources to do their best work,” he continued. “Which means your flock is at risk. Perhaps lives have already been lost due to inadequate instruments and outdated knowledge.”

The Lamb narrowed their eyes, scanning the pages. To them, it was gibberish.

“I can’t make sense of half of this,” they admitted. “Where do I even begin?”

Kallamar sighed, inched closer and flipped the first page. “Right. Apologies. Let’s start here. This instrument would be used for blood transfusions, a real lifesaver! But it requires glass made from an exceptionally fine sand. Anchordeep has plenty, if I can mark a suitable spot on a map. Once gathered by your missionaries, hand this design to the refinery along with all the other materials. They’ll know what to do, I hope.”

He turned to another page, pointing at a precise, realistic drawing. Lambert noted that even without knowing what they were looking at, the art was impressive.

“This one,” Kallamar continued, “is called a microscope. Likely, none remain intact in Anchordeep, it’s too delicate even in normal circumstances. But the smuggler might have one. You’ll want to downplay its value, or they’ll gouge you for it, but make sure it comes from my old facilities. With it, I can identify all sorts of viruses and bacteria instead of relying on guesswork. You’ll have the cure faster.”

Lambert didn’t look at the papers anymore. They were locked on him.

He was passionate, borderline obsessive, and they could feel it in his energy. And while they didn’t even need to read his mind to know he was confident in his knowledge, Narinder’s warning still lingered.

“How do I know this benefits me and my flock?” they asked, after placing a cloven hand on his shoulder, “and isn’t just for you?”

Their eyes met. Pitch-black against sea-blue.

“I understand your mistrust,” Kallamar did not waver. “But this isn’t superstition. It’s knowledge. Facts. Science. If you think I’m lying, please go ahead. My mind is open to your prying.”

Lambert shook their head. They searched his gaze, but did not invade.

“That won’t be necessary,” they murmured. “I believe in what you’re saying. But what I want to know is… why? Why does this matter so much to you? Why so passionate? Why so dedicated to improving MY cult? You could have just worked with what was already there and let it wash over you.”

For a moment, Kallamar said nothing as a flicker of fear stirred at the back of his mind. He swallowed it down.

And then, firmly, without hesitation.

“Because I am a healer.”

A beat.

“I was born to heal. It is my calling. My purpose. No matter what my title was.”

Kallamar stopped a moment and realised what he said.

He had been a young god once, a happy squidling with a pointy crown and the power to heal his people in exchange for trinkets, praises and jewels, who enjoyed the peace of his little underwater cult devoted to health and prosperity.

Then Shamura—

“But yes, perhaps in some ways, I am doing this for myself.”

He let out a slow breath, chasing away the memory.

“If you think that’s not good enough, I’ll take back my papers and never speak of it again. You are right, it’s your cult, your rules. I apologise for overstepping my station.”

He gulped down his shame, lowering his eyes. He allowed himself to be seen more than he wanted; his own mask had cracked in front of his enemy because of his stupid obsession.
How naive for a vicious god slayer, they would disapprove.

But Lambert’s reaction was different from what he expected. The cult leader smiled warmly, genuinely, as they stood up holding their hand out to him. 

The squid tilted his head and took it, confused.

“Welcome on board, Doctor Kallamar.”

Chapter Text

There wasn’t much in Kallamar’s memory before acquiring the Blue Crown.

The gaps in his mind could have been the work of the godly artifact itself, erasing the past with a cold, surgical precision. Or, perhaps, there had simply never been much worth remembering to begin with. He preferred that second option: it felt more plausible, more reasonable, more comforting.

And yet, despite his efforts to convince himself otherwise, something always lingered. It wasn’t a memory exactly, not something he could touch or see. It was more like a shadow, a fragment of sensation that crept into his thoughts at the most unexpected moments: fleeting feelings and distant emotions lurking just beneath the surface.

Loneliness.

He was always on his own, no doubt about it. He probably never had a home, never knew the comfort of a village or the warmth of a community or a family. Instead, he drifted, a small squidling, aimlessly wandering the vast, empty spaces of the ocean. He couldn’t remember why, though. He couldn’t remember what he was looking for. The search itself felt endless, as if he was trying to reach something, but the why of it always eluded him.

Haste.

A deep, gnawing urgency pulled at him, pushing him forward. His tentacles twitched restlessly, never still, as if caught in a constant, anxious rhythm. Day and night, he moved through the deepest parts of the abyss. His mind was clouded with a sense of desperation, but he couldn’t place the source. Was something chasing him? Some unseen predator or force? He didn’t know. If it was truly important, if it were something he had to remember, surely he would have...

Darkness.

Wherever he was, it must have been so dark. His eyes longed for the faint glimmers of light, and he found solace in the small glowing crystals that illuminated the abyss around him. Their soft, ethereal glow was the only warmth in the perpetual night, and how beautiful they were! He would often dream of a big house, a place to call his own, where he could collect them, one in every color! Someday, he thought. Someday. 

Rot.

Oh, the smell. It was foul, revolting even, and it clung to him like a second skin. It wasn’t just the thick, musty scent of decay that followed him, it was as if he had been soaked in the rotting carcasses of dead fish, their stench clinging to him, festering in every part of his little body. It was everywhere. But after a while, the smell became a part of him. It became familiar. He could almost convince himself it wasn’t so bad, bearable even. It couldn’t be that bad, could it?

Ink.

Sometimes it happened. Completely ordinary for all little squids his age when they were upset, there was no shame in that. After all, he was upset often when his chest played squeeze. But at least, he was far more special than all the other hatchlings, his ink was red.

Hope.

He couldn’t wait to grow up! His kind was supposed to turn into vibrant, colorful creatures, blessed with markings that shimmered in brilliant shades. He would spend countless nights imagining what colors would adorn his skin: red like fire, blue like the deepest seas, purple like the twilight sky. But each time he looked at himself, he saw only dull, pale gray with black spots, nothing like the radiant hues he longed for.
It was normal, he reminded himself. He was just a squidling after all, and he was bound to change. More black spots appeared each day, slowly covering his body. It was only a matter of time before the colours would come and become the beautiful squid he knew he was meant to be.

Song.

There wasn’t much to do for a tiny squid travelling all alone in the abyss, and sometimes things could even be downright scary. So his little voice echoed through the dark as he carried a tune or invented words to keep himself entertained. He loved singing, his songs were his best friends, but it was hard when his throat burned, maybe he overdid it at times.

Glow.

That time, when he fell, it was really hard to get back up. His body ached, and he inked himself from his mouth again, the world spinning, everything heavy and muffled around him. Maybe he would have taken just one more little nap before continuing his journey. Yes, a long, deep sleep could be exactly what he needed.
But then, a blue glow appeared. It was faint at first, like the distant flicker of a star, but it called to him, a teasing light inviting him to rise and follow. Perhaps he could nap later. This was far more interesting.

So, how did he become a god?

The squidling resurfaced from the abyss wearing a crown, and he felt changed. The first time he saw sunlight dancing through the water, illuminating his skin, he gazed in awe. Teal, streaked with azure and deep blue markings. That’s when Kallamar was truly born and his life and memories began.

From that day on, wherever he went, people smiled at him, whoever he touched immediately felt better, no matter their affliction and soon, his name spread like wildfire: the miracle child, the squid who could cure any disease, the God of Health. 
One by one, followers started gathering, praying, calling his name, and showing him what true devotion felt like.

He built his temple at the heart of a village ravaged by a terrible sickness, one that had already claimed too many elders and too many children. He cured them, all of them. Every soul in that little settlement owed their life to him and him alone!

So they kneeled. They sang. They painted and decorated. They brought him offerings made of golden trinkets and shining crystals. They wrote stories, spread the word, so that all might come to praise little Kallamar, God of Health.

Everything had happened so quickly. But why question it when, in the end, it all made sense? He found his place in the ocean, where everyone was delighted to be around him and built him a big house full of pretty crystals. He simply became who he was meant to be.

He was born to heal. It was his calling. His purpose.

And he felt nothing but joy in those years. He was warm. Safe. Loved.

If only it had lasted.

He didn’t know who they were or what they wanted. One night, he woke to the sound of screams from his followers as their lives were snuffed out one by one while the village was consumed by flames.

And by the time he reached his temple, everyone he knew and loved was dead.

Pale faces frozen in terror, eyes wide with the memory of their final agony, the pain, the regret of never seeing another sunrise.

Red. Red everywhere.

The air reeked of iron and death as he stood in a pool of it, his tentacles drenched in fresh blood. Around him, his disciples lay in grotesque stillness, their bodies twitching with the last echoes of life. 

Shattered skulls crushed open, spilling pulped brain matter onto the desecrated ground. Necks twisted at impossible angles. Bones jutted through torn flesh. Teeth lay scattered like broken pearls from smashed jaws. Severed tendrils and shredded fins littered the temple floor. Guts, thick and glistening, spilled from torn bellies, steaming in the night air.

Kallamar's scream ripped through the silence, raw and horrified until the cold tip of a spear pressed against his throat, silencing him.

The eight-legged abomination loomed over him, clad in dark purple and black armour with jagged spikes. The weapon, the size, the strength, none of it terrified the squidling as much as their eyes did.

Empty. Cold. Lifeless. Devoid of mercy.

They were the monstrosity called Shamura.

“I—I am not a warrior!”

He pleaded with a trembling voice as the God of War stood above him, an unmovable force of destruction. The spear, still soaked with the crimson of his people, sank into his flesh with deliberate slowness, spilling just enough blood to drip down his collar. A cruel warning.

If he wanted to survive, he needed to make his case fast.

“I can cure the incurable—t-the infections, the illnesses!... t-the wounds!”

His stammering did little to stop the pain growing in his neck or the terror flowing through his veins. Around him, his temple lay in ruin, its beauty defiled, its sacred colourful halls bathed in gore. 

His heartbeat pounded in his ears, deafening, frantic.

He had never experienced anything like this before…

This was true fear.

Shamura incarnated it.

“Heal?”

The word dripped with disgust, as if the very concept was offensive to them. “Is that your purpose, puny god?”

Maybe they would let him go. Maybe if he begged enough! No one could be that heartless… right?

“Y-Yes…!” Kallamar clung to the kind of hope only a child could have. “I want nothing to do with violence… I-I just want to deal with life! People n-need it!”

He tried to steady himself, but the panic coiling in his chest made it impossible.

“I will never be a threat to you, I swear!”

A pause.

A moment of consideration. Or perhaps something else entirely. A thought. A plan.

Kallamar barely dared to breathe as the spear at his throat shifted, its form melting into smoke before reshaping into a Purple Crown that settled atop the monster’s head.

“There is much more potential in your power than you even realise.” Their voice was calm but glacial.

“Y-you’re sparing me?! Thank you—thank you so much!”

But that naive hope was wasted on Shamura. He had escaped death only to meet something worse.

“Mph.” They scoffed. “I am not sparing you. In exchange for your life, I am taking you with me.”

Kallamar barely had time to process the words before clawed hands seized his throat, lifting him effortlessly until they were eye to eye.

“And turn you into something actually useful.”

“W-what…?” The word barely escaped him, choked by fear and the tightening grip.

“I will elevate you. Give you a worthy purpose.”

Tears spilled down his cheeks, sliding over the hand that held him in place.

“Do everything I say, and you might become someone of importance in the pantheon I am shaping.”

The squidling stared into those bottomless pits, searching for life.

He found none.

Kallamar jolted awake as he felt a hand shaking him out of his restless sleep.

His breath was uneven, and his heart was beating violently against his chest as he saw Leshy sitting beside him. The room was still engulfed in darkness, with only his trusty candle flame bringing comfort into the dead of night.

“L-Leshy? Brother, is anything the matter? Are you alright?” he hurried to sit up and grab the worm’s hand.

“I am alright,” he said enunciating clearly for his brother. “But are you alright? I heard you cry and… I just wanted to make sure.”

Kallamar swallowed hard, feeling his throat raw from muffled sobs and, as he raised a trembling hand to his face, his fingers met the damp trail of tears. “Dear me… I apologize, brother. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“Naaaaah, it’s ok, literally just got back home anyway…” 

Leshy had taken the habit of having night time walks. Everything was quieter and easier to navigate for him when everyone else was sleeping. Kallamar suspected it granted him some comfort.

The worm squeezed his hand tighter and took a deep breath, trying to word his worry as gently as one like the bishop of Chaos possibly could.  

“You often cry when you sleep,” he said, lowering his voice, but making sure his deaf brother could see him clearly. “Heket says to leave you in peace, but I want to know if there is anything I can do to help you.”

The squid gulped down a knot and tried to regain his composure, he had to be strong for his little brother.

“Oh, I didn’t realise… I am so sorry, Leshy. I never meant to trouble you.”

“Stop.” The thin fingers closed tighter on his. “You don’t trouble me.”

“What were you dreaming of, Kall? Want to talk about it?” 

No, I don’t. I want to forget it all. I want to let it drown deep in the abyss where no one can ever find it. I want every bit of it to vanish and never return to my mind again.

“... Purgatory,” he lied in a shaky voice. Seeing his death over and over again was indeed a plague to his mind, after all. “But I wager it is no news, you must have the same horrible dreams, don’t you?”

He quickly diverted the attention away from himself.

“Yeah… It’s scary, isn’t it? Sometimes I think this one is the dream. This mortal reality is so absurd that I believe I am still in there, dying and this is like… a fucked up interlude. You understand what I mean?”

“I understand.” Kallamar sighed softly, his hand gently stroking Leshy’s cheek. His younger brother leaned into the touch, a quiet comfort settling between them as he continued. “I wish I could’ve been here with you sooner. I can’t even imagine what it must have felt like to wake up in this mortal world all alone. I’m so grateful I had you and Heket. Without you, I might have lost my mind. Thank you, my dear brother.”

His words had an effect on Leshy, who smiled faintly in return. “You’re welcome, Kall... You know, it was a shock—hell, it still is. But… I don’t think I want to talk about it.”

The worm inched closer, leaning against his brother. Kallamar welcomed him into his embrace, instinctively pulling him in. Leshy felt so small in his arms, just skin and bones beneath the soft fur and leaves. To think that the God of Chaos had once been as tall as him, and twice as wide.

“Everything at your pace. I am going nowhere.”

His younger brother nodded and hugged him tighter.

“Remember when you were a hatchling? You used to sleep in my bed, coiled around my tentacles… Narinder said you did that because you thought I was a big bag of worms…” he sighed. Narinder always thought he was the most hilarious person in the room. “But you were often afraid at night. Afraid of being alone and lost like the day we found you.”

Leshy nodded and faced up to speak. “Yeah, I remember I did it for years… Embarrassing, really.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he shook his head and took a deep breath. “You can stay and sleep here whenever you want. I don’t care if you are three thousand, five hundred, forty-two years, seven months, three weeks and 5 days old or a freshly hatched larva. If it makes you feel better, just squeeze in.”

His little brother smiled and nodded. “Thanks… maybe I can stay a little. After all, you don’t have to be afraid I’ll bite your spouses.” 

A sudden jolt of realization shot through Leshy as the words left his mouth, and he quickly clamped it shut, cursing himself for not thinking before speaking.

The memory stung deeply, but it brought a bittersweet smile to Kallamar’s face. “I did warn them you bite…” he said softly, his voice faltering. “But your fuzzy, green cuteness always won them over, logic be damned.”

Leshy caught the breaking of his voice and hurried to hold onto him, desperate to offer comfort. “Sorry, Kall… I didn’t mean to–”

“Hush, it’s alright…” Kallamar stopped him gently. “...It will be alright, eventually.”

He welcomed his younger brother’s tight hug as silence fell and he struggled to stop his sorrow taking over again. 

As they parted slowly, he steadied his will while his mind raced back to his dreams.

“Stay as much as you like…” he murmured, feeling the worm’s tail wrapping around his tentacles like he was still a hatchling. 

“Your family will never hurt you.”

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

The following month saw Doctor Kallamar’s popularity surge to the stars.

The Lamb cautiously invested missionaries and resources into his project, and their trust was rewarded with tangible results and faster recoveries. In their weekly assessment, they found nothing but delightful conversations and happy coworkers. So, in return, they made sign language classes mandatory for everyone, including themselves, and ensured that Kallamar had uniforms tailored to fit his uncommon body perfectly, allowing him to work at his full potential without clumsy or restrictive robes.

Suddenly, all eyes in the cult were on this exotic new Doctor who performed “surgery” and used the “bad mushrooms” to heal people. And Kallamar couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride that made him walk a little taller.

He poured his heart and soul into this new endeavor, hardly realizing how it was slowly consuming him. But how could he resist? Everyone he met treated him with remarkable kindness, and his hard work was rewarded with nothing but warmth and praise.

That was… refreshing, addictive even!

On the other hand, tension at home had only grown worse. Heket still watched him with her disapproving stare, and approaching her about Leshy’s problem was becoming increasingly difficult. She deflected every attempt at reasoning, insisting that their only concern should be finding a way to make the youngest eat. But something bothered Kallamar. It was as if she purposely avoided discussing the details, and he started to strongly suspect that she knew more than she let on. The root of the problem ran deep in Leshy’s mind, that was a given, but why deny the obvious so blatantly?

Of course, his sister cared about the immediate issue, his survival, managing the symptoms, and she wasn’t wrong per se. But that alone wouldn’t be enough in the long run. And so, their conversations often spiraled into arguments.

And to make things even worse, how long until Shamura would join them? It was only a matter of time until the Lamb set off for a crusade and completed their mission.

The mere thought sent a shudder down Kallamar’s spine and twisted his stomach with unease. Every time his mind drifted in that direction, both happiness and worry assaulted him, and he had to forcefully wrench it away, grasping onto any distraction he could find. 

Wha luck that his new workplace provided plenty of those!

“These are undoubtedly spider bites…” Kallamar murmured as he examined the deep gashes on the patient’s right arm. It was a type of wound he knew all too well.

Late in the evening, the wolf had been rushed into the healing bay. The moment she returned from her mission in Silk Cradle, it was clear she was in dire condition, and any delay in treatment could be fatal.

“Apothecary, could you bring the antitoxin while I take a blood sample, please?”

Malthys gave a quick nod before hurrying to the newly designated apothecary lab.

The Lamb had plans to expand the healing bay soon, under Kallamar’s suggestion, but for now, the doctor and chemist shared the space while the cramped closet had mercifully been returned to its original purpose as storage. An arrangement neither of them minded, as they had quickly discovered they worked remarkably well together.

While Kallamar was more experienced, Malthys absorbed his teachings like a sponge, hanging onto every word with a sharp mind and an insatiable drive to learn. Their discussions often turned into stimulating exchanges as they debated formulas, refining medicines pushing each other toward new solutions.

Kallamar couldn’t deny it, he felt lucky. It was rare to find someone who could keep up with him, let alone challenge him in such an engaging way. He had no patience for incompetence, and yet here was Malthys, not just a capable apothecary but a good intellectual match.

As he disinfected the wound while simultaneously drawing a blood sample with his other set of hands, the patient remained conscious. She watched him work nervously, but she hadn’t spoken a word since her arrival.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked, glancing up into her brown eyes. They were already hazy, and he knew she wouldn’t remain lucid for much longer.

“N-Neruna…” she stammered, her mouth dry as the taste of blood lingered on her tongue. Her bushy grey tail flicked weakly.

“Do you remember the color of the spider that bit you, Neruna?” a mere exercise to assess her mind and keep her active.

“I-It was… blue… sorta… maybe purple? The light was shit… It had green on it too.”

Kallamar mentally noted her description. He knew Silk Cradle like the back of his hand, and in his time there, he had encountered more than his fair share of its unsavoury denizens, and that sounded accurate enough for the venomous ones.

Her brain worked, good, she wasn't too far gone.

“Neruna, you’re going to be fine.” Kallamar offered a smile as he finished drawing her blood. “We’re going to administer an antitoxin to slow the venom in your system. Then, in the next days, the apothecary and I will prepare a treatment tailored specifically for you.”

His voice was warm, steady and reassuring. “Some time in our care, and you’ll be good as new.”

Neruna’s eyes widened, and a relieved smile spread across her face as her tail gave an eager wag.

Malthys returned with the correct vial of orange liquid and Kallamar wasted no time administering the antitoxin. “You might feel a bit dizzy, maybe a little foggy, but that’s completely normal. You’ll sleep like a pup after this.”

The apothecary stood beside him, captivated.

He had offered to assist as usual, but Kallamar never seemed to need it. The squid moved with an effortless grace, his four hands working in perfect harmony: stitching wounds, applying medication and securing bandages while his tentacles held instruments with the practiced ease of someone used to working alone. And yet, amid such efficiency, there was always gentleness. A quiet reassurance in the way he held the patient’s paw and in the soft murmur of his voice as he worked.

Malthys had never seen anything like it. Never met anyone like him.

It was mesmerizing. No… HE was mesmerizing.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding as Kallamar finally stepped away, allowing the patient to rest. And only then did Malthys dare to look away, adjusting the glasses on his nose bridge quickly, afraid that if he stared any longer, it would become too obvious just how much he wanted to keep watching.

“Doctor…” Neruna wagged her tail, her big, wonky smile still present as she watched the squid step away.

“You have wonderful eyes.”

Kallamar blinked, then let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “She lost her mind,” he murmured, turning to Malthys with amusement.

But Malthys didn’t laugh. He only smiled, his long, feathered antennae twitched as he watched Kallamar for a moment too long before replying, “We better let her rest… and get to work on the blood sample.”

Despite having his uniform stained in blood, vomit and Ancient Ones know what else most of the time, Kallamar felt a sense of accomplishment and purpose. All this keeping busy was the perfect way to stifle the sense of emptiness. People around him were constantly moving, the place was cluttered to capacity with familiar objects, instruments, vials, with no shelf left empty. The mind actively searching for solutions to problems and his hands always touching and always working. 

The silence was kept at bay in this new little reality.

Back in the office with Malthys, he finally allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief. Peeling off his bloodstained gloves, he sank into his chair resting his head in his hands, just for a moment.

The apothecary sat at his own desk, carefully tending to the sample, diligently preparing it for analysis.

Kallamar often found himself appreciating the presence of the moth in the room. The violently bright yellow fur and violet wings formed a striking contrast to the ascetic atmosphere of the healing bay and he sometimes wondered what his voice would sound like. 

He imagined it to be deep and soft-spoken, based on the delicate way he handled the vials and instruments. Haborym had a calm, soothing tone, one that could lull him to sleep in the worst of his days.

The familiar ache in his chest came back and he hurried to swallow it away.

He saw the moth shifting slightly and his lips moving, but he wasn’t facing him, and Kallamar missed it.

“Did you say something?”

Realising his mistake, the apothecary turned around and bowed his head in apology. His hands left the instruments and began signing slowly, tentatively.

“You can go home if you want. It’s late, and your shift ended two hours ago, Kallamar.”

“It’s quite alright… I’m not tired.” He lied, forcing a smile. “And you might need help.”

“I’ve managed this place on my own for a long time before you arrived, Doctor. Don’t you trust me?” the moth teased with a playful grin.

“Don’t be absurd, I trust you completely.”
Kallamar stood up and walked around his desk, leaning against it to better see the colleague’s signs.

“Then… why are you still here?” he pressed, daring to ask. “You ALWAYS overstay.”

The squid paused, taken aback by the remark.

He couldn’t answer honestly. 
That would mean admitting he didn’t want to go home and face Heket’s cruel judgment. He’d have to admit he feared the silence of his room, the crushing weight of loneliness that filled it at night. He’d have to confess how terrified he was of the darkness and his own thoughts. He’d have to confront his nightmares, his deepest fears and his grief out loud.

“Perhaps, I just enjoy the company.” Not a complete truth, not a complete lie.

The words made Malthys’ heart skip a beat, and his yellow cheeks turned a warm shade of honey. “You do…?”

“Why not?” Kallamar smiled softly. “You’re competent, precise, organized, and delightful to talk to. I haven’t had a coworker I could truly rely on in a thousand years— well figuratively speaking, of course.”

Malthys’ violet wings fluttered slightly, and his antennae perked up as he smiled shyly.

“Thank you, I…”

He hesitated, pausing to collect his thoughts. 

The healing bay was empty save for the two of them and the heavily sedated wolf. Sure, this was far from the candlelight dinner scenario he envisioned, but this could be his only chance. Kallamar showed him an opening and he couldn’t just let it go and wave goodbye to it.

He rose and took a few measured steps toward him, feeling the weight of each movement in his bones.

“I think she was right.”

He declared clearly, allowing the doctor to read the determination in his lips as he stopped in front of him.

“About what?”

Kallamar's curiosity was piqued as an odd, yet familiar, spark stirred in his stomach.

Malthys took a deep breath, steadying his voice. “You have the most wonderful eyes.”

The squid chuckled softly and waved his hands dismissively. “Please, she was rambling.”

“She wasn’t rambling, I tell you, it’s true.”

As he tilted his head slightly, Kallamar stopped leaning and stood up right, facing him, looking straight through his glasses into the dark purple eyes. 

“Do you really think so?”

Malthys paused for a moment, his antennae twitching as he stepped a little closer, capturing the faint scent of dried flowers and herbs mixing with the disinfectant that always surrounded Kallamar. 

“I know so,” he replied, his voice warm. “I’m a moth, and I’m deadly attracted to light.”

He paused, gulping down the embarrassment, letting his courage come up. 

“And you glow, Kallamar. You blind me.”

The moth’s gaze lingered as he tentatively reached out with his hand hovering just above Kallamar’s, as though waiting for permission.

The squid couldn’t help but be intrigued as a shiver ran through him. 

He wasn’t completely oblivious to the attention Giah had been paying to him, nor the general glances thrown his way from patients and followers, and he always suspected Mal’s interest was more than professional.

But surely he hadn’t expected anyone to come onto him so soon, certainly not with this faulty, horrible body! Mortal standards might be lower than he thought. If he still had his own form, he’d have to fend off swarms of moths, not just one. Nonetheless, curiosity suddenly stirred within him. 

What would sex be like in this mortal body? What could this form offer that he hadn’t experienced before?

He smiled and allowed Malthys to gently place his hand on his. The moth was undeniably appealing: bright eyes that gleamed with intelligence, pleasantly colourful wings that fluttered with quiet grace. He was attentive, followed all the hygiene procedures, and took care of himself. Healthy. 
All the things Kallamar valued.

Why not indulge, then? What stopped him? This moment could be a step into something beneficial that might fill the silence, drowning it out entirely for a while.

Yes, it would work.

“Say what you want to say, Malthys.” Kallamar’s voice was an explicit provocation along with the charming smirk curling at the corner of his lips. The signature smile that made many fall to their knees.

The moth hesitated, his breath catching, a flush creeping across his cheeks as he looked up at Kallamar, his wings fluttering nervously.

“...I am deadly attracted to you.”

The words landed like a spark. His godly confidence surged back, as violent as a tide crashing on a shore, sweeping away the uncertainty. These were familiar words, the kind of lines he was once used to as compliments were lavished upon him by his pleading followers and desperate suitors. He recognized the flutter in his chest and the tingling sensation in his stomach.

He may have legs, a disfigured triangle face, and a strange, unfamiliar body, but he still retained all of his charm. Excellent.

“…I would lie if I said it wasn’t mutual.” He dared.

Malthys’ puffy antennae shot up, his blush deepening to a rich honeyed hue. His breath hitched. “Y-you like me?”

Kallamar didn’t answer with words. Instead, he let his fingers trail along the curve of Malthys’ jaw. He felt the moth shiver beneath him, his body softening, melting into the sensation.
The doctor’s other hands slid to the apothecary’s waist, his grip firm as he gently pulled him, closing the space between them. The warmth of their bodies mingled, the air suddenly thick with electricity.

“Isn’t it evident?” Kallamar murmured, his voice smooth. “I like you, Mal. And I want to indulge with you.”

The moth suddenly felt drunk on those words, that tone, that smile.

“But I have one condition.”

“Anything, just name it...”

He was desperate. Almost pathetic, yet so sweet. He would have liked someone like Malthys as a follower back in the day: a skilled apothecary, a rare and exotic winged creature… oh, he would have showered him with priceless jewels, gold and crystals to compliment his colours and he would have made a fine disciple out of him, perhaps even a husband had things been different.

He cupped his chin, tilting his face up until their eyes locked. “No feelings. Just sex. We keep it casual and nothing more. Do you think that’s acceptable?”

A pause.

“Well, I guess it could be acceptable. But I—”

“No.”

The squid silenced him with a delicate finger pressed against his lips. “You must understand, I cannot possibly give you more than that…” he said unwavering. 

“This could be the beginning of something truly beneficial for both, but we have to be on the same page or working together could become unbearable. So please, if you think you don’t want that, it’s perfectly fine and we’ll carry on as if nothing ever happened.”

Despite his curiosity and his willingness to engage in this new intriguing game with Mal, Kallamar wasn’t about to play without rules. His heart was shattered into a million shards, buried deep in the damp soil of the graveyard along with his beloved spouses and won’t be emerging ever again. That was a fact that no amount of curiosity or arousal could change, and it was only fair he made it clear from the very start.

Malthys swallowed hard, his pulse drumming in his ears.
 
It was love at first sight for him, and during this month working side-by-side, he grew attracted to the squid so badly as to crave his touch, his attention and his company. 

He hoped for dates, sex, of course, but with the hope that it would develop into a relationship. Perhaps it was still alright to switch the phases of his vision and start from sex, then dates, then maybe…But the terms were crystalline. No attachments. No love. Just indulgence, fleeting and without consequence.

He couldn't believe everything escalated so quickly and bluntly, from a medical duo with a great affinity for this new coworkers-with-benefits situation. But then again, Malthys was no child, and neither was Kallamar: the time of shy interactions, blushing cheeks and dancing around desire was long lost in their teenage years.
This was a fair game between two grown gentlemen with the clearest of rules. He could either accept and be rewarded with a pleasing arrangement… or refuse and have nothing at all.

But what if he fell?

Or worse, what if he already did?

He was a chemist, a moth of science, he could harness his heart if he so wished.

So he smiled and steadied his voice: “I understand and I accept.”

Kallamar’s expression relaxed as his tentacles slithered behind the apothecary, trailing featherlight touches along the delicate scales of his wings. Malthys shivered, the sensation making his breath hitch. His lips parted slightly, a soft gasp escaping before he bit down to stifle it.

The doctor grinned, proud that he could still cause such a reaction.

“So, your place?”

Kallamar slept well for the first time in his mortal new life.

Emptiness wasn’t too scary with a warm chest pressed against his back and arms tight around him.

The darkness didn’t feel suffocating as soft yellow fur brushed his shoulders and big wings draped over him like a shield.

All that silence that constantly haunted him was filled with raw sensations, scorching warmth, bright colours and the sweet familiar aches of sex. 

After what felt like forever, he rested, truly and fully.

He quietly stirred from his sleep as the first morning light filtered through the windows of Malthys’ hut and caught a bright reflection in the lens of his glasses, discarded in haste on the nightstand. 

As the night had kept him rather busy, Kallamar hadn’t given much thought to his surroundings. But now he took the time to truly see the space around him, and in doing so, he felt he was learning more about his new lover.

It was clear the moth had been living alone for years, shaping the room into something deeply personal. He spotted brushes, dyes and delicate glass pieces scattered across the desk, half-painted in soft, iridescent hues; besides them, a collection of wind chimes waiting to be hung.

Then his gaze drifted to the overflowing shelves, stuffed with papers and an impressive array of recipe books gathered from every corner of the Old Faith’s lands. The sight brought a small smile to his lips. Was Malthys a good cook, then? The thought was oddly endearing.

Finally, he noticed the potted plants on the window weren’t faring as well as they would, not everyone has a green thumb, after all.

He glanced over his shoulder to see his companion still deep in a peaceful slumber and smiled warmly going back with his mind to the night before. Despite this inconvenient new mortal body, Kallamar was pleasantly surprised that everything worked the way it should and that a few tricks still held up perfectly. He still despised how inconvenient his legs were, but practice would make perfect.

To be fair, he was used to a more crowded bed, but Malthys seemed more than delighted to be on the receiving end of all his attention. He couldn’t hear the moans and words he was shouting, but the moth’s body didn’t lie and Kallamar savoured all the shivers, the tension, the gasps and release.

He could get used to this… he would never replace any of his beloved, nor mend his broken heart, but sex was harmless entertainment, it was beautiful noise. 

He needed noise.

As the sun slowly travelled into the room, the squid remained nestled in his colleague’s arms. There was no rush to go to work as Giah and Aurelia covered the day shift and his siblings knew his work could be unpredictable. He suspected Heket didn’t even care where he was and with whom as long as Leshy was safe and accounted for.

He sighed at the thought, but then chose to bask in mellow comfort and allowed his mind to wander a little.

This was his first time as a mortal and with a winged insect creature no less, how quaint. 
His first time as a God had been with a winged insect creature as well, the irony didn’t escape him.

Yet, the warm smile he had painted on his lips suddenly turned bitter. No. He didn’t want to remember that… but it was proving hard to push the memory away once it resurfaced and everything was flooding back after thousands of years. The party, the danger, the disappointment. He had to bury it again.

“Are you awake…?” he asked softly, feeling his heart beating a little faster.

The moth stirred, squeezing him tighter, planting a gentle kiss on his shoulder. Malthys spoke something soft next to his ear and Kallamar grasped at the sensation of the breath on his skin, exhaling in relief.

Yes… Everything was perfectly fine.

Everything was perfectly fine.

Chapter Text

Back when the pantheon was a rich mosaic of gods, banquets and celebrations were commonplace. Yet, despite the forced joviality of their gatherings, every deity knew the truth: War was at their doorstep.

And Shamura was a dangerous enemy.

Territories had already fallen. Minor cults obliterated, Crowns and gods had begun to disappear. No one dared link it directly to the spider, but unease festered like rot in the pantheon, and whispers slithered in the shadows, wondering who would be next.

And so, to keep this insidious threat under watch, they invited them to every gathering. Every ceremony. Every feast.

Although this time, the invitation was extended to another god who was finally old enough to make his debut among the deities.

"You shall keep a low profile.” Their voice was stern and resolute. “Tempting as it may be, you shall not indulge or lose sight of our goal."

Kallamar sighed as his deft fingers wove Shamura’s silky braids to perfection, threading gold beads through them with a care that bordered on reverence. His sibling preferred simpler styles, but he refused to let them attend a pantheon gathering looking below their worth.

“It is a celebratory gathering, ‘Mura,” he muttered. “I could never forget our mission, but… may I mingle a little?”

Shamura rolled their eyes. Since reaching adulthood, their younger brother had grown bolder and restless. Always itching to act on his own, yet still disarmingly naive.

“Only to gather information, brother,” they warned. “Nothing more. These are our enemies, and you shall remember that very clearly.”

Kallamar huffed but nodded. “I know, sibling. You can count on me.”

Shamura studied him. They wished they could feel reassured by his words, but this was his first appearance among the gods and he prettied himself up with all the best Anchordeep offered like a shiny bait. Their enemies could exploit his inexperience, use him as leverage or worse. And he was nowhere near ready to face such dangers alone.

Their voice turned sharp.

“Kallamar. Listen well.”

“I am listening, sibling.” he smiled as he slid another gold bead between the neatly braided locks.

“You have not yet unlocked the power of your Crown. At your age, I—”

“Already slain your first two gods.”

Shamura’s many eyes snapped to his, cold as the abyss.

Kallamar stiffened, a shiver creeping down his spine.

“S-sorry…”

“Better.” Shamura’s voice was smooth again, but the weight of their gaze did not lift. “Now. As I was saying. At your age, I had already slain two gods, but even if you are proving competent in the use of weapons, you are not yet ready. You will not approach our direct enemies without me by your side. Did I make myself clear?”

Kallamar swallowed. His tentacles instinctively tucked closer, defensively.

“Clear.”

The greatest celebrations took place at midsummer, when the ancient gods feasted together in lavish palaces adorned with dazzling lights and rich decorations. Shamura would never dream of hosting such an event in Silk Cradle as it was a clear waste of resources, but as Kallamar admired the splendor before him, the golden glow of lanterns, the swirl of vibrant fabrics, the divine figures moving with practiced grace; he couldn't help but dream of throwing his own grand festivities in Anchordeep. They would be the most lavish parties any Faith had ever seen.

But, as Shamura had feared, Kallamar was already drawing attention. He was a novelty among the more seasoned deities who grew bored of the usual, and though they would never confirm it to his face as he was vain enough already, his striking beauty did not go unnoticed. 

The young god, for his part, basked in the polite nods and fleeting glances thrown his way. A thrill buzzed in his chest as so many intriguing conversations were waiting to be had, so many fascinating people waiting to be met! If only…

“Stay close,” Shamura murmured, gripping his arm. “I see Tahuna. He will undoubtedly boast about his latest pointless achievements.”

Kallamar barely had time to process the name before the god in question approached.

Tahuna, adorned with a white and yellow crown, carried himself with the regal poise of a knight. His iridescent exoskeleton caught the light, shimmering in hues of green, purple, and blue that complemented his piercing dark eyes. Gold and white ceremonial armour protected his whole form, gleaming under the glow of a thousand lanterns as a striking contrast with Shamura’s dark armour and purple robes.

Kallamar swallowed hard. He was majestic.

“Shamura. How delightful it is to see you again outside your dark cave." The scarab’s voice was rich, laced with amusement. "Did you run out of flies for your web?”

“Tahuna. I see the promise of free food was enough to make YOU brave your way out of your golden walls. I should have known it would be that easy.”
Shamura returned flatly.

The younger squid observed his superiors closely. This was the first time he laid eyes on the infamous Tahuna, the one who ruled the lands west of Silk Cradle, owning a rich, fertile territory that Shamura had desired for centuries in their plans of expansion. 
Their feud ran deep and as far as Kallamar knew, his older sibling had tried to topple him through bloodshed on the battlefield and with blades in the shadows, but their enemy’s defence always proved impenetrable.

“Ah, I’ve missed your mirth so much. But onto more important matters: have you heard of what happened to the east? The land is collapsing upon itself. I arrived just in time to evacuate the population… can you imagine the sheer loss of mortal life had I not intervened?”

“A tragedy, for sure.” They replied, unimpressed.

Kallamar remained silent as instructed, but Tahuna’s gaze shifted to him, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

“And who might you be?”

“He is —”

“Kallamar.” The name left his lips before he could stop himself from cutting his sibling off. Realisation struck a beat too late, and when he dared glance at Shamura, he found their eyes like shards of ice.

“Kallamar,” Tahuna repeated, his voice soft, almost reverent. “I am Tahuna. It is a real pleasure to meet a new god. And specifically, to meet you. What is your domain?”

He bowed, and Kallamar courtly returned the gesture, smiling.“Thank you, Tahuna. The pleasure is mine. My domain is Health.”

Tahuna’s eye returned to Shamura, their usual glacial grace seemed to falter as their expression betrayed a silent fury. That tugged a smirk at the corner of their enemy’s mouth, which grabbed the chance to jab. 

“And what is this graceful creature doing with a brute like you, Shamura? A pretty gemstone like that can't possibly enjoy your company. I recall you only surround yourself with stiff generals and stone-faced warlords.”

“Who I surround myself with is none of your concern, Tahuna,” finally, the spider snapped. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

They yanked at Kallamar closing their clawed fingers tightly around his wrist and dragging him away before he could even bid farewell. He barely managed to incline his head in a hurried nod.
The scarab in white armour watched intently at the pair, narrowing his eyes pensive.

“What was that supposed to be, Kallamar?” Shamura hissed once they were alone, their grip tightening.

“An introduction! Am I not supposed to meet the other gods? Y-you were the one acting out of character, not I– OW!” he protested, wincing as his sibling’s fingers dug into his wrist.

“You know who Tahuna is, and you think idle chatter will do anything but give him leverage over us?”

“You taught me diplomacy is a weapon. And you also said I would be exceedingly good at it if the occasion arose! What better chance to prove it?”

“Not with him. He is seasoned at the game, he will pry, Kallamar. He will use you to extract information about me. Don’t ever give in to his empty flattery, he is an enemy. Do you understand?”

“That’s a game two can play, let me be useful! You had plotted and schemed against him for a long time, right? But where has that led? A fresh perspective might be what you need.”

Shamura released his arm abruptly, mandibles clicking in frustration. “I should have known this would happen. You see intrigue where there is only danger. We are leaving.”

“No, please, I am sorry Shamura, I didn’t mean to step out of line! Please don’t take this away… I love it here, just let me enjoy the music and the dancing.”

A pang of guilt lanced through Shamura’s chest. 

They had been too harsh. Again. 

They were trying their best to learn, they really put so much effort into tempering their anger when it came to Kallamar, and their progress in the last centuries was astounding. But it was so difficult at times like this.
They loved their brother to the point of ripping their own heart out for him, but his little squid was so different, and he needed pointless things like music, dancing, and shallow indulgence to be happy.

Compromise Shamura. He will never be like you, let something slide every now and then.

“… I did not mean to hurt you.”

“I know.” Kallamar smiled suppressing an hiss as he adjusted the golden bangles on his lower arm to conceal the reddening of his wrist. 

“Everything is perfectly fine, ’Mura.”

Shamura exhaled slowly with a softer expression and a faint smile on their face, as tension lifted a little from their shoulders. The same hand that hurt him reached for his cheek with a gentle caress.

“We will stay. Go enjoy the music and introduce yourself… but be careful. Do not let them pry too deeply. You must trust no one, and if anything, I mean anything, threatens you in the slightest, come to me immediately. You’ll find me at the warlords' table, there are deals to be discussed.”

“I will be extra careful.” Kallamar’s smile widened, bright like the lanterns overhead, as he turned back toward the revelry.

The spider sighed deeply watching the squid go back to the party. They will regret it, will they?

From that moment on, Kallamar had nothing but fun! The instant he left Shamura’s side, he was drowned by the attention and flattery of other gods. They smiled and listened to his every word, they offered him ambrosia, they invited him to dance, and he refused nothing to no one, until he had to stop just to catch his breath.

With every dance, every compliment, every invitation, something swelled within him: a pride and confidence he had never experienced before.

He felt powerful.

This was not strictly diplomacy as Shamura would intend it, and some questioned his association with the god of war, but he remained vague and casual, controlling his words and mannerisms as instructed. Yet it felt so natural to stay in a crowd and to belong among people who adored him.

Was it the lack of praise throughout his life with Shamura that left him starving for it?

The thought flickered like a candle flame in his mind, but he quickly snuffed it out. The whys, the hows and the self-analysis didn’t matter, not in a night with so much delightful noise.

Things suddenly became even more interesting when Tahuna approached him again, chalices of Ambrosia in each hand and no spider in sight.

“May I be so bold as to invite you for a drink and a private conversation? It would be my honour to get to know the gracious god of Health.”

Kallamar was high on his newfound shallow happiness, but he hadn’t forgotten who he was speaking to. Perhaps this could be the chance Shamura had been waiting for and he could prove himself to his sibling without the power of his crown.

“...With pleasure.” He accepted one of the chalices and smiled warmly. “I’ve tired myself out with dancing, and I could use some fresh air and the enjoyment of a quiet conversation.”

The scarab took his hand gently, pristine white gloves covering his long fingers as they wrapped around his and brought his lips down to kiss them softly.

Shamura didn’t remember ever being this worried in their life. What in the name of the first gods was that fool thinking?! They remained composed throughout the days following the mid-summer celebrations, but inside there was a storm of anger, worry and fear. 

Yes, fear.

They knew it was too early for Kallamar. They knew his little brother would do something incredibly stupid. Or perhaps… 

Did he finally betray them? Did he finally see a way out? He must have been sick of them and simply did what was the most logical thing to do and ran away like the coward he had always been. 

No… Kallamar wouldn’t do that, would he? He was too afraid to dare a betrayal.

Either way, unusual guilt gnawed at Shamura’s mind.

Surely it wasn’t their fault, was it? Maybe they should have been gentler, maybe a little more patient or caring… 
Nonsense. Wartime doesn’t have space for that! 
They did their very best to raise him to be a true survivor, a ruthless god slayer, a warrior exactly like them and not a pampered little prince.

Shamura sighed deeply.

Kallamar had vanished soon after the celebrations with only a message penned with his elegant calligraphy delivered by one of the staff.

“I will be back soon. I know what I am doing, please trust in me ‘Mura.”

Few words that they read and read again trying to find hidden meanings or messages behind them. They even employed his Witness’ help to figure out if the penmanship was shaky or hesitant or even not his own. But no, it was Kallamar’s handwriting, and the words were jotted down with confidence. 

Whatever this act of anarchy was, it wasn’t premeditated. None of his disciples in Anchordeep seemed to know anything, and even under torture they denied any knowledge or feeling their lord wouldn’t come back.

Damn him.

DAMN HIM!

In those long days, the god of War regretted sparing the squidling from his spear and then regretted thinking it soon after. Kallamar was precious to them, and not just on the battlefield, they would do anything to see him safe and sound. Yet, they have been tossing him into active combat since he was a sniveling youngling and they had no fear for whatever could happen to him then, so why be afraid now?

Their little brother had always been a war asset, a pawn on the battlefield, a piece on the chessboard whose every move had been carefully controlled. That control was everything, it was the thin thread that had kept him safe all these years. But now, in this moment, there was no control. No guarantees. No strategies to fall back on.

And that’s where the fear came from. It wasn’t just the vulnerability of losing him, it was the unbearable weight of not feeling the threads of the pantheon’s fate safely held in their fingers.

Their spear skewered the training dummy, and the spider tore it from its base with the sheer force of their arms, sending it crashing across the sparring ring. Only the sound of rapid footsteps approaching made them pause before the next attack.

“Noble Shamura.” 

Their Witness called out, trying to compose themselves while catching their breath as they reached the perimeter. “He is here. Lord Kallamar wishes an audience with you.”

The God of War didn’t bother replying. Instead, they tossed the training weapon aside and stomped out of the ring in haste, driven by a mix of anger and concern as Allocer tried to keep pace.

“Is he well?” All they could manage to ask.

“Yes, Noble Shamura. He looks healthy and unharmed.”

The Witness offered no further details and the god kept silent until they reached the temple. But Shamura could feel the tension in their twitching mandibles, a nervous anticipation simmering beneath their stone-cold exterior.

“Shamura!” The cheerful voice reached them before they could even see their little brother.

Kallamar stood in the middle of the chamber, his smile bright like a droplet of sunshine breaching the dark corners of Silk Cradle. He was draped in the finest white silks, adorned head to tentacle with heavy jewelry. In his hands, he held a gem-encrusted golden chest, and his eyes glimmered with light and pride.

What has the fool done…?

They took a deep breath, forcing themselves to stay positive. Kallamar was here. He looked healthy. He was safe. For now, that was what mattered.

“I have a present for you!” The squid announced, stepping forward. But Shamura didn’t move to meet him, remaining still as Kallamar crossed the chamber, closing the distance until they stood face to face.

Allocer, ever perceptive after millennia by their side, knew better than to let other disciples linger. Sensing the weight of the moment, he ensured no one else would bear witness to this conversation.

“Kallamar.” Shamura steadied their voice, fighting against the boiling cauldron of emotions bubbling beneath their exoskeleton. “You have no idea the worry you caused me, brother. You left with nothing but a short message. I was preparing to raze civilizations to find you.”

The God of Health bowed his head in shame. “I know… I am truly sorry for putting you through that, Shamura. I wish I had handled things differently, but I had to think fast and improvise.” 

Improvise. 
If Shamura had to pick a word they deeply despised, this would be among the top three on the list.

“Please, accept my deepest apologies… and this humble gift along with them.”

Kallamar looked so full of pride as he lifted the ornate chest that Shamura hesitated, dreading what lay within the box he so eagerly offered.

“What is this…?” they asked, giving him the chance to explain.

“Open it and find out, sibling!”

Shamura’s clawed hand reached for the ornate chest, running their fingers over its opulent surface. It was unnecessarily lavish, crafted by the finest artisans no doubt. Wherever their touch landed, they found intricate carvings, delicate embellishments, and gems as pure as their brother’s blue eyes.

A soft click as the clasp came undone. A gentle pull, and the lid lifted without resistance.

All of Shamura’s eyes widened in shock.

There it was.

Resting upon the finest purple silk: a heart. 

The heart of the white knight, still fresh, cleaned of ichor, seeping with the power of its previous owner.

Slowly they looked up, meeting Kallamar’s gaze. He was beaming, grinning ear to ear with a pride he had never displayed before.

“...Is this?” Their voice wavered, unable to finish the question.

“Tahuna’s heart,” Kallamar declared.

His tone was light and joyous.

“I personally cut it out from his chest. And it’s yours along with his land, and everything he owned. Except for a few trinkets and jewelry…”

His grin widened.

“But it’s all yours, ‘Mura.”

Shamura’s mind raced as they stared Kallamar down. The extravagant silks. The gleaming jewelry. The priceless ornate chest that could never come from Anchordeep. What was the meaning of this? 

Confusion engulfed the spider who, above all else, hated to lose control, hated not knowing and being unable to grasp the situation.

Whatever Kallamar did, it entirely overthrew the neat strategies they had envisioned on their chessboard and not by simply moving pieces, but by tossing them out with no direction whatsoever!
He single-handedly dared to destroy the order and balance in their meticulously planned strategies from here to years to come!

Finally, they exploded.

“HOW?!”

The word tore from their throat, raw and sharp.

They threw the box to the ground. The heart tumbled out, bouncing once before rolling toward Kallamar. He flinched, stepping back in shock.

“W-what do you mean, how?” His voice wavered. “Isn’t this nice?! Isn’t this what you wanted?!”

Shamura took a step forward, rising to their full height, towering over him.

“I asked you HOW?! How did you kill him when my most skilled assassins failed?”

Kallamar swallowed hard, his whole body trembling. “I-I stabbed him… s-several times… w-with a godly dagger.”

The pride was gone. Terror took its place.

“He wears armor at all times!” Shamura’s voice was a venomous hiss. “How did you find an opening?!”

A clawed hand shot out, seizing Kallamar’s collar before he could retreat any further.

“H-he… he wasn’t wearing one when—”

Shamura’s grip tightened. Kallamar gasped, his eyes wide, wetting with unshed tears.

“His exoskeleton is stronger than mine. You couldn’t have bested him in combat with nothing but a dagger! HOW, KALLAMAR?!”

“...I-it wasn’t… in combat.”

His tentacles twisted inwards, coiling around themselves, defensive, almost ashamed.

Shamura’s mandibles twitched. Their voice was barely a whisper now.

“How?”

Kallamar’s breath hitched. His whole body shook.

“...P-please don’t make me say it.”

A choked sob tore from him as tears spilled down his cheeks.

Shamura stared in disbelief as their grip slowly loosened. They let Kallamar go and took a step back.

All that beautiful, shining pride was gone. They were responsible for having extinguished the bright droplet of sunshine. AGAIN.

Kallamar collapsed to his coiled tentacles, covering his face with all his hands as silence hung in the temple, broken only by his quiet sobs.

“...Why wasn’t it enough?” His voice was shattered. “Why is it never enough for you?”

“Brother, I…”

Guilt settled like a heavy stone in Shamura’s chest. They glanced at the ornate box lying broken on the floor. The fine craftsmanship so exquisite, was now as ruined as Kallamar before them. The heart of their enemy, a thing they had desired for so long, now looked like nothing more than a worthless lump of meat.

“I thought you’d be delighted… maybe even a little proud.” Kallamar’s voice trembled. “That you would celebrate my first god kill…! I finally did it, why isn’t it good enough?”

The despair in his voice pierced Shamura’s chest better than any spear could.

“Of course, I am delighted you killed a god, but Kallamar… not like that.”

“Why not?!” Kallamar’s voice thundered through the empty halls as he stared them in the eyes.

Shamura flinched. “That way, you’ll find nothing but predators ready to devour you!”

“I AM ONE OF THEM! YOU MADE ME ONE OF THEM!”

Kallamar pushed himself up, his tear-streaked face twisted in frustration. “You taught me warfare! You taught me to find the weakness in my enemy and use my weapons to exploit it! And I did exactly that!”

“But you put yourself in the enemy’s grasp! That is not warfare, it’s needless danger!”

Kallamar’s tentacles twisted, his voice low and bitter. “Yet it worked.”

Shamura stiffened.

“You know what?” He let out a breathless, almost humorless laugh. “It was so… easy.”

“And I discovered,” Kallamar continued, “that I have weapons you can’t teach me to use. That I can be lethal in ways you can’t even imagine. THAT is also warfare.”

Shamura’s mandibles twitched, but Kallamar wasn’t done.

“And all I wanted was for you to be happy.” His voice cracked. “For you to recognize my worth. For you to, perhaps, finally stop going on about my crown.”

His tentacles coiled tighter, trembling. “...I didn’t even care for Tahuna.”

Shamura lowered themselves and tentatively wrapped their arms around him in a soft embrace. Kallamar shuddered but allowed it as his grip shakily returned the hug. He cried in their arms as the god of war felt their own heart weep along with him, even if no physical tears were shed.

“Brother…” they murmured as their lips brushed his forehead with a gentle kiss. “You accomplished something I couldn’t, and it’s an incredibly remarkable achievement… We’ll celebrate your victory accordingly. I promise.”

They paused.

“But I won’t steal the kill from you. The heart and its power are rightfully yours. You earned it.”

Kallamar looked up with his tear-streaked face as he whispered: “I don’t really care for its power…”

“I know.” Shamura sighed, smiling warmly as the big sibling they were meant to be. “That’s what makes you so dangerously unpredictable, isn’t it?”

Kallamar sniffled, rubbing at his eyes. “Would you at least accept the lands? I know you wanted them…”

Shamura exhaled softly.

“I graciously accept the lands as the generous gift you are presenting me from a god to another as a symbol of our unwavering alliance. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

At that, Kallamar finally smiled again, his grip tightening. “... and please forgive me for stepping out of line…and for raising my voice.”

“You are forgiven, dear brother. Let us make sure such an episode won’t repeat itself.”

The squid gulped, then looked up timidly. “...I can’t leave you alone for a week, look at the state of those braids.”

“Ah… Truly a disaster. I shouldn’t be seen in public like this.” They chuckled softly, letting go of the embrace, running their fingers through their messy, braided hair. “Would you do me the favor of fixing them?”

“But of course, sibling. Otherwise, I would be the one ashamed to be seen in your company.” Kallamar straightened, brushing away the last of his tears. “I’m popular now, you know…?”

Shamura huffed in amusement, watching him with nothing but love in their eyes. Then, they bent down to pick up the broken box, gathering its fragments along with Tahuna’s heart.

“Go ahead,” they said. “I’ll be with you in a moment…But I will try to fix this.”

Kallamar wiped his face with the beautiful white silk of his sleeves, stained by smudged makeup, his voice light again.

“Don’t concern yourself, it’s merely a box… Everything is perfectly fine, ’Mura.”

As their younger brother disappeared behind the temple’s back door, Shamura looked down at their enemy’s heart and disgust poisoned their chest like a sickness. They had seldom felt such revulsion in their long life.

He dared touch him.

Ancient Ones only knew what he had done to him.

Rage boiled in the pit of their stomach.

“Allocer.” Their voice cut through the silence, cold as ice.

A shadow shifted.

“Noble Shamura.” The Witness stepped forward. The dark spider had stood by, unseen and unheard, through the entire exchange.

Shamura’s mandibles tightened.

“Recall Astaroth from his post with new orders.”

A pause. A decision now set in stone.

“From this moment forth, his existence has only one purpose: to guard my brother and ensure nothing happens to him.”

“You have no idea the worry you caused me, brother!” 

Heket signed frantically the moment she saw Kallamar finally appear after an entire day and night away from home. She had stayed up, waiting, while reassuring Leshy, pretending she knew exactly where their older brother was.

Kallamar blinked as he settled next to her in the common dining area with a lunch ready to be critiqued. The last thing he expected was to be met with genuine concern.

“Sister, I was caught up in an emergency and stayed late to assist. I had to improvise and didn’t have the chance to notify you properly.”

And honestly, I didn’t even think you cared… The words lingered on his tongue, but he swallowed them back.

“You always lie,” she signed flatly. “I went looking for you at the healing bay. You weren’t there.”

Kallamar blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Well… yes, of course. After the emergency was handled, I stayed out for a drink with a colleague. I was exhausted but still too wired to sleep, and I didn’t want to disturb you or Leshy.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. Then, after a pause, she admitted, “...I was afraid the Lamb had done something to you.”

At the sight, Kallamar’s eyes softened as he gently placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch light but reassuring. A pang of guilt poked at his chest for his negative thoughts.

“Forgive me… I was inconsiderate, but I never meant to make you worry. Please, do not assume the worst. I am quite safe here.”

Heket lowered her shoulders, her expression softening as she signed with quiet resolve:
“I know we argue a lot… but you’re still my brother. And I care. Okay?”

The motion was deliberate, her gaze steady, and Kallamar believed her. He wanted to.

“Thank you for your concern, everything is perfectly fine, dear sister.”

As the matter seemed settled, she started digging in her food, and it was only after a few mouthfuls that she decided to press, discreetly.

“...Just a colleague?”

Kallamar let out a soft chuckle, then rolled his eyes dramatically. His night was great, Malthys was great and he planned many more regular encounters with his new charming moth. But she didn’t need to know that.

“Just a colleague, of course. I really don’t know what you are insinuating.”

She huffed, matching his level of drama. “Are you really making friends here?”

“Mortals are more palatable than you think if you give them a chance. Also, you know me, I’ve always been a social butterfly.”

“Please be careful, no one must know who we are… and there is a lot of dimwits in this cult.”

But before Heket could go any further, a booming voice cut through the quiet conversation.

“Heket! There you are!”

She signed to her brother, “Speaking of which…”

A massive black bear settled beside her, balancing his bowl of food with effortless ease. Kallamar, who had long believed no one but Shamura could match his sister in sheer size and presence, suddenly felt very small. Between the bear’s broad chest, thick shoulders, and powerful arms, he was an imposing figure, one that made him instinctively straighten his posture.

Heket sighed, mumbling something under her breath before signing, “Like you could lose me in a crowd.”

The bear let out a hearty laugh, nudging her playfully with his elbow before turning toward the squid, curiosity flickering in his yellow eyes.

“And who might you be?”

Kallamar offered a polite nod and a smile. “Doctor Kallamar. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Are you a colleague of my sister’s?”

He extended a hand in greeting only to have it engulfed in a grip so firm that for a moment, he was certain this bear could crumple him like a scrap of parchment if he so desired.

“Whoa, you sure talk fancy. Yeah, I work with your sister!” the bear teased with an easy grin. “But she never told me her brother was this handsome!”

Kallamar smirked while Heket’s gaze darkened dangerously. “Watch… It….”

The bear smiled sheepishly at her, lowering his ears as he caught the hint, then turned back to him. 

“Travis,” he introduced himself with a wide grin. “Nice to meet you, Doctor!”

Chapter Text

To say that Lambert had a lot on their mind would have been a sore understatement.

With the colder season fast approaching, the cult was alive with frantic energy, every member occupied with the harvest and preparations for the harsh months ahead. But while they toiled in the fields, Lambert’s burdens stretched far beyond that. They had to carefully plan the next wave of missionaries and crusades, ensuring their stockpiles remained full and their followers well-provided for.

And as if that wasn’t enough, there was still the matter of Silk Cradle.
Somewhere within its tangled depths, Shamura awaited resurrection. Another task. Another weight on their shoulders.

Their own morale was lowering by the minute. In the last two days they had to deal with a spy, broke up two drunken fights, ran around the village to constantly make sure the janitors cleaned up after the five new hatchlings, bless them, take on kitchen duty themselves because the giraffe chef was busy being a parent, consequently having to delay their crusade in Silk Cradle and on top of that, since apparently they needed more grief, Narinder was being an asshole!

They had slept together. Again.
And, once more, he refused to offer even the faintest glimmer of clarity about what they were. Years spent breaking free from the roles imposed on them, slowly learning each other’s truths, building something tender from a mess of contradictions. And just like that, he’d snapped back to bitterness and disdain.
Hurling insults one season, crawling back the next.
It was a vicious loop, and they were tired.

But wasn’t it their fault, in the end?

They let it happen. Over and over.
Always finding excuses for him: “he’s just overwhelmed, he’s struggling with his feelings, his siblings are living among the cult now, it’s a lot.”

Maybe it was a lot.
But so was this.

Patience was their biggest virtue, but Lambert’s splitting headache was telling them it was time to do something or at least to talk to someone, before they exploded. But who? 
Raina was the closest thing they had to a mom, and talking about these things with moms is so embarrassing. The same went for good old Ratau. The other disciples were dutiful and kind but not “bestie” material. And to make things worse, no one should really know who Narinder was.
 
They wished their wife Poppy would still be alive to help them, but that wasn’t an option: she had been adamant on her wish to have a natural lifespan, and it was Lambert’s duty to make it come true despite their own desire to resurrect her. They missed her so much…

So, as the almighty Lamb sat in their office, they realised they were truly alone.

They run their cloven hands through their neatly styled wool and felt wetness on their cheeks. It had been years since the last time they cried… Narinder would scold them, but hell, he was not their lord anymore, so why did they keep bowing to his every wish?!

Being a god was nothing but a painful punishment. 

They had the power to do whatever they wanted, but still they were being manipulated by a bigger fish and run errands for them, resurrecting the Old Faith’s genocidal murderers, not being able to enjoy a simple life with someone to call their own, someone to build a family with.

They let out a frustrated sob.

But wait, what if they could just give up this mortal nonsense and embrace their godhood? What was the use of being attached to the lives around them when they had all the power to snuff them out?

The Red Crown shifted into a slithering form, coiling around Lambert’s shoulders almost lovingly, like a blanket to soothe their anxiety.

A god doesn’t need permission, a god doesn’t ASK, a god TAKES. They could just marry Narinder and be done with it. It was the doctrine, it was the law, their divine right! If the leader says you are their husband, then you are their husband and ex-god or not, the cat could do nothing at all about it!

The Lamb hid their face in their hands, feeling thick droplets mixing in with tears. They hurried to wipe the ichor off and tried to catch their breath as the crown returned to its original form atop their head.

No, they were not the Old Faith. They valued consent, they valued every life in their cult, and even if it was proving to be harder each passing day, they would not renounce their mortality. They would be a god with a mortal heart.

That’s when it suddenly hit them. 

A god with a mortal heart…

Lambert shot up from their seat and started pacing in front of their desk, long braid swinging behind them, following the faint clicking of hooves on stone. No, they couldn’t possibly ask him for counsel, it would be weird, absurd even! And yet…

As the Lamb conducted Kallamar’s weekly assessment at the healing bay, they were met with nothing but kindness, warmth and professional grace. The bishop of Pestilence was proving to be reliable and all that conspiracy Narinder was talking about was nothing but paranoia. 

But how to approach him outside work? Ambushing him while praying at his beloved's graves was inappropriate even for a god! But the squid was clearly still afraid of them and he couldn’t possibly be a genuine friend if he was scared! 

The notion made them stop. 

Friend with the bishop of Pestilence… responsible for the end of their entire race.

They wanted to throw up. And yet, their own despair was making this plan seem less and less moronic by the second.

They preached redemption. He showed the will to follow the path toward his and, as outlandish as it sounded, this could be another step along that road. It could be a way to let go of the past, not just for Kallamar, but mostly for themselves.

Lambert’s mind raced. There had to be a way to soothe his fear and gain his trust… they kept pacing and thinking, thinking and pacing for long minutes, when finally, they remembered. An epiphany!

“I am out of my mind…”

It was late afternoon when they finally found the old dusty box they were looking for and decided to carry out their plan. They still believed it to be completely crazy, but what if it worked? The idea was so insane it was thrilling, worthy of a bishop of Chaos, even.

“My Lamb!” The eagle called out, interrupting their walk toward the healing bay. She was one of the worshippers, slightly out of breath, having clearly run to reach them. In her hands, she held a bunch of wildflowers, neatly gathered into a bouquet and tied with a simple red bow.

She gulped down her evident embarrassment as she spoke shyly. “I need your help…!”

“Whatever for, my child?” Lambert, despite their urgency for their own quest, was ever available to listen to their followers and smiled warmly as always.

“I am in love with Doctor Kallamar”, she admitted as a flush of red appeared on her cheeks. “But I am afraid he doesn’t know I exist! Could you please deliver this bouquet to him for me?”

Oh, here we go again…

Requests like this were anything but unusual. The Lamb actually found some amusement in playing matchmaker among their cultists, but this was the fifth in just three weeks from another follower hoping to send a token of affection to Kallamar. 

Whether it was flowers, a home-cooked meal, or a handwritten letter, the new doctor had quickly become the object of quite a bit of attention.

It was silly to think any of it would come as a surprise. Kallamar’s popularity had skyrocketed the moment he started saving lives. But it wasn’t just heroism that had hearts fluttering: he was exotic, graceful, and undeniably attractive. Plenty of followers would’ve happily joined him in the mating tent without even knowing his name.

Those luminous eyes, the soft lips, the smooth voice, the way he moved with that subtle, effortless elegance… Kallamar carried himself with the kind of refined charm rarely seen around the cult, especially among people who had never so much as brushed against the edges of an upper education. 

Surrounded by simpler souls, his poise stood out all the more. He was a gem, no doubt about it. So much so that the Lamb had to gently remind the medical staff on his very first day to keep things strictly professional.

But how could they blame them when even they were actively seeking his friendship? 

Lambert shook their head for a moment and got back to reality as the eagle pleaded with her big eyes.

“...Yes, of course, my child. I was on my way to the healing bay anyway.”

She squealed in excitement and shoved the big bouquet at the cult leader, who stacked it on top of the old, weathered box they were carrying.

“Praise the Lamb!”

They watched as she bowed deeply and then scurried away giggling like a hatchling… 

The morning had been a busy one between patching up two idiots involved with a drunk fight, a salamander who couldn’t resist having a taste of the new children poop and a broken arm from an accident at the farm. 

A terrible day to be busy as Kallamar didn’t sleep the night before, and despite his best efforts to conceal it, Malthys had picked up on his exhaustion. In the last few weeks, the ever attentive apothecary learnt to read some of these odd behaviours. 
Truth be told, he spent more time with him than the squid even did with his own family, he would be blind not to sense the light in his eyes dull down at times.

They were two months into this beautiful fling and the moth didn’t remember being this happy in years. He reveled in his lover’s company and not just for their delightful night arrangement… 
Side by side at the healing bay every day they exchanged knowing glances, stole touches, shared intimate moments behind closed doors and scorching whispers in the shadows while their teamwork improved and so did their friendship.

Malthys loved it… he LOVED it.

The four-letter word slipped away from his control two dangerous times. He shouted it once at the peak of pleasure and once murmured within a soft, sleepy embrace. Kallamar missed it both times, but the moth knew he would fail to control it again eventually… he couldn’t suppress it any longer.

Pain started surfacing, knowing his lover was physically so close and emotionally so far at the same time. He would share the bed with him, but not the story behind his many scars. He would give up his body fully without hesitation, but never give up details of his past when asked.

“Why waste time on reminiscing when my tongue could be employed in much more interesting ways, my sweet Mal?”

Malthys knew this was a dangerous thread to walk on.

Now, as it often happened, Kallamar came to work visibly tired. Sure, he did his job flawlessly and without a complaint, but how could he fake being oblivious to his lover’s evident problems? He cared.

“You’ve been quiet today, Kall… is anything the matter?” He signed tentatively the moment they finally stopped to catch their breath in the calm of their shared office.

“Everything is perfectly fine, Mal… I am just a little tired, but thank you for your concern, you are always so sweet.” The squid smiled and held a hand out to him to pull him closer. “And it’ll be even better tomorrow night, I am so looking forward to it.”

Malthys' fuzzy cheeks darkened at the mere thought. Yes, tomorrow it would be their arranged time together at his house, but the apothecary finally found the courage to take a step forward to something a bit different, something that had been on his mind since the very beginning.

“Why don’t you come over earlier tomorrow? I would love to invite you to dinner.”

“Dinner?” Kallamar repeated, tilting his head. “We always dine together. Just yesterday, right here.”

While the statement was true, Malthys shook his head vigorously.

“That’s not the same. I am inviting you to have dinner with me at my house, where I will be your personal cook for the evening.”

The moth smiled brightly as he signed his invite, then pressed on.

“It’s no secret you despise the food here. I’ve never heard anyone complaining about it the way you do. And your face when you saw the fish the other day was memorable, believe me!”

The doctor puffed his chest and looked outraged.

“It’s a travesty, the way they just randomly put ingredients together! And the fish? I couldn’t touch it. They just boil it to the bone or slap it on a pan as it is. It’s disrespectful for a sea creature, and I cannot, for the life of me, condone that.”

Malthys chuckled softly and inched closer, nuzzling affectionately against him. 

“I know recipes straight from Anchordeep that I’ve been dying to cook and I need someone with a refined palate to taste them. I don’t know anyone more refined than you, Kall.”

The moth placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, he loved how the squid’s smooth skin felt against his lips.

“Mh… Are you tempting me with cuddles and the promise of good food, apothecary?”

“It is working, doctor?” he continued, teasing him, trailing his kisses down his neck.

Kallamar felt his chest growing warm, the softness capturing his senses. It was cosy and safe.

“But Mal…” his breath hitched as the moth slid his fingers underneath his tunic, running them on the hem of his trousers teasingly. “...Dinner invites are not what we agreed on, it’s not what we do.”

Malthys looked up to Kallamar, making sure he could see him speaking clearly. “Then let’s try something new.” 

A pause, eyes hopeful as they got lost in his. 

“You could find out that you can fall in love with the way I marinate salmon in lemongrass and paprika… and that you might want more from my cooking.”

The former god could be cold and calculating; he had been for all the time here, but now his heart was racing.

When was the last time he felt like this? So captivated, so intrigued by someone for more than their appearance.
Kallamar knew he was a great judge of character and picked his lovers only from the best, but Malthys was… way too good, way too soon.

He couldn’t believe he would fall again. How could he let himself go like that?
Maybe he was just tired and needed to refocus… yes, he was just weakened and emotional, an easy prey for comforting feelings.

But when uncertainty emerged violently in his eyes, Malthys read it loud and clear.
The last thing he wanted was to scare him away, but doubt was good, doubt could make their arrangement more flexible.

“Kall, talk to me.” The moth pleaded as he gently cupped his chin. “I know you asked not to question our deal, but… Please, tell me what stops us from enjoying what it could be so much more tha—”

Before he could finish, the sharp jingle of a bell echoed down the corridor, growing louder by the second and his antenna twitched.

“The Lamb,” he mouthed to Kallamar.

They pulled apart swiftly, each pretending to be busy with whatever task they had at hand.

Workplace flings weren’t exactly forbidden, but getting caught in each other’s arms in the Doctor’s office? That wouldn’t look great, especially in front of the cult leader. Besides, keeping their involvement quiet made things easier, particularly when it came to working with Giah and Aurelia.

Right on cue, a knock sounded at the door.

“Doctor, apothecary!”

The Lamb stepped inside, beaming. “How’s the afternoon treating you? Giah tells me everything is running smoothly despite a few emergencies. I want you both to know, I’m very pleased with how things are going.”

“My Lamb, thank you for your kind words.”

Malthys bowed his head, and Kallamar quickly followed suit.

“Oh, before I forget. This is from a fan, doctor!” They handed him over the big wild flowers bouquet, still holding on to their weathered box.

Kallamar thanked the Lamb graciously, as it apparently was custom in the cult to use the god of death for deliveries. He placed the bouquet carefully in the small sink, intending to find a proper vase later, then unfolded the note tucked beneath the red bow. A brief glance was enough before quietly slipping it into the drawer of his desk, unworthy of a second thought.

Malthys watched as a bitter clasp tightened around his throat.

The first few gifts had been amusing, even charming in a way. But now, each new show of affection, whether from strangers or patients, made the moth feel smaller, somehow inadequate.

“Apothecary, if you don’t need him, I would steal the doctor away for the day.”

…I actually need him, madly. 

He smiled ever so politely. “We have the situation under control here. Please go ahead, My Lamb.”

There was no refusing, of course, and Kallamar followed the Lamb as he glanced at his colleague’s way. Unspoken words hung between them as light blue crystalline eyes met warm dark purple ones and Malthys hoped against hope that wistful look meant they would finally talk later.

Left alone, the moth sighed in deep frustration. His hands ran through the feathered antennae, smoothing them in the process and, as he turned around, his gaze drifted straight to Kallamar’s desk drawer.
He shouldn’t... and yet.

“I am sorry for interrupting your workday, but there is something important I wanted to give you, and it is a private matter.”

Kallamar gulped as the Lamb had led him far from the healing bay where no one would just casually stroll by… The weekly assessment was always held in his office and an odd unrest started creeping into his lungs.

“But of course, I’m at your service, Lamb.” he stretched a smile.

“No need to be this formal, I come to you not as a leader but—uhm… as an acquaintance. I’ve been enjoying our chats, and I feel like there is no need to be stiff anymore when it’s just the two of us.”
Lambert had studied the words, they definitely sounded better in their mind. But before Kallamar could process or reply, they held out the old box.

“To the point: this is for you, but don’t open it right now!”

Kallamar’s tentacles ticked in alarm as he gently took the box in his arms. This was unusual even for him. “What is it?”

Lambert took a deep breath, choosing their words carefully, aiming for the gentlest approach they could muster.

“It contains items that once belonged to your spouses. They were found long after their passing, hidden beneath the floorboards of their home. I believe they are rightfully yours.” 

Their gaze lowered apologetically. “Sorry for not bringing them to you sooner. As years passed, I completely forgot I had stored them.”

For once, there were no words. The former god was completely at a loss. His gaze was fixed on the old-looking wooden box in his hands as overwhelming emotions flooded his chest. His stomach became nauseous at the knowledge that whatever he found inside, it would shatter him.

When he looked up, his lip trembled, betraying the conflict within. "…I don’t know what to say. This is beyond gracious… No enemy would ever consider such a gesture toward another."

“That’s because I am no enemy. Not anymore.” 

The words were steady, but there was a weariness in them too. “I am not sure how you really feel about it… But while I fully know what you and your family did to my people, I see you in a different light. Unlike Leshy or Heket, you are trying to better yourself, and I can’t ignore that.”
 
They sighed, rubbing their temples.  “Honestly, I am so… so tired of carrying grudges and burdens. You killed me, my people, my family. I killed you, and everyone you loved, and sent you to Purgatory to die endlessly for decades. I think… enough is enough.”

The air between them grew heavy with the rawness of those admissions. A cloven hand reached out.

“My name is Lambert.”

Kallamar stood frozen, disbelief gripping him as he stared at the hand extended toward him. The box was still clutched tightly against his chest, a lifeline he could hardly let go of. Slowly, his trembling hand reached out, exactly ike that day at the graveyard, but this time, his hold was firmer, more confident.

“...how unfortunate to realise just now, after centuries, I’ve never known your name.”

“I have been just a ‘vessel’ for most of my life. But I’m trying to grow out of that.”

Their shaken hands sealed a silent pact meant to close a dreadful chapter in both their lives. Of course, it wouldn’t erase the memories, nor the pain carved deep into bone and soul. But a weird feeling stirred into Kallamar as suddenly he could sense something in Lambert’s spirit.

It was faint, fragile, just a droplet of hope in an ocean of darkness, but it shimmered all the same. A flicker of peace where there had only been rage, grief, and ruin. And if there was one truth Kallamar knew intimately, one belief he had carried like a lantern through his own shadows:

As long as there is life, healing is possible.

“Please, don’t apologise,” he said softly as their hands parted. But as soon as the contact was gone, so too was the strange, fleeting sensation, as if it had never been there at all.“I don’t know what’s inside this box, but even if it holds nothing more than a scrap of cloth or a faded list of menial tasks, it is invaluable to me.”

When he lifted his gaze again, there was something achingly sincere in his eyes. “I could never be grateful enough… Thank you, Lambert.”

Hearing their name made the god of death shiver, pushing a soft smile to their lips. It felt better than they ever could imagine.

“It’s ok, really… I thought, if someone had my wife’s belongings, I would want to hold on to them.”

Kallamar’s head tilted as he asked softly. “Your wife?”

They lowered their shoulders and nodded. “Yes, Poppy. I’ve been married a few times to be really fair, but she was my first true love. I still have all her things. Some days I think about her a lot.”

Something in their voice cracked, and Kallamar couldn’t help but notice their weakness and fatigue emerging through the dark eyes… This could be a brilliant chance for him to learn more, to get closer and gain power and increase his status.

But all of a sudden, the cult leader, the dangerous god, didn't look like anything but a small lamb. The light snuffed from their eyes and the shoulders slumped underneath the weight of godhood… he had seen it before so many times. 

They were no different from any of his younger siblings looking for help.
 
The former bishop smiled softly as the older brother's tone came naturally to him. “You look tired, Lambert. Why don’t you stop for a moment and catch your breath? I’m happy to listen if you feel the need to vent.”

The Lamb returned his smile as their tail gave a slight wag under the immaculate fleece. “Yes, it sounds like good doctor’s advice… how about a cup of tea to go with it?”

Chapter Text

As it often happened, Heket came back home in the evening, charged with rage and frustration. Every single day, serving under the Lamb was a torture to endure only for the sake of her brothers. 

But today, oh, today was one of the worst days at the mines. 

She didn’t mind the job or the miners per se: they were hard workers, made of strong stuff and she respected that; but what some had in muscles, they lacked in manners, intelligence and empathy. So between a pick strike and another, words slipped off, jokes, puns, that could be nothing more than that, if only they were not aimed at her baby brother.

Leshy was doing his very best in this community of fools and some of them laughed at his shenanigans like he would just create chaos for the sake of it and not because it was his own way to deal with his suffering! How dare they laugh at him and treat him like some sort of a clown right in front of her?!

She lost it.

By the time she was done, there were no teeth left in the rhino’s mouth to smile with. The bitch had to consider herself incredibly lucky that Travis and Grey hauled her off, or her laughing days would be over for good.

The miners decided it was best to keep this between them and not inconvenience the Lamb immediately, agreeing to send Heket home early to cool down while they brought Cecille to the medical bay. They were a tight-knit group who would protect one another, but surely this one would be hard to explain at the healing bay.

The rhino was sorry, sure she was, she would be for a long time.

Heket let out a long and deep sigh as she closed the house door behind her, slumping her shoulders and looking down at her still heavily bruised knuckles. She’ll face the consequences tomorrow, but for now, she needed rest and food. 

As she stepped toward the kitchen, she was interrupted by a noise: a small whimper.

She knew those bubbly little sobs all too well, and without thinking twice, she marched toward her older brother’s room. 

“Kall…?” She called out in vain, then she proceeded to place her ear on the door…
Just as she feared, he was crying again. But what could she do? All their lives, they had called each other brother and sister, but the truth was they were little more than strangers who gave up on one another long ago.

Even after growing inevitably closer because of the binding, things were lukewarm between them… she had to keep everything in order and under control while he had to take care of Shamura. Their roles were clear, no time for tea and chats.

Her heart ached at the thought.

But what to say now? Ask if he was well? What a stupid question would that be to someone who was clearly not well?! He did mention everything was perfectly fine for him in the cult, people liked him, and he felt safe despite the Lamb, so what could it be this time? 

Perhaps his spouses. 

Again.

She wondered if Kall cried that much for her when she died. She wondered if he mourned so much when the news of Leshy’s defeat reached him… He always cared more for those strangers constantly orbiting around him like he was the sun and they were his personal planets than his own family.

As she turned away from the door, she made the conscious choice to let it go, once again leaving him alone with his grief, to face it however he saw fit.

But only moments later, an ear-splitting crash echoed through the house walls, making her jump in her thick hide.

Without hesitation, she leapt, sprinting to her brother’s room and throwing the door open with force. Kallamar yelped, startled as she barged in.

“S-sister?! W-when did you come home?”

She gasped at the chaos.

The floor was completely carpeted by jagged glittering fragments that reached all the way to the doorway, surrounding her brother like a broken halo. His hand was slick with blood, glinting with embedded shards of silver glass. There was a big empty space where the mirror used to be.

He looked up at her, eyes swollen and red from crying, his body curled tight in his own tentacles like he was trying to hold himself together.

“Kall…! Are you… Okay…?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with worry.

“Oh… oh yes!” He gestured toward the chaos with a strained smile. “The mirror… it slipped off my hands. I was—was moving it!”

She eyed him carefully. Despite the injured hand, he looked physically unharmed. But then her gaze caught on something glinting faintly: a bangle of pure gold, wrapped delicately along his tendril, adorned with a flawless pearl and a deep purple crystal. An exquisite jewel, she was sure she had seen before.

“Come out. Let me see that hand,” she signed firmly, concern furrowing her brow as her eyes flicked across the room. There was an open box on his bed, scattered with what looked like old, worn papers. Before she could get a better look, Kallamar stepped in front of her, quietly following to the kitchen.

“...How did it slip?” she signed again before she reached into the cupboard for the first aid kit.

“I’m not sure,” he murmured, his voice low. “I just wanted to move it to the other side of the room…for the light’s much more favourable there. I must’ve been too focused on where to place it. And then… I guess it just slipped.”

She set the first aid kit on the table, but before she could open it, he spoke again.

“But it’s quite alright, sister… It’s just a small cut. I can take care of it.”

He reached for the kit with his uninjured hands, but she grunted and swiftly moved it out of his reach.

“I… do… it,” she said with emphasis, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“B-but of course, how nice of you.” he had to accept defeat as he held out the injury and submitted it to her scrutiny.

As her fingers were busy picking the shards out of his pale azure skin, she felt him tremble lightly.

“How did it slip?” she asked again, mouthing her words but letting no sound out, still sure to be in his lip-reading sight.

“...I told you. I wasn’t paying enough attention. I learnt a precious lesson today, I suppose.”
Heket recognised the way he just steadied his tone, this time it was neutral, impassible, dissociated.

“And how did it injure your hand?” she pressed.

“I tried to catch it while it was shattering… a poor choice, all things considered.”

Deflected again. Heket didn’t know how to counter him when he locked himself up in a shell, she was one hundred per cent sure he was lying, but she couldn’t prove it. What he said would be completely plausible if only she didn’t hear him cry seconds before the crash.

She was about to question him again when he gasped. “Sister, your knuckles! What happened?”

He spotted the heavy bruising and pointed at it while she started securing his bandage. He tried not to hiss as she tied it around his palm. She wasn’t delicate, but that medication would hold for several hours. Only when she was done did she sign her answer.

“Some idiot deserved a lesson.” 
Her movements were sharp and precise.

“What?!” her brother panicked visibly. Considering the state of her knuckles, he immediately feared the worst for whoever was on the other end of her rage. “Tell me you did NOT kill them!”

“I did NOT”, she huffed as she signed. “But she deserved it. She laughed at Leshy.”

Kallamar sank into his chair, divided between relief that his sister didn’t straight up murder anyone and the anger of knowing someone came after his little brother. 

“How badly did you beat her up? And does the Lamb know?”

“Not sure, I didn’t ask how she was doing after. But she won’t be laughing for a long time. The Lamb doesn’t know yet… the miners are not sissies, they don’t run to mommy.”

“Dear me… Are you sure they aren’t going to tell them?” his tentacles twitched as his anxiety level rose.

She thought for a moment and then signed her answer. “I can’t be sure.”

He had to fix this! 

The Lamb would punish Heket for sure if they knew about it. Perhaps now that they were closer, he could appeal to Lambert’s understanding and buy some leniency for Heket with sweet words… hoping that would suffice. He had nothing to offer, but with the standing of his siblings held by a thread, he would do anything to keep them safe.

He stood up without a second thought.

“Where are you going?!” she signed, standing up with him. 

“First to the healing bay. The creature you assaulted is probably there now, I want to make sure I’ve a full grasp of the damage and control it. Then–”

He interrupted himself. He couldn’t tell Heket he would appeal to the Lamb’s clemency on her behalf if her victim decided to denounce her, she would probably turn him into part of the wall.

“–I’ll take it from there! You hold on tight and don’t go anywhere, Leshy will be back soon anyway.”

“Wait, Kall! That’s my mess to clean up, not yours!”

“You always do so much for me, sister… not to mention you just cleaned up my hand, it’s the least I could do.” he turned around to face her as soon as he reached the door.

“Oh, and… Leshy doesn’t need to know about the mirror, it’s unnecessary worry for him. I’ll tidy up upon my return. I’ll try not to be long.”

Before she could get a word in, Kallamar was out the door, walking fast toward his workplace.

Silence fell again as Heket let out a growl of frustration, her small, stubby tail twitching in annoyance as her muscles tensed. She almost lost her appetite… almost. But her hunger turned into a gnawing curiosity as she carefully made her way to Kallamar’s room again. She shouldn’t go into his personal space uninvited…but she would be going there just to swipe the floor and make it safer for him when he came back, of course.

Pushing the door open, she stepped carefully in, avoiding the silvery glass just enough to see what was in the mysterious box. 

It was at the foot of the bed, open and by the look of it, it had seen many seasons as grime settled in the porous wooden surface. Inside, she could spot a piece of what looked like a bright orange mouldy scarf with little beads neatly sewn into it, and a leatherbound journal with a dark cover, which content she couldn’t guess. But scattered all over the bed, she saw many weathered parchments and her curiosity piqued.
 
Some looked like poetry, some others like songs, and some were drawings… drawings of Kallamar.

She held her breath as her eyes lingered on each piece. They were watercolour portraits, partially faded with time, painted by a loving hand that captured her beautiful brother in the days when he was still a god. These weren’t the rigid, lifeless depictions ordered by Shamura, where they’d been forced to pose like statues. No, these were something else entirely: a collection of stolen smiles and unguarded moments, his posture relaxed, his joy natural. His long ears, unbroken and graceful, framed a face alight with mirth.

When was the last time he smiled like that? In those portraits, his eyes were blue and sparkled with a happiness she didn’t recall ever seeing in her life. 

Maybe he had never been happy around her.

Heket stepped back as her curiosity was finally satisfied, bringing with her the uneasiness settling between her shoulder blades like a burden. Her four eyes trailed from the beautiful art to the mirror shards, and her gaze darkened.

Heket is so damn lucky she didn’t kill her.
Kallamar thought as he held his breath while inspecting the rhino’s injury. 

He got into the ward room so fast he barely waved to Aurelia and didn’t even have time to put on gloves. Heket made a damn pulp of her face, the skull was cracked in two different points and he feared permanent brain damage. How to explain it to the lamb? They were merciful, but this was a breath too close to murder and not her first charge of assault. What would they do to her? What would he have had to do to make them soften their punishment?

He sighed and turned back to focus on the gravely injured patient. Fortunately she was unconscious and heavily sedated and didn’t feel pain as he gently manipulated her cranium to better asses the injuries under the heavy bandages. 

That’s when he felt it again. 

That strange sensation from earlier, the spark that surged when he first shook Lambert’s hand, resurfaced, clearer now. A droplet of hope. A faint glow of healing was swimming through the rhino’s skull, drifting amid a sea of pain as thick as tar.

But this time, he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he leaned into the contact, letting his fingers reach out to touch it and connect. The subtle energy pulsed from his hands and danced across to her head. Slowly, it spread as tendrils, weaving through bone and flesh.

Could anyone else see it?

The faint shimmer mending fractures, the glow that stitched together tissue, the swell that softened, faded, then vanished. Before his eyes, her skull was returning to its original shape, as if time itself had turned back gently.

And then it hit him: these were his powers. His own. Untainted by the pestilence that had once consumed him. Millennia ago, he was a squidling that could heal with a simple touch of his hands, just like this!

A smile bloomed across Kallamar’s face, wide and radiant, trembling with a joy so deep it nearly brought him to tears.

Then the unexpected wave of nausea hit him along with a violent headspin, so strong he interrupted the connection with his patient to hold his head with all hands, hoping it would stop. The skin under his palms was burning, and his body started to ache and tremble.

He waited a few long moments, taking deep breaths, trying to ignore how sore the ribcage was. When he was a young god, he healed even the worst injuries without a sweat from his brow, but he did have a crown and a divine body, didn’t he?
He will need to investigate both his gift and how it affected his mortality…but for now, this had to be enough. No one should ever know about it.

Kallamar rose to his feet, steadying himself as his gaze lingered on the rhino, now sleeping peacefully. Whatever had just happened, it had been worth it. From a near-murder to little more than the damage of a well-aimed punch… surely that wouldn’t call for severe punishment. With that thought, he left the ward, eager to deal with his symptoms before they got any worse.

“Kal– Doctor?” Malthys nearly bumped into him on his way out of the ward, blinking in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Apothecary!”
Kallamar’s heart leapt as he scrambled for a lie, voice pitched just a bit too high. “Ah, yes, I just came for a very quick check-up on the rhino that was brought in today. She’s a friend of my sister’s, and, well, dear me, Heket was so terribly worried I simply couldn’t say no when she asked me to take a look. Thankfully, it looked way worse than it actually is.”

Malthys tilted his head. After the conversation with the Lamb, Kallamar didn’t come back to the healing bay and for a moment, he was worried something bad had happened, so he looked at him closely. 

His eyes were red and faintly swollen. One hand was freshly bandaged, done by someone else, judging by the clumsy wrap. His complexion had paled, the wounds on his ear oozed black, and there was a visible tension in how he forced himself to stand upright.

And then there was the jewel.
A striking piece, coiled along his tendril. 
Another layer of confusion was stacked on top of everything else in Malthys’ mind, deepening the frown on his face.

“Kall… by the Lamb, is everything ok? What happened? You don’t look well!” he signed discreetly.

“...How rude,” he teased, keeping his voice as low as possible. “I am perfectly fine, Mal. I’ll be on my way home now.”

“Can I accompany you? I am done with my shift and… really, I am a little concerned for your health.”

“Don’t be. I probably just caught a cold, and I don’t need an escort.” Kallamar almost snapped as his patience was running low at the same rate his temperature was going up. He knew he couldn’t deal with his lover right now.

“I didn’t mean to sound rude,” he sighed, antennae lowering as he was shut off. “Then I’ll just ask you one thing. Did you think about what I said earlier? Maybe… you would like to come to dinner tomorrow?”

As Mal looked straight into his soul with those beautiful dark eyes, the squid's cheeks flushed, for the fever surely. But as he gazed down, his glance fell on the jewel he left Astaroth as their last goodbye and just like that, everything hurt tenfold.

His body, his heart, his shame. Every part of him ached with the weight of what he had lost.

“I’m sorry. I won’t be coming for dinner.”

Defeat.
That’s all Malthys could feel at that moment. The sentence echoed relentlessly in his mind as he mustered a resigned smile and gave a slow nod.

“Alright. Thank you for at least considering it.”

“Mal, please try to understand.”

“I do, Kall. I really do. You have done nothing wrong.” His smile hid so much pain. “Now go home and get some rest, you need it. And don’t you dare go out of bed tomorrow, I’ll cover your shift and don’t worry about our night either.”

The words didn’t soothe him.
If anything, they made it worse and suddenly Kallamar couldn’t tell if the ache in his chest was just his fever, grief, or guilt. 

Did he owe Malthys anything? No. Their arrangement had never been built on explanations or transparency. It was simple: physical comfort, shared pleasure, night companionship, nothing more.

So why did he feel this persistent tug telling him he should say something?
Why did the thought of not telling Mal about the graveyard and his spouses feel… wrong?

Maybe it wasn’t about owing.
Maybe it was about care, quietly blooming in a space where it wasn’t supposed to grow.

He left the healing bay with no more words and only the urge to lock himself in his room and throw up. Tomorrow might bring a clarity he so desperately needed.

But what tomorrow brought was nothing but heavier thoughts and deeper worries.

The good news was that the rhino would go home the day after with nothing more than a black eye and a few missing teeth. She had even decided not to report Heket, after all.
But the moment Lambert closed the door behind them, announcing they'd leave for Silk Cradle that very night to retrieve Shamura, a new silence fell over the house, one that weighed heavily.

Kallamar was alone, still feverish and too unwell to return to work, he merely thanked Lambert and locked the door behind him, drifting back to his bed, moving like water through fog.

The mirror shards were gone, Heket had taken care of that, and in the forced captivity of his illness, he’d found the time to tidy up the rest.
Now, where the mirror once stood, he had carefully pinned up the portraits Astaroth had painted of him long ago.

But, as he stared at them, something in his chest ached and twisted. They showed him as he once was: divine, radiant, whole, but none of that remained now.

What stared back in the rare moments he dared a glance at his reflection in the mirror was a stranger in comparison. A twisted parody of what he once had been.

But seeing the portraits wasn't a comfort either. They showed him a cruel contrast between memory and reality. A constant reminder that no matter how much love had once been poured into capturing his beauty, he couldn’t possibly be worthy of it anymore, because no more beauty was there to capture.

All he saw in that cursed mirror was what he hated.

And no amount of careful arrangement or natural light could hide the raw truth, so he had destroyed it in a fit of sorrow, not just to stop seeing himself…  but because he couldn’t bear the comparison.

In its place, the collage of portraits of a magnificent god was watching through paper, staring back at his pitiful, ugly, deformed self.

He tore his eyes away from them and forced his focus onto something else, someone else.
Shamura.

They would be here in three days at most. The thought sent a flicker of warmth through his chest, a spark of joy that pierced the gloom for just a moment. They would finally be together again. The four of them. A family! This was the chance of a lifetime: to be rid of the goodhood and responsibilities weighing heavily on their shoulders.

But the joy was quickly chased by a shiver of dread. What would this new shared life look like? He had always borne the burden of caring for Shamura’s broken mind in silence. Always alone. 

Not even Heket or Leshy had seen the worst of it. His brother and sister didn’t know about the claw marks he’d stitched shut on himself, or the venom that made him vomit for hours in the dead of night after one of their bad days. They couldn’t know!

What if Purgatory made it worse?

Anxiety clawed at him as his mind raced.
He had to build walls, carefully crafted illusions of stability, and wrap them tightly around this family. To protect them. To protect the idea of their beloved Shamura, that image of perfection, so far away from the bitter truth.

Kallamar had learnt to love Shamura through their worst days and will keep loving them no matter how badly they hurt him, but his brother and sister only knew them in their best. He couldn’t afford they see anything different.

And what about Shamura themselves? Their fragile state could be shattered again if they learnt they lost their temper and hurt anyone they loved! He managed to keep that ugly truth secret for a thousand years, but now it was not the time to let his guard down.

Perhaps he could ask Lambert to move him and Shamura to a private home… that would make Heket and Leshy unhappy, but surely safer! 

But first things first… he needed to speak to his siblings and set boundaries in stone.

“What? Isn’t it true? We all love Shamura and Shamura loves us, but what about the truth?” Leshy yelled abruptly. “What about what happened? Maybe because I’ve been a mortal the longest out of us, I can finally understand how bad it was.
They made all the decisions, informing maybe just Kall and then went on with whatever. Then the fucking prophecy! I didn’t have a fucking say in anything and it ruined our lives! I love them, but fuck!”

Of course, things didn’t exactly go as calmly as Kallamar hoped. The alarm bells started ringing when Leshy didn’t leap of joy at the news like Heket did. But how to blame him? He had been the most damaged out of all the siblings after the binding, and he was the least involved. Kallamar wished so badly to go back in time and undo all his mistakes.

He wished he could go back to the day Shamura explained their plan with feverish delirium and stop them. But he was too scared for that, too much of a coward to ever say no to Shamura.

“They— They…did…what…right…Protected…You— selfish!” Heket stood up, matching Leshy’s tone. Unlike her brothers, she never once questioned her sibling.

“Sister, don't strain your voice, please.” Kallamar intervened, watching as her bandages started staining with ichor. 

“Yeah, don’t hurt yourself, I’m not worth it.” The younger brother shot up from his chair. “I’m going out anyway!”

“Where are you going? It’s dark and raining!”

“Sorry to break it to you, Kall, but it's ALWAYS dark for me! And I’ve got places to be, don’t wait up!”

“Leshy…you–”

Before they could get another word in, the worm slammed the door behind him, leaving both Heket and Kallamar frozen in shock.

“We should go after him!” Heket snapped out of it first and took a few quick steps toward the front door.

“Wait, Heket. Leave him.” Kallamar’s voice was calm, but firm. “There’s something important we need to discuss. I would have preferred Leshy to be here as well, but we’ll make do.”

She tilted her head, puzzled, but returned to the table and sat down across from her older brother, waiting for him to speak. His face was sombre, worryingly so. That alone told her how serious this was.

“It’s about Shamura’s wound,” he began. “We don’t yet know how Purgatory has affected them, and I need your help to manage whatever might come.”

Heket nodded, eager. “Of course! Anything. Just tell me what to do.”

He offered a small smile in return. He needed that kind of enthusiasm, and most of all, that kind of compliance.

“There might be moments when Shamura seems... out of sorts,” he continued carefully. “If that happens, I might ask you to leave the house. If I do, the best help you could ever give me would be to comply immediately and without question while taking Leshy with you.”

All of Heket’s eyes blinked at once. “...What? Why would we need to leave?”

“My dear sister,” he said softly, “I’ve been tending to Shamura’s wound for the last thousand years. They trust ME, know ME even in moments of deep distress. I fear the presence of others, even family, might only heighten their anxiety and make things worse. This isn’t a slight against you, truly. I just want to give them the best possible chance at peace. And... it’s easier this way. I hope you’ll forgive me if it sounds like I’m asking too much.”

She listened in silence, absorbing his words. Of course, he knew Shamura best. And while she could accuse him of many, many things, never of not caring for them. Even if his request sounded suspiciously close to “stay out of my way”, she had to admit: she wouldn’t know where to begin helping Shamura without him.

“Yes.” she signed and nodded. “I understand…”

“Do you promise?”

Promise? Why would Kall need that sort of commitment for something apparently simple? 

“Yes, alright, I promise.”

“Perfect… Thank you, this is of immense help.”

His posture seemed to relax as his tentacles, which he didn’t notice he had coiled, loosened with the relief of knowing a promise from Heket was set in stone.

“But what about Leshy? If there is nothing else, we should go get him!”

“I don’t think so, I believe he has gone to his friend, Tharen.”

“The yellow cat? Mph… it would be better if he stayed with us right now.”

“Don’t be like that, Heket. He needs friends outside our little circle. Aren’t you glad there was someone with him before we arrived?”

“Yes, of course, but… we are discussing family matters.”

“Sometimes, even family matters could benefit from an outsider’s perspective. He clearly needs someone to talk to who isn’t a god or has lived through our horrible trauma. You saw how he reacted to Shamura… we can’t blame him for that now, can we?”

Heket grunted in disapproval. “...He should know it was all for his own good.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Kallamar let out a long, tired sigh. “We made a terrible mistake not telling him.”

“But if he knew—”

“He would’ve tried to stop us.”

“Exactly!”

“And that was his right, Heket. We made a choice for him. We had it, he didn’t. It’s as simple, and as cruel, as that. And I regret it deeply. Don’t you?”

“...No, I don’t.” She signed the words slowly and tensely. “Because if he had tried to stop us, I would’ve had to stop him. I’d rather lie to him than lay a hand on him.”

“I see.” His tone softened. “But there are different kinds of hurt. What we did… it hurt him in ways we didn’t even consider. I believe it’s the root of everything we’re seeing now, his behaviour, the way he won’t eat... That wound? We made it.”

Something snapped inside her.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. Not the way she stayed awake through endless nights by Leshy’s side. Not the way she’d held his skeletal hands through his struggle, or fought death itself just to keep him breathing. And now, now he dared suggest she was the reason Leshy was falling apart?

Her gaze hardened.

“You know nothing of Leshy!” she signed sharply, her hands cutting through the air. Kallamar’s tentacles coiled in alarm.

“Stop assuming it’s always our fault! It’s Narinder’s fault! Everything that happened, HE caused it. We used to be happy. And now…”

She faltered, eyes burning. “Now we’re broken.”

She stared at him then, sharp and unforgiving.
“But what would YOU know about that? You were always the one who didn’t want to spend time with us. Always so eager to run off to your little harem of toy spouses.”

He flinched. “How is this about me now…?”

“That’s what you do!” she snapped. “The first sign of trouble, and you ran back to Anchordeep to hide in your temple. You never cared enough to stay. And now you are pushing Leshy to do the same? To run off to his little friend and forget his family?!”

His heart ached. “T-that’s not fair, Heket… Maybe, just maybe, if I had ever been treated with respect, I would have stayed. Have you ever considered that?”

“So now you’re blaming what we did as kids for your lack of interest in your own family?” she growled. “Really?”

“Kids? Leshy was a child, but you were a grown goddess, and I did everything I could to raise you both, to guide you—”

“Mph! Maybe if you hadn’t been a snivelling little coward, we wouldn’t have seen you as easy prey!”

Kallamar felt the world tilt.
This was it. This was the moment he would finally break.

“…That’s quite enough!”
His voice rose, unsteady, caught between anger and sadness as he pushed himself to his feet.

Don’t you dare raise your voice at me, at your only family!
The hiss sliced through his mind like cold steel as an echo from a time he had tried to bury.

He froze as he looked at Heket, the words dying on his tongue.
Then, with a trembling exhale, he turned and walked toward his room, clinging to what little dignity he had left.

But she stepped in his way.

“You’re doing it again!” she signed furiously. “Running away! Stay and fight for yourself, Kall!”

“I do what I please,” he whispered. “And I don’t want to fight you.”

The knot in his throat tightened.

“You must… I can’t let you bury yourself in that room and cry! It’s a fucking tomb!”

“What do you care?” He looked back at her, eyes glassy, small voice laced with disbelief. “First, you lash out, then insult the people I love, and now what do you want me to do exactly?”

“Anything but hide!” She gripped the sleeve of his tunic, desperate. “If you really believe you’re right, then fight back! Shout at me! Make me feel like I matter to you!”

“…Heket. I’m done.”

“We are not done!”

“…If after all this time you still think I don’t care about you… Then I guess there’s nothing I can say or do that would ever change your mind.”

He lowered his gaze, shoulders sagging. He didn’t even try to pull away from her grasp. After a moment, she released him and signed, quieter now:

“Kall… you broke that mirror on purpose. I know you did.”

“I told you how it happened.” His voice was hollow. “But even if you’re right… so what?”

“So… so talk about it!”

He shook his head. “Heket… think about Shamura. Think about Leshy. But if thinking about me just means you have to treat me this way, then I’d rather you didn’t.”

And with that, he turned.

She watched as her brother closed the door behind him and didn’t even look back.

Heket didn’t sleep at all, and she suspected neither did Kall. 

Leshy had been out all night, but it wasn’t her worry for him that kept all her four eyes wide open, it was all the things she said that replayed in her mind over and over like a horribly acted pantomime. 

Why did she have to act that way? Yes, she was deeply outraged by his accusations, but why pick insults aimed to hurt him so intimately? Truth was, she didn’t know how to handle herself around him and since discovering what she guessed to be his spouse’s items, all she could focus on was all the love he had for them and not for her or Leshy.

Narinder had always been the first to say Kallamar was distant, aloof, too snobbish and too spineless to truly connect with them. And Heket had never really contradicted him, nor had Leshy. The moment Kallamar stopped being their teacher and caretaker, whatever closeness they shared began to thin out, while her bond with the black cat only grew tenfold.

They loved to prank the eldest brother, they revelled in his tears. He appeared so funny and silly, but with thousands of years of distance, maybe she couldn't blame him for choosing the company of others.

When he started marrying his mortal lovers, he was shunned by Shamura and, by reflection, so by Heket. An unforgivable sin in the eyes of her sibling, a defiance she never thought one like Kallamar was capable of… but then he was shallow and vain, surely his mortal spouses were nothing but little trinkets to match his outfits with.

What was the point in marrying creatures he would have to bury a few years later, otherwise?
She refused to attend any of his meaningless weddings despite his insistent invitations.

The latest batch of his spouses was special apparently, he made them immortal. Was that supposed to mean anything? A mortal is still a mortal, no matter how many years are added to their lifespan or powers gifted by divine blessing. 
She hardly ever met them outside his witness, constantly following him like a guard dog.

Back then, she didn’t need Kallamar in her life, she had Narinder’s friendship, Leshy’s love and Shamura’s guidance. He was truly the family’s accessory.

The older brother’s betrayal made that conviction falter and crumble when Heket had to come to terms with how indispensable Kallamar was, or at least his skills as a healer. He stitched back together the horrible wounds Narinder left behind, and that’s when Heket hoped their relationship would become solid.

And it did in a sense. Solid as a strong alliance. Solid as the loyalty between officers on the battlefield. But solid as brother and sister? Perhaps not.
Not when he chose to go back to his spouses after tending to Shamura despite her invitations to Anura. 

But why bother with this now? 
She didn’t have time to dwell on it before, not while Leshy was withering or the cults had to be harnessed, not while sheepkind had to be hunted down and slaughtered. 

Now she was truly face to face with the fact that her older brother loved ghosts and tombstones more than her.

Yes, that’s why she was mad at him, at herself, at fate. He wanted him to open up about the mirror, she wanted him to tell her what went on in the medical bay, if that colleague was really just that… she wanted what she used to have with Narinder.

But Kallamar would never be Narinder…

She groaned, turning in her bed one more time.

The morning after, Kallamar had eyes only for Leshy.

The youngest had come back at the first light of dawn and the two of them engaged in quiet conversation. She saw them hugging and laughing, a good sign.

But when she approached him, he simply smiled. A nice, polite, beautiful, bright, fake smile.

“Forgive me, dear sister, I am running late for the sermon, then I’ll be off to the healing bay. There is so much to do for Shamura’s arrival, so I won’t be attending breakfast with you today.”

“Right, of course… How is your hand and your fever?” she signed, trying to find the right opening for an apology she was dying to make.

“Oh, the wound is healing properly and my temperature is lowering as well. I am definitely fit to work. How very kind of you to inquire.”

His diplomatic tone, how she hated it.
He was lying, he still didn’t look well enough to be out and about, but evidently, yet again, her brother would rather stay away and hide in the med bay.

“Oh, I almost forgot: your friend rhino is in good health, this time you’re safe from the Lamb’s judgment. Please refrain from another such episode.”

“Wait, how?! I thought I almost–!”

“The medical team is very competent, I’ll have you know. Also, I won’t be home tonight, so please don’t wait up.”

As he was about to exit the front door, she grabbed his sleeve.

“Kall wait… about yesterday–”

“Think nothing of it. Everything is perfectly fine, dear sister.”

He slipped off her grip and stepped outside before she could say anything else, and once again, she watched as he slammed shut the door in her face.

On the other side, Kallamar’s smile broke into a deep frown. He exhaled and started to quickly walk toward the Temple. He couldn’t hear the bells ringing, but he saw the red flag flapping vigorously from the tower… a little touch Lambert had added for the hearing impaired like himself.

As his pace quickened, he joined the crowd going toward the entrance, earning many eager waves and warm smiles as he made his way through. Including that bear… what was his name again?

“Doctor!” He approached, shoving people out of his way. “How good to see you!”

“...Oh, you are my sister’s colleague. T–Trudy?”

“Travis!”

“Dear me, forgive my incredible lack of memory for names. I am truly terrible, Travis. It is good to see you as well.”

Kall’s eyes spotted a dash of bright yellow and violet in the crowd and his heart jumped a little. If he wanted to spend the night with Malthys, tonight he would have to be extra nice.

The bear smiled widely and shifted a little closer. “I hear Cecille is going home today, I still can’t believe it! She said she dreamt about you and then she was suddenly much better.”

“Dear me, the sedatives are rather strong, aren't they? But I can assure you, it wasn’t half as bad as it looked. And believe me, I did absolutely nothing, Aurelia took care of her as she did most of the job. Also, Cecille was greatly helped by her healthy constitution.”

“Yeah, I bet… You know I was there. I dragged your sister off her and I was sure she was 100% dead!” His smile widened and his hand landed gently on Kallamar’s shoulder. “You guys at the bay really can make miracles happen. Thank you, doctor.”

“It’s merely our job, Travis. But I am sure Aurelia would love pastries as thanks.”

The gesture wasn’t unwelcome, he understood its purpose in moments like this. Kallamar himself had always been naturally huggy; expressing emotions through physical closeness came easily to him.
So when the massive paw lingered just a second too long, gently squeezing his shoulder, he picked up the message Travis was subtly sending.

Tempting.
Travis was undeniably attractive and well fit, the kind of presence that the former bishop would keep around at the temple as decoration, but that's all there was to it. If it came to intellectual brightness, the lights were on, but no one was home.
And in all fairness, he didn’t crave anyone else’s company but Malthys.

“If you’ll excuse me, Travis, I’ll get to my spot.”

“Of course, doctor. It was a pleasure.” The bear winked. “I hope we’ll speak again soon.”

Even without Lambert, the sermon went on as usual. Raina took charge of delivering the Lamb’s sacred word in their absence, while Narinder stood by, ready to offer insight or assistance if needed. But today, he remained silent.
Kallamar watched him standing behind the elderly bunny, noting how distracted he seemed. After what Lambert had confessed, he couldn’t tell whether Narinder’s sour mood was due to their absence or to Shamura’s imminent return.

After the initial shock, that bit of gossip had truly piqued his interest. Narinder believed himself to be so above something as trivial as love, yet apparently, the messy relationship with his own Vessel was complicated enough to leave even him uncertain and trembling in his own paws. 
The cat who made fun of him for indulging with his own disciples, now enthralled with none other than his sacrificial lamb. How deliciously ironic. 

Truth be told, Lambert could clearly do so much better, and he would have suggested they dump his brother at the first given chance… but, somehow, this toxic situationship seemed to be helping both them and Narinder grow, or so they claimed.

He’ll have to wait for the next afternoon tea with Lambert to gain more understanding of their little secret.

As the sermon came to a close, he was eager to retreat to the healing bay for a good day’s work, anything to keep his mind off the thoughts that had haunted him through the night.
The fever had nearly passed, and with three perfectly functional hands, he didn’t need the injured one to stay productive. More than anything, though, he was looking forward to spending the night away from home, wrapped in Malthys’ wings.
With Shamura’s arrival, he suspected there wouldn’t be many more of those left.

But as he stepped into his office, his favourite colleague was nowhere to be found. An eerie stillness hung in the air, unsettling emptiness he couldn’t quite place. Something was missing from the room.

He noticed, however, a box and a letter waiting on his desk.

Another admirer. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at the envelope intently: there was only one word penned in a neat calligraphy.

“Light” 

Kallamar’s heart skipped a beat as he recognised Malthys’ handwriting and a shudder ran all the way through his spine to his tentacles as he hurriedly opened and unfolded it.

“Dear Kall,

I spoke with the Lamb and asked to be reassigned to the refinery. They agreed.
It saddens me that we won’t be working side by side anymore. I made this decision with a heavy heart, but it is one I believe to be kinder for both of us.

The truth is… I’m struggling.
At first, I truly believed I could be strong and mature like you, that I could stand close to your light and not be affected. But the longer I stayed, the more I realised I wasn’t basking in your beautiful glow.
I was burning.

Please, don’t for a second think any of this is your fault.
You’ve always been honest, always clear, I was willing to make a step forward fully knowing where you stood. Your boundaries were never up for negotiation, and I never expected you to shift them, not for me, not for anyone. I was foolish enough to hope, but I would never disrespect you and demand you to change for me.
And yet being near you, knowing I could never reach you… It hurt me more than I was willing to admit.

So I’m stepping away, not in anger, not in resentment, but out of love. So that you can continue doing the work you clearly enjoy more than anything, without the weight of my presence. You’d notice my sadness before your own, and carry it like it were yours. You always think of others before yourself.

If ever, one day, you change your mind, my kitchen is at your service.

Dinner, just the two of us. No expectations. No pressure. Only good food and one chance.
One chance to make you feel even a fraction of the joy you’ve given me. 

One chance to be more.

My door is always open, Kall.
Yours,
Malthys”

Kallamar stared at the letter, reading it over and over, as if repetition could somehow change the words written there. He scanned the office wide-eyed and finally noticed what was missing.

All the apothecary’s tools were gone.
The notebooks, the pens, the gloves.
Even the little bow he used to tie his wings with.

The words blurred together, but the ache in his chest was sharp and clear: Malthys had left him.

Malthys had left him.

“...Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Of course, Shamura never wished those events to repeat themselves. But that choice was slowly and inevitably stripped away as the war grew real, open, and tangible.

Two gods against hundreds. How could they be so overconfident as to think combat alone would suffice?
 
They were younger, naive and humbled by the harsh truth that not everything was within their grasp. So, where their armies could not reach, they had to use Kallamar. He was skilled, precise and a natural-born predator who could ensnare even the most seasoned deities in the treacherous coils of his tentacles.

The God of Health was cunning and dangerously underestimated. If only the pantheon knew the way they raised him: to be lethal, to be ruthless, to be heartless. So he worked his magic, seducing this fool and that one, entangling them in one-night stands, false relationships, even marriages, only to later betray them, tear open their chests, and feast on their hearts without getting caught.

And Shamura was at a loss.

Their plans were bearing fruit, their efforts finally rewarded, but at what cost? 
Kallamar was their Queen on the chessboard, striking with deadly precision and terrifying freedom. Yet with every one of his victories, Shamura’s heart faltered, because each move only made the target on his back grow larger.

They wished the power of the Blue Crown had awakened before the madness fully consumed them. 

Their little brother disappeared for days, weeks, even years, with the only constant left as a comfort being Astaroth’s presence.

Shamura hadn’t chosen him at random, after all. The general accompanied them in battle since he was a young jellyfish, he was seasoned and capable, so much so that he had been granted immortality. He was loyal to the bone, sharp as any blade, he followed orders without hesitation and possessed the mind of a tactician.
But most of all, he never once failed to report back to his god, eventually becoming Shamura’s eyes and ears in Kallamar’s increasingly erratic life.

Kallamar, of course, had a different opinion.

To him, the old jellyfish was suffocating, always hovering, always watching and offering “advice” like he had the divine right to meddle. The young God of Health couldn’t deny the general’s prowess in battle or his strategic brilliance. But really, Grandpa needed to stay out of his way unless it was time to bury a body or cover up a trail.

Yet, it came the time when Kallamar had to admit just how vital Astaroth was, the day his prey caught wind of the deception and tried to kill him first. The General had stepped in just in time, shielding the God of Health from an untimely death, buying him just enough seconds to strike his deadly blow and escape, bloodied but alive, with only a stab wound and a limp to show for it.

They sat in silence as they caught their breath in the safety of Anchordeep, the salt air thick with tension and the scent of dried blood.

“Bold of you,” Kallamar muttered, wincing as he adjusted his bandages. Godly wounds were not so easily dissipated as his several scars showed. “To face a god so openly in combat…”

Astaroth didn’t even look up from his own injured arm, a new sign of battle forever etched in his deep purple skin. “It is my duty, Lord Kallamar. I will stand between you and death, no matter who’s holding the blade.”

Kallamar snorted, shaking his head. “Foolish… but” he hesitated, just for a breath, “this instance, I suppose it’s appreciated.”

The General raised an eyebrow, finally meeting his eyes. “It wouldn’t be necessary if the Lord exercised caution once in a while.”

Kallamar’s expression darkened. “You’re treading in dangerous waters, General.”

“I speak,” Astaroth replied calmly, “well within the bounds of my orders from Noble Shamura.”

Ah yes, the jellyfish never missed a chance to remind him: he was here on Shamura’s orders alone.
Kallamar had no meaning to him but that of an annoying charge, and the God of Health held no authority over him, couldn’t command him, couldn’t dismiss him. He’d just have to live with that inconvenience.

But between trying to appease Shamura, Astaroth’s looming presence and the dangerous game he was playing: seducing, deceiving, and eliminating gods, Kallamar’s entire existence had twisted into a performance. A flawless masquerade.

A bright, charming smile was always painted on his pretty face: it was perfect and practised, part of a mask that concealed anything raw, anything real. Every word he spoke was rehearsed, every gesture measured to the millimetre.

He had learned young that hiding was safer than being seen. As a child captive in the deity of war’s grasp, he had tiptoed through life, weighing every word, every breath, just to avoid a beating or a yell. Concealment wasn’t a choice, it was a shield. It was survival.

And as the centuries dragged on, the mask didn’t come off, but it fused with his skin. The divine conflict only taught him that lies could be armour and deception a sharp blade. Using his body as an asset wasn’t shameful, and treachery was a strategy. He wielded them as naturally as others breathed.

Now, not even his own Temple offered sanctuary. A dog watched him always, three cold lavender eyes piercing as claws digging deep into his last scraps of privacy. Every moment was a performance.

Who was he, really? Irrelevant. Forgotten.
 
His personality wasn’t a mirror of his soul, but an intricate construct: a beautiful fiction, built for misdirection, for manipulation, for endurance. Kallamar became so accustomed to the mask that the face underneath felt like a stranger’s. 

It was exhausting.

Only after hearing from Astaroth about the close call, Shamura insisted that Kallamar lie low for a while. The idea of someone spilling his precious brother’s blood set the spider on edge, unravelling their mind with a creeping paranoia that threatened to drive them insane. So they didn’t just ask, they commanded him to take a step back and watch the work of war unfold from the sidelines for as long as necessary.

It was then that the God of Health found solace in the company of mortals for the first time.

They were simple creatures with simple needs, yet everything they did seemed to carry a quiet, radiant wonder. He soon realised they weren’t just vessels for devotion but also creators and destroyers in their own right!

So, under the ever-watchful gaze of his bodyguard, he started to find value and participate actively in their modest achievements. Art, cooking, poetry, and music once considered trivial, became pillars of Kallamar’s cult. 

New doctrines were born to celebrate the crafts and new rituals were written to require song and dance, so that Kallamar could be loved, adored and worshipped through harmonious words, flattering portraits, statues of his likeness and melodies that spoke of his glory.

The days once devoted to studying medicine, the anatomy of illness and combat slowly shifted into something more personal. He found himself immersed in painting and writing, letting his thoughts bleed onto canvas and parchment. And soon enough, songs echoed through Anchordeep as he played alongside strangers and friends alike.

For the first time in millennia, Kallamar tasted joy: pure, simple, and wholly his, not his mask’s.

But, of course, it couldn’t last. Naive of him to think otherwise.

“How…?!” he cried in disbelief as he learnt one of his new best friends had died. “She was young, alive and well just a few days ago. I don’t understand! It wasn’t an illness, surely I would have sensed and stopped it!”

“Your disappointment is well placed, Lord.” Astartoh chimed in as glacial as always.
“Mortals are but fleeting fragments, like sand crystals beneath your tentacles. Their lives can be created as easily as they are snuffed out by a passing breeze.”

The jellyfish’s words offered no comfort, but they echoed with a cruel truth. He had grown close to the hippo, whose voice could reach such piercing heights that it made the very crystals tremble and shatter. She was kind, unburdened by reverence, and simply happy to share her time with him: not the god, but HIM. He had even considered making her a disciple; she was just that delightful.

And then, without warning, without reason, her life was gone. Senseless. Sudden. And he was left with the silence.

So discomfort settled in once more, but he still felt the pull to remain close to those fragile, fleeting lives. 

What other choice did he have? His disciples were granted longer lifespans, yes, but even they would fade in time. So he kept mingling with mortals, growing attached to their company, but watched as one by one his favourites vanished without warning, without meaning. All of them gone, just before his feelings could turn into something deeper.

Yet, solitude was more frightening than loss.

A soft warmth touched Kallamar’s cheek, accompanied by the first gentle draft of autumn carrying the smell of freshly mowed grass.

As his eyes blinked open to greet the morning light, his gaze was captured by the delicate glass windchime swaying by the window, the one that had come with Malthys’ letter.

It was a beautiful piece, clearly sculpted with care and intention, shaped to resemble a sea creature like himself: a wide, rounded base with graceful, tentacle-like tubes suspended from near-invisible threads. He had hung it where the sunlight could find it, and now, in the soft breeze, it swayed gently.

This windchime was different, though. It wasn’t built to sing its bright notes, but only to shimmer. Malthys had painted it in radiant, joyful colours and designed it for silence, so that it wouldn’t remind Kall of what he missed, but only enjoy it as it swam in a sea of daylight, filtering warmth and hues across the room.

It wasn’t just a gift, it was a statement from his moth. A quiet way to tell him he understood who he was and what he needed. And that, more than the craftsmanship, was what made it so unbearably precious.

A soft smile crept on Kall’s face as he watched it for a few long minutes from his bed, mesmerised by the colours dancing across the walls, catching on himself and the floor in bright, trembling patches of blue, purple and green that made even the silence of his room shimmer. 

He would always remember Malthys, just as he remembered every mortal he had ever loved and vanished from his life in the blink of an eye.

It was his fault, he had to admit it.
He let himself grow too close as he lingered in the moth’s presence one too many times. Now he was gone and Kallamar, despite everything, was left with a dull ache in the quiet aftermath.

No more attachments from now on.

Only fleeting moments, brief encounters, one-times driven by physical attraction and nothing more. It was cleaner that way, more merciful, even. No pleasant chats and breakfast together in the morning, no soft cuddles in cosy beds at night. Just quick company and warmth fading into nothing before it had the chance to settle.

As Kallamar finally dragged himself up, he sighed deeply.

Malthys did him a favour, in the end. That’s what it all truly was: a blessing in disguise.
He had more time to focus on his family and, most of all, on Shamura.

They had arrived at the indoctrination stone only a few days prior, and to Kallamar’s quiet relief, his worst fears proved unfounded. No shouting, no threats, no violence, just words and the love of the sibling he knew. And for that alone, he was infinitely grateful. 

Then, in the quiet privacy of the ward room, Kallamar’s new little temple, they finally talked.

And in that fragile moment, he let the mask down and confessed everything: the fear, the guilt that gnawed at him, the terrible temptation to stop them, even to kill them. But he had never done it. He could never.

“I was afraid of losing that beautiful part of you I built with sweat and blood during those years together, it was invaluable and impossible to take back once it was gone. My proudest achievement, my best work of healing.”

And Shamura, in the last moments of clarity before the fog would take over their mind, listened, forgave and praised his beloved brother. Admitting their crimes against him and taking responsibility for their actions, like they never did before.

An apology wasn’t something Kallamar was seeking, but the admission was everything needed to move forward, because he knew Shamura wouldn’t apologise. The squid’s upbringing was an echo of what the spider’s was. 
It wasn't their fault, they didn’t know any better, they coulnd’t. 

But the words eventually faded from the Shamura’s memory within hours, as if too painful or too complex to hold onto for their injured mind. Still, Kallamar was relieved as his confession had never truly been for them. It was for him alone. 

After so much silence, he had found the courage to speak the truth, to be brave.

And that was enough, for now.

“How are you feeling today, Shamura?”

The eldest’s stay at the healing bay had been brief and far shorter than their siblings’. Kallamar, both doctor and devoted caretaker, had insisted they be transferred to the new bishop family home as soon as possible. They needed silence and peace, but the healing bay offered neither.

“My head feels muffled… like caught in a tangle of silk, brother.”

Kallamar’s soft blue eyes met theirs, already knowing what that meant. “Would you like me to help untangle it?”

“Please. I am still fumbling through this… strange reality,” Shamura replied through their mind and not their mouth. Their voice echoed inside the squid’s head, not spoken aloud. Their faint godly powers were still there, like for himself. Another secret to keep.

Without another word, Kallamar sat beside them at the kitchen table. His fingers moved with ease, gently loosening the long white braids of silk-like hair. Shamura closed their eyes, a smile blooming faintly across their face as their shoulders finally dropped, the tension melting away with every careful touch.

The comb glided through the shimmering strands, each stroke deliberate and rhythmic, echoing a ritual older than anyone in the cult, older than almost all memories, save theirs.

It started millennia ago, just as Shamura and their troops steadied themselves for one final push against enemy lines. Kallamar couldn’t recall which war it was or who the enemy even was, but the feelings remained.

It wasn’t his first battle. He had survived many already, and thanks to his healing, so had many soldiers. But it was the first time he was ordered into the war tent where the god of War wove strategy alongside their Generals.

It was supposed to be an honour, to be educational. So the young squid remained silent, barely daring to breathe as he stood in a corner, making himself as small and invisible as possible. A single misstep, a single sound, could draw unwanted attention. He knew that too well.
That night, he saw all the Generals for the first time, including a younger Astaroth with his sharp lavender eyes burning with ambition.

The discussion dragged on, fruitless and weary, long past the rise of the moon and when Shamura finally dismissed their officers, they let out a long, frustrated sigh. Resources were stretched thin, morale even thinner as months of warfare had earned them precious little ground. This last push HAD to end in victory.

Yet, to see Shamura affected by the tide of battle was a rare sight, so Kallamar remained utterly still, knowing instinctively that if they needed him, they would call.
But it seemed his effort to be forgotten had worked too well, as they had clearly lost track of his presence.

They sat in silence, unravelling their long, silky braids, letting their long white hair loose while staring at the same tattered map over and over, until their many eyes caught a flicker of blue in the corner.

“Ah. You are here,” they murmured, mostly to themselves. “I had forgotten I told you to stay put.”

They glanced toward him, then beckoned. “Come closer.”

Kallamar whimpered under his breath and crept forward, tentative and quiet.

“Do you know how to braid hair, Kallamar?”

He nodded, unsure if speaking would still be unwelcome.

“Good. Fetch mycomb. My head feels like it’s caught in a tangle of silk.”

That was the first time Shamura allowed him close outside of training or healing. And that night, with the scent of war heavy in the air and the map still spread before them, Shamura asked not just for tidiness, but for clarity. For counsel. For connection.

And Kallamar gave it, one careful braid at a time.

The battle was won the next day.
But more importantly, something else was gained: fragile, unspoken, and knotted gently into place between them.

A bond.

“Tell me, sibling,” Kallamar whispered in a gentle voice. “What do you want to know?”

“...Let us start with time, my dear brother. How long have we been imprisoned in Purgatory?”

The former Bishop of Pestilence took his time to recall as his hands continued their sacred task, treating Shamura’s hair with the reverence reserved for something divine.

“A different length for each of us,” he murmured. “Nearly four decades for me. Closer to three for you.”

“And yet... it feels much longer.”

Sadness transpired through Kallamar’s face like a shadow beneath clear water. For gods, time was meant to fly like light between stars, but here, every minute stretched endlessly. Every mortal life that passed outside reminded him of what he had lost in the last forty years. Of who.

“You hold authority here, brother?” 

“No,” Kallamar replied as his fingers began weaving the first braid. “None of us does. We are just... small lives now, like the rest. We rise, we labour, we sweat. That is all.”

A pause. Then:

“Are we prisoners, brother?”

He hesitated, the silence lingering a moment too long.

“...In a sense, yes,” he admitted, unwilling to offer false comfort. “We live under the Lamb’s rules, under their mercy. If we show goodwill, we are allowed freedom. But we can’t survive out there. Not with our…conditions. So yes, irony dictates we are prisoners of our own predicaments.”

“And would you leave, if you could?”

“Oh, of course I would...I miss the sea so dearly,” Kallamar confessed, his voice low, almost reverent. “My gills are dry. My skin aches for salt, for the water to cradle me as I swim home. We are all homesick, in our own way, dear sibling. But tell me, wouldn’t you long to return to Silk Cradle?”

“Silk Cradle is not what it once was,” Shamura’s gaze grew distant, lost in foggy memories. “I fear what it has become in my absence, knowing it mirrors my crimes and belongs to the aftermath of my actions. It was already withering before and only grew worse as I lost each one of you to the Lamb’s blade.”

Kallamar nodded, sorrow dimming the glow in his eyes. He, too, feared the depths that had once been his sanctuary. The beautiful coral forests and glowing buildings of Anchordeep, now likely ruined and tainted by the Lamb’s violence.

“...Letting go of who we were won’t be easy,” he whispered after a pause. “But we must look ahead. Toward something new. Toward our family. Hold onto that, ‘Mura, if we do… We’ll be fine.”

A silence fell, until Shamura asked, hesitant, fragile:

“Narinder… do you believe he could ever rejoin us?”

Kallamar stilled, his hands halting in the rhythm of the braid. Narinder shunned them, ignored their existence… and in the best cases, he glared with icy eyes that promised nothing shorter than death.

“...Not right now,  but  I have hope.”

“Hope...”

The word trembled in the air, repeated without conviction.

“Hope,” Kallamar echoed, firmer this time, as though by saying it again he could place it into their fractured mind and make it take root.

“I feel much better now, brother.”

They smiled as their hands ran over the perfectly braided hair. As always, Kallamar did an impeccable job, as everything seemed clearer and so much tidier all of a sudden.
Their thoughts were organised once again, lining up as they started spinning a web of consciousness that connected all the information together. 

And in the middle of the web, there was now Hope.

Chapter Text

“That’s exquisite!”
The delighted squeal echoed through the healing bay.
“How awfully kind of you two… I don’t even know how to thank you. This must’ve taken so much effort, you really shouldn’t have!”

Kallamar beamed as he tried on the brand-new pair of fluffy earmuffs. Handmade with care and attention to detail, they were crafted from thick fur and wide enough to cover most of his tattered ears, offering a soft, soothing comfort.

Autumn was drawing to a close, and the temperatures had begun to plummet faster than any of the followers could remember. The chill in the air crept deep into his bones, unfamiliar and sharp.
Sea creatures weren’t meant to endure this kind of cold out of water, and Kallamar had been grumbling about it daily on his walk from home to the healing bay.

That’s why this thoughtful gift from Eliza and Felicia was such a welcome surprise.

He was used to receiving all sorts of gifts by now, not all of them useful, but in the short time he had known the couple, they had proven to be genuinely attentive and kind by nature. Just as he had been with them during their night together.

“Oh, don’t you start, Kally!” the beaver giggled, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s nothing, really. We’re just happy you like them.”

“And we can’t have you catching a cold, dammit! You’re the one who’s gotta deliver our baby!”
The doe grinned broadly, the unmistakable pride of a mother-to-be glowing on her face as she gently stroked the large egg resting on the examination bed.

“I’ll be there when the egg hatches, of course,” Kallamar replied with a warm smile. “Just a formality, really. After today’s check-up, I’d say they’ll be the healthiest baby in the village.”

He carefully set the earmuffs back into their colourful wrapping paper on his desk.
“Now, come in, both of you.”
He opened all his arms wide, welcoming the tight, affectionate hug from both women, each pressing a kiss to one of his cheeks in turn.

“We still think about that night every now and then, Kally… you know?” Eliza added with a blush, stepping back from the hug as she signed hesitantly. “Sure you don’t want to go for a round two?”

“My dear, it truly was a memorable night,” he said with a fond smile, brushing her cheek lightly with his fingers. “But my terms remain the same: it was special, and it stays one-time-only.”

“Yeah, yeah… you’re such a sour octo-puss!”
Felicia gave him a gentle bonk on the head and burst into laughter at her own terrible pun.

“Dear me, it’s painfully obvious which one of you didn’t lay the egg. Should we ask the tailor for sandals and long socks to go with the dad jokes, Felicia? Also, I’m a squid, worlds apart, thank you very much.”

“Potato, potahto… But stick around anyway. You’re totally getting invited to the kid’s birthdays.”

“And do you expect me to attend sober?”

The three of them burst into laughter. It was a light, precious moment.

“All jokes aside,” Kallamar said with a deep breath and a warm smile, “you two will always have my friendship.”

“And you’ve got ours, baby,” Eliza replied softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Just call if you need anything, okay? We don’t see you around much lately.”

Felicia nodded firmly as she gently lifted the egg, now wrapped in a warm blanket embroidered with tiny ducklings.
“Yeah, winter gets lonely, doctor boy. I know you’ve got your fam, but if you ever need a drink or some company, you know where to find us.”

“You’re both too kind. It’s just a busy season, naturally, with more patients in winter. But don’t worry about me. Everything’s perfectly fine. And save those motherly instincts, you're going to need them soon enough.”

He walked to the door and held it open for them with a smile.
“Now off you go. I can’t enjoy your company any longer with a full waiting room. I’ll see you at the next check-up in a week.”

As the couple left the office, the doctor let his shoulders relax, eyes lingering on the lovely gift they’d brought. He sat with the thought for a moment, realising how, slowly but surely, things had begun turning in the right direction.

He had found what resembled a steady rhythm in his work. He had earned the respect of many, the quiet admiration of others, and made precious friendships along the way. His days were neatly split between the healing bay and his home, with enough free time to take care of his spouses’ graves and fumble with who caught his eye.

He shared quality time with Shamura, who, thank the Ancient Ones, showed no trace of instability. They had found a peace of sorts in their new role at the cult’s modest library and archives, with the help of their new colleague Dr. Sozonius: a brilliant mind who could surely be worthy company for his beloved sibling. 

Even Heket had begun treating him differently, with more warmth than he expected. She had even gifted him a set of paints and fresh canvases. How had she remembered he used to love painting? The gesture, unexpected and sincere, made him emotional beyond words.

But the best news of all was Leshy’s blossoming relationship with Tharen! 
They were finally together, officially: a couple in every sense. Kallamar couldn’t have been prouder of his little brother. Leshy had needed relief from the constant dread he carried, and Tharen was truly a kind soul, patient and understanding in all the ways Leshy needed most.

And he hadn’t thought about Malthys in a while.

Everything seemed to be falling into place. Like a jigsaw puzzle slowly forming a beautiful picture of his family.

All that was missing… was Narinder.

If only he’d speak to him, that would be the final piece.

Lambert had been trying to nudge him into reaching out. But it seemed Narinder’s mercy extended only reluctantly to Leshy.

Fair enough.

Yet still… painful.

Kallamar swatted away those thoughts, pulling himself back into the present, tidying up the office in preparation for his next patient and slipping on a fresh pair of gloves. One step at a time, one small victory at a time. And every smile on his baby brother’s face? A celebration in itself.

When the small red flags hanging all over the office ceiling stirred gently, that was his signal that someone was knocking.

Time for another round.

The day passed quickly. Too quickly. There were more cases of colds and flu than he liked, and something told him this wasn’t going to be an ordinary winter. Shamura had predicted snow, real snow, the kind that hadn't fallen since the days before the Old Faith. Not that Kallamar had ever experienced it himself… Winter, for him, had always meant warm currents and long rest beneath the waves.

But he’d studied the surface weather patterns and their toll on light-furred, ill-prepared animals and Lambert, for all their heart, hadn’t the faintest clue. This was going to be a challenge for the healer in him and for the whole cult.

Of course, he stayed late, brewing extra remedies to keep up with demand since he was still an apothecary short. Not that he minded the overtime, but it was always the dead of night when he walked home alone… Safe as the village was, he didn’t like that. Perhaps he’ll bring a sleeping bag and stay at the office.

As the lantern light cast a soft glow over the scattered vials and bundles of dried herbs on his desk, he focused on the gentle scratch of his pen, his favourite one, crowned with a carved jellyfish, dancing across parchment as he recorded dosages and notes.

Then, movement. 

Just a shadow flickering through the gap of the closed office door.

He blinked and looked up, and that’s when he noticed it: an envelope, lying on the floor just in front of the entrance.

Aurelia must have dropped off another report before heading home.

Kallamar bent to pick up the envelope and examined it. The front read: "Teddy Bear."

His posture froze. 

“Oh, for the love of…”

He didn’t bother opening it. Didn’t even consider reading it. Instead, he hurried over to the firemantle and placed it neatly on the growing stack beside it, made by similar letters written in that same annoyingly familiar penmanship.

There were at least twenty now, all unopened. Waiting to be burned the next time the hearth needed rekindling.

They were all from Travis, his sister’s friend.

The two of them hooked up under Heket’s nose not long ago, just before Leshy’s fateful date. The black bear never showed a hint of subtlety in his intentions when he asked Kallamar to talk in private, behind the temple. The squid wasn’t one to dislike the impetuous kind… but.

“So… your sister says you are single.”

“Ah, straight to the point, I see.”

Shielded by the shadows of the big stone building at dusk, the two of them could talk without interruption.

“Sorry, you didn’t seem like the kinda guy who danced around things. Do I start over?”

“Mph, no need for such a thing. If you are asking if I am available, indeed I am. To you? Convince me.”

Kallamar smiled confidently in his charm, awaiting sweet words, praise, and cheesy pick-up lines. What he didn’t expect was being abruptly pinned against the wall as the big snout pressed against his lips.

Maybe it was a moment of weakness.
Maybe it was the bear’s heat, the impressive build, the attractive physique pressing against him. Or maybe, just maybe, he was still raw from Malthys’ letter and being left behind.

Whatever the reason, Kallamar decided he wouldn't resist for long.
Recovering from the initial shock, he returned the kiss and let Travis deepen it.

It dragged on for long, heated seconds.
The squid found himself caught between stone and muscle, breath growing shallow as big paws roamed places they shouldn’t.

That’s when instinct kicked in.

With a sharp swat of his tentacles against the back of the bear’s knees, Kallamar made him buckle and lose balance as he pushed him down hard into the grass. In the next breath, he had a knee pressing on the black bear’s throat.

Travis blinked up at him, panting, yellow eyes blown wide not with fear, but with something closer to thrilled anticipation.

Kallamar’s voice was cold, calm, and clinical.

“Not here. Not now. Tomorrow. Lunchtime. My office.”

He paused.

“Nod if you understand.”

Travis nodded eagerly, breath catching.

“One time. One shot. One chance. There won’t be more after. These are my terms and they are strictly non-negotiable. Got it?”

Another nod. His chest heaved under the pressure of the knee, but it wasn’t discomfort that showed in his face: it was arousal, closer to primal hunger.

Kallamar leaned in.

“You don’t tell Heket and I won’t.”

A final nod.

“Good boy.”

He released him and stood, straightening his neatly ironed uniform as if nothing had happened.

He eyed the bear up and down like a predator with a prey and then just walked away, calm, composed, lips curling in the faintest smirk as Travis shifted in the grass behind him, hard and breathless, licking his lips in anticipation of what was to come…

Kallamar really should’ve recognised the massive red flags that day.

What a fool.

Their one and only time was a big letdown for him: all that energy, all that posturing, all that confidence for nothing but rushed minutes of mild entertainment that left Kallamar sore, unsatisfied, and vaguely annoyed. Truly, Travis was overcompensating for something with all that muscle. He was beautiful to look at, and that was about it.

But mistakes happen. And Kallamar was ready to gingerly move on and forget all about it.

Too bad Travis didn’t.

At first, it was tolerable: irritating, but harmless. Travis would find excuses to stop by the clinic, brush up too close and make jokes laced with innuendo. His paws lingered just a second too long, his compliments came uninvited, so Kallamar distanced himself.

Then the letters. Dozens of them. Folded neatly, dropped off like sacred offerings.

The first were almost pathetic in their tone: awkward, syrupy attempts at romance dripping with desperation. Pleads for a second chance. Talk of candlelit dinners and moonlit walks. Lavish promises of expensive gifts he clearly couldn’t afford with his job at the mines.

“Hey, beautiful eyes,

I couldn’t stop thinking about you after the other day. I don’t want to come off too strong, but I’d really like to see you again. Properly, I mean. Not just half an hour at your office at lunchtime.

You’re different. There’s something about you and not just the way you move or talk (though, that ass), but how your eyes look when you’re focused on something. I noticed that. I notice you.

Come have lunch with me sometime? Or tea? I’m not good with fancy words, but I’d like to get to know you, the real you and I’ll get you a present as beautiful as you are, I promise! 

I know you said one time, but I think we could be something great together. No pressure! Just… putting it out there.

You don’t have to answer right away. I’ll be around. Thinking of you.

Yours,
Teddy Bear”

Kallamar never replied to any of them, no matter how sugary sweet they were, no matter how much effort a barely literate fool like him put into them.

Then, the tone shifted.

The language grew explicit, vivid, vulgar, and disturbingly detailed at each one, with lines laced with possessiveness, obsession masked as passion.

“Hey Blue Eyes,

I still think about that day. Every. Fucking. Day.
The way your mouth tasted. The way you looked at me after. The way your legs shook. Don’t lie and say you didn’t want more. I know you did. You let me in. You let me touch you. I bet you think about it too when you're alone in your bed. Do you ever touch yourself and pretend it’s me?

I’d do it better now. I swear. I was just excited that time, and it’s your fault for driving me crazy. You still do. I work out every day thinking of pinning you down again. But this time I won’t stop when you say not here. Fuck that. You liked it rough, I saw it. You want more. You want it now. You just don’t want to say it.

You walk around like you’re better than everyone. But I see you. I know what you are under all that control and that calm voice. You’re a needy little pretty thing who acts all high and mighty because you’re scared to lose it. Let me make you lose it. I could wreck you so good you’d forget your own name.
I bet you’re reading this with your face all red right now. Is your hand already in your pants?

You don’t have to answer. I’ll just write more.
I’m not stopping until you stop pretending.
Say my name. You remember how.

Yours,
Teddy Bear”

It made his stomach twist in revulsion, sometimes feeling like throwing up his whole meal, but Kallamar carried on, maintaining his composure and not replying to any single one of these obscenities, no matter how offensive or crude. After all, a god who lived through wartime had been accustomed to reading all sorts of threats and declarations, he shouldn't be moved by this filth.

But then… the letters became something else entirely.

“My Sweet Little Thing,

You still haven’t answered me. That’s okay. I understand. You’re busy. You work hard. You’re important.
But don’t think I’ve stopped thinking about you. About that day.

And it wasn’t just a one-time thing, no matter what you said. You don't kiss someone like that and expect them to forget it.

I can't. I won’t.

I saw you yesterday.
You didn’t see me, but I saw you.
You smiled at someone. Was that smile supposed to be mine? Because I swear it felt like a knife in my chest. And then I thought, maybe you were just being polite. Yeah. That’s it. You’re just too kind, too beautiful, too perfect.

I know you’ve been busy with others, you don’t need to hide it, I know. But it doesn’t matter. You can do whatever you want, fuck whoever you like and I’ll still be here, waiting. I’ll even pretend it didn’t happen, if that helps. I forgive you. I will always forgive you. 

That's love, right? Forgiveness. Devotion. No matter what.

You’ll come back to me eventually. You always do in my dreams, and not just the sweet dreams, but the dark ones too. The ones where you cry my name, the ones where you scream and no one hears but me. No one else gets to see that side of you. Just me. Only me.

And if you don’t want others to know, it’s alright, we could live together. I’d build us a house away from here, near the ocean, just for you and I'll fill it with all your favourite things. 
I’d make your tea every morning and rub your shoulders when your tentacles ache. We’d laugh. You’d yell at me when I break something and I’d say sorry and fix it with flowers and kisses. You’d roll your eyes and tell me to stop, but I’d see the way you smile when you think I’m not looking.
And you wouldn’t have to lift a finger. I’d provide for you, I’d worship you. I’d kiss every part of you until you forget all the gods you ever prayed to. You’d only know my name, my mouth, my hands.

Please answer me. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. You did something to me. I feel like I'm burning all the time and the only way to make it stop is you. You belong to me. I don’t care what happened before. I don’t care if you say no again. I’ll wait outside your door forever if I have to.

One day, you’ll stop fighting it. One day you’ll understand what we have.
It’s love. My love.

And I’m never letting go.
Ever.

Yours,
Teddy Bear”

That letter went straight into the fire...

Now he didn’t read them at all. Just picked them up off the floor, stacked them by the hearth, and told himself they’d be useful when the firewood ran low.

If he kept ignoring Travis, eventually the bear would get bored and move on, right? That was how obsession worked, wasn’t it? Burn bright, burn out. And Kallamar had so many more pressing matters to attend to anyway: the sick flooding in with the coming winter, Leshy’s relationship that will eventually require his brother to confess his godly nature to his boyfriend and Shamura’s wavering health, just to mention a few on top of his head.

There was simply no space in his mind to dedicate to a clingy, lovesick bear with no sense of boundaries.

When he was a god, mortals knew better. His word had been law carved into stone and sinew. If someone defied him? If Astaroth didn't execute them first, Saleos always found a decent use for them in the lab. Back then, control wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

But now? This. This was new. And utterly, insufferably mortal.

Perhaps that’s why he hesitated to go home alone at night? 

No, absolutely not! He refused to give Travis that little victory. The bear was just a nuisance. An inconvenience. Certainly not a threat!

He was Kallamar. He would go home alone like he always had: in the dark or the light, in storm or clear skies. Because he was free. No one got to decide otherwise, no one could restrain his freedom.
Certainly not some overgrown, obsessed, soft-brained idiot with too much time and too little dignity.

Yet… the fear lingered.

Should he have said something? Told someone? Lambert could make Travis back off. But the doubt crept in like a slow poison: he thought he had been clear with the brute, but maybe, just maybe, he had smiled one time too many. Or maybe his silence, when asked “It was amazing, right?”, had been mistaken for agreement.

He thought he had been clear. He said it was a one-time thing many times and he meant it.

But maybe he asked for it.

Because he didn’t care to have a conversation with him, because he just wanted to enjoy sex, because he pinned Travis down first…

Maybe that made it his fault.

No… he better keep this whole affair down and wait until it died on its own. 

In silence.

Chapter Text

An entire season has been flowing by in front of my weary eyes. 
What did I retain from the time passing? Images, sentences and sensations muddled up in the cauldron of fog that is my cracked skull.

The constant myst muffles my thoughts and laces my words with uncertainty, leaving space for trembling delirium and incoherent speeches. 

I watch silently as leaves change their shades into hues of sunset orange, then bloodied crimson and finally to a rotting brown before leaving their trees, carried by merciless winds. That is what my mortal life feels like at times. 

Among the sneaky chill this winter brings, there is also the fright that my thoughts would wither along with everything else around me. Who am I without the aid of my crown? Who am I in this mortal shell, so frail and unsteady?

I meet decent folk in this humble village, they regard me with the reverence offered to esteemed elders without even knowing any of my titles. They are but words carved on misery stones and written in faded ink on yellowed pages, enduring solely for the sake of historians.

Still, I try to carry myself with the dignity I once possessed. Still, I struggle to preserve the ideas of control. Still, I seek consolation in order. Still, I stride with the solemnity and the pride that used to be familiar to me. My brain might not remember, but my body does.

The Lamb, they are decent. Or so it seems through these foggy scopes.
Yet, they are not a worthy leader for this community. Their control is slack, their reins on the followers are loose, and I suspect much goes on unnoticed by them and the Red Crown. Their inexplicable trust and mercy are a double-edged blade that wins them the favour of the mellow, but also the quiet insubordination of the ruthless.

Would they accept an old spider’s advice?

My chest aches under the scarred chitin. The cracks in my mind seem to dilate the moment Narinder barges into my clouded thoughts, like a dark shadow that suffocates every other. 

My advice is what started all this.

Dearest little Narinder, the Chosen One, the brother I passed on all my knowledge to, but at what cost?

Some days are nothing but spells of guilt, hailstones of sorrow, freezing grasps seizing my throat and lungs, sinking in like feline claws. Those are the lucid days, the ones where clarity brings nothing but regret and ache.

Mayhaps forgetfulness is nothing but a sweet lullaby, cradling me into a mercy I don’t deserve. The good, muffled, soft-minded days.

Yet not everything is lost. As I try to weave the webs of coherence desperately, I hold onto a few fireflies giving me direction through this wretched mortal life.
My dear brothers, my dear sister.

When their visage appears, I feel that not all is completely lost. My love towards them doesn’t need memory, logic or reasoning: it’s simply there, and forever will be.

Dear Kallamar proposed I seek occupation in the library and I agreed, as knowledge is a comfort I will never cease to seek. So new voices start filling the air, and new places become part of my routine. 

From the deity of War and Knowledge to a humble librarian, how ridiculous could destiny be?

I could scarcely hide my disappointment upon discovering the nature of the building the Lamb called “library-slash-archives”. Why would they slash their own property anyway?

In any case, I find it appalling that a Cult, which should have benefited from a sanctuary for students, researchers and scholars, had nothing even close to the speck of the sacred ground of wisdom and history I was accustomed to in Silk Cradle.

Ah, the joys of wandering through endless floors, each brimming with shelves bloated by tomes, parchments, relics and fragments of wisdom from all past eras, once meant to guide us toward the future.

I know that very little of it remains. The Lamb spared nothing.
But I shan’t blame the vessel.
I shan’t point my finger against the hand holding the victor’s pen.
It was I, after all, who guided them to erase all that was sacred to us, as we erased all that was sacred to them.

So it is fair to say my expectations weren’t high to begin with, but I couldn’t foresee standing in front of a glorified barn and addressing it as a holy container of truth and memory.

“It isn’t the grandest library, but our grandest minds will make it so! I am Doctor Sozonius, it’s my pleasure to finally have a passionate colleague to share my mission with.”

Ah, yes… the eager ant. 

Dr. Sozonius might be the only redeeming quality upon accepting my employment. He was once a brilliant researcher who lost his way, became ill from mushroom poisoning and was saved by the mercy of the Lamb. He wouldn’t go into further details about his past, and I respect the trait, as it applies to me, also.

Through the constant haze, I hold onto bits of delightful conversations with him. His thirst for knowledge seems to match my own, and so does his love for order. He also has several quaint little hobbies revolving around games of wits and chance.

At first, I reluctantly agreed to partake in these activities, but these “trading cards” are stimulating for a brain which could dip into old strategies. It was like war with little monsters on a sheet of colourful paper, how unusual, and yet unexpectedly entertaining. 

I am looking forward to this “Dungeons and Dragons” next. A whimsical life simulation of make-believe, quests and combat that revolves around entire tomes of rules, calculus, numbers and dice rolls. It sounds like the perfect relaxing activity after a long day.

Oh, of course, there was the actual work.

Together, we reorganised the archives in dire need of tidying up. Classified by subject, divided into neat sections and everything subsequently arranged to follow a meticulously calculated chronological order.

Order is relieving, it is safe, and finding the same books in the same shelves every single day helps settle a restless river into a quiet and steady stream. Perhaps this employment is part of the therapy I need.

But through the rustling of book pages and dice rolling, dawns and sunsets keep chasing each other. 

Winter is settling in with its merciless bite. The white wolf clamps down on the Cult of the Lamb with unprecedented ferocity. How can I blame it? This is the first manifestation since the rise of the Old Faith. So it thrashes out of its bounds and feasts upon the land with the bloodthirst of a starving animal.

And as the snowflakes dance outside the window, I observe my family dancing around me with their lives and problems, while I feel paralysed in place.

Leshy, oh yes, the little one. The most adorable wormling… how much has he grown? It seemed yesterday he was trying to stand on his hind legs and now, now he comes asking for advice… about… about… or dear.

Wasn’t it the devotion of a faithful disciple? I am not certain anymore. It seemed so dreadfully important at the time, yet as I ponder on the matter, the subject feels as faint as the smell of soggy leaves discarded on the porcelain saucer at tea time.

While dear Heket, always zealous in her resolve, seems to be plagued by worry. She too came begging for advice: she needed to apologise to someone and she didn’t know how. 
Who did she say she needed to apologise to? Perhaps she could donate a peace offering of sorts: maybe a soldier, a relic of power, two little kittens.

Two little kittens in the woods. Their little mouths open in constant crying, fangs barely sharp enough to chew, seeking nutrition. Not for long, their passing is swift and merciful. They turn into a gift, an offering of peace, so he wouldn’t be lonely.

A small kitten in the rubble of a house. Smoke rising. Air barely breathable as Pestilence weakened the defences enough for War to grant the last merciful blow.

A small kitten, black fur turning white by the dust of his crumbled modest building, paws trembling as he stares at fond corpses.

“We can’t leave him.”

Kallamar’s soul was tainted but never fully blackened like my own.

“Death is mercy.”

My voice sounded hollow but my soul was moved by my brother’s eyes.

“He has already seen Death, stared right at it and survived. If you are looking for potential, sibling, that’s where you’ll find it.”

Compelling argument, I couldn’t deny him anything. Some might say I spoiled my little brother rotten and they wouldn’t be wrong. But that’s what a good older sibling does, isn’t it?

So the kitten grasped the God of Pestilence’s extended hand like he grasped onto life itself as, in his mercy, Kallamar healed him from the plague he inflicted on his village and family.

Big red eyes looking up. They searched the blue ones for retribution, burning with the fire of ambition. His little body couldn’t match the ardent spirit of his soul as it lay limp in Salvation’s arms. Saved, protected, adopted, and immediately unconditionally loved.

Despite my every effort to turn my younger brother into the perfect weapon of war, he retained his own beliefs and self. What a blessing it has been. I have the fondest memories of him when he was but a little squid: we trained hard, yes, but also played together. He would hide from me all the time and I would seek him, finding him no matter how clever his choice of hiding was.

But he would get hurt so easily… Poor thing, such a fragile creature. I was always there, wiping the tears from his cheeks. I’ve never heard a child cry as much as he did when he injured his eye during training… How did that happen again? Ah, yes! The little one was clumsy with his weapon. Of course, he was.

Perhaps, this kitten will be stronger and more motivated, together we can shape him into a fierce god…

I am distracted as a gust of wind carries white, cold specks as light as breath itself. They dot the paved stone of this little village I am trapped in. Followers staring at it with mouths agape and eyes full of the wonder of a wormling discovering he could make flowers bloom. 

The Lamb asks for explanation and advice, they sound clueless with an undertone of despair in their voice. I tell them it used to snow, that this used to be how the season chased after each other in the lands before my Pantheon, I suggest they stock food, wood for the hearth and warm clothes. Obvious advice, but against such brutality, there is only meagre survival.

Should this be a relief or a condemnation?

Should I interpret this as the land recovering from what I did?

Then, if the world can recover in such haste, perhaps there is truly hope for reconciliation, truly hope for healing… or mayhaps I need to consider this sign as the last pile of dirt over my tomb. The Old Faith forgotten under an immaculate coat of white.

More days slither through my fingers. Cold brings predictable problems to this little cult which has never seen such a phenomenon… young mortals, little lives, death is slowly culling the weak. And yet, Kallamar tries.

I don’t see him often anymore, buried in the medical bay throughout night and day burning with the fervour of his mission. The canvas and paints Heket gifted him were sitting unattended in his room: ocean waves trapped in solid stillness, frozen and unfinished, waiting for the gentle hand to complete their motion. The house itself seems to darken in his absence.

Then I sense Leshy growing restless. My little hatchling doesn’t screech like he used to, but he burrows in silence and I feel at a loss. Aren’t toys enough to make him content anymore? Everything is foggy again.

More fragments disperse, the dots I cannot connect seem to multiply outside my web.

“Who is Tharen?”

I find myself asking, Kallamar reassures me, it’s a mortal friend. When did Kallamar come home? His hand is upon mine as he smiles. He is tired, his fingers shake, but he smiles. 

“Long story short, things have gone weird between us… and I must make a decision… but since this decision probably involves all of you, I want to hear your opinion.”

Leshy’s voice trembles as I capture slivers of deceit amongst the hesitant words. I read between the lines the familiar peril this situation poses and my body tenses, my pulse quickens.

“I… feel like I should tell him… you know about everything. About who I was.”

Mixing goodhood a mortality. Danger. Again, my orders are defiled by whims. The flimsy beings act innocent and harmless, but they hide treachery behind their facade. 

“They are simple creatures, ‘Mura. Little pets and playthings of no consequence.”

Among the smoke, I see my dear Kallamar moving his hands as he talks. He does that a lot, it helps carry his words and distract the prey while he keeps the knife at the ready. The light of Anchordeep filters through the crystal ceiling of his opulent temple and dances on the bangles adorning each of his arms.

“Mingling with them only brings ruin to you, your reputation and your Cult. How many times should I tell you, brother?”

This isn’t our first disagreement, yet I try to be understanding, I try so hard.

He sighs loudly like a spoiled brat. But then I shift my eyes to Astaroth standing in his shadow and he nods, silently accepting my orders. My general knows what must be done.

My head spins more, the voices start blurring: they speak of relationships, of love, as I catch myself standing. Did I just raise my voice?

Never mind that, but love a mortal, how was this allowed to happen? I feel a dense red haze in my head, my vision and hearing are dimming, but there is so much fury in my arms. I picture myself on the battlefield again, still strong and fueled by vehement righteousness.

“‘Mura, leave him alone, please. Talk to me instead.”

Kallamar pleads. I find myself desiring over anything in this world that he wasn’t such a pathetic little coward!

All that reaches my ears is the pitiful pleading of a snivelling squid, naïve, untouched by death or war. A whimpering creature who didn’t emerge from his egg expecting to fight his own kind. But war has no patience for complaints. War follows its own design, and grants its blessing only to those mighty enough to stand tall upon their mother’s corpse and rip the crown from her brow.

He must learn.

Shattering sounds, hands shaking with rage, blood too hot for my veins, thoughts too dark for my mind, warm liquid in my hands, the prick of a needle in my arm.

The fog is thick again, but the fury is washing away.

“It’s… It’s alright, ‘Mura…”

The vision clears just enough to see him holding me tightly in his arms. Focusing seems to hard right now, yet I try nonetheless and I spot rivulets of ichor on the side of his ever-smiling face.

 Why is he bleeding? Who procured harm to my precious brother?

“Y-you are hurt, my dear, dear Kallamar…”

Senses slipping fast and diminishing, but I reach for his head as the gashes on his brow seem serious. My hand is red, my claws bloody.

“It’s nothing to concern yourself about, ‘Mura… I was clumsy, that's all.”

There is so much worry in his voice… and so much fear.

“Why is there blood… on my hand?” Suddenly, I am terrified to learn this answer.

“You tried to help me, of course…” His pale azure fingers brush against my cheek and a grounding feeling of safety runs through my tired muscles. 

“You immediately tried to stop the bleeding, ‘Mura. You did nothing wrong.”

His voice trembles for an instant, but I believe him as he smiles. I would immediately offer aid to my precious little brother, that’s indeed the first thing I would do, it is what makes sense, hence it must be so.

“You did nothing wrong…” he repeats as love seeps through in his words. “Everything is perfectly fine, ‘Mura.” 

Clear and unadulterated peace spreads through my head.

“Let me help you to bed, you had a very long day. You must be exhausted.”

“Yes… Yes thank you, dear brother… I suppose I am.”

I can’t deny the sudden weariness in my fibre and bones, too heavy to carry on my own. So I lean on him… like I did for the last thousand years. I wish I could do more to help him, more to repay my debt.

The world shifts into darkness, the myst thickens and opens without a steady pace. 

Time becomes meaningless while everyone dances around me and I am still paralysed… frozen on the spot, trapped within the layers of past and present as fate mocks everything I have built and destroyed.

Yet the love for my siblings never falters, it doesn’t need memory, logic or reasoning: it’s simply there, and forever will be.

Chapter Text

There wasn’t a single soul in the Cult of Death who didn’t look forward to the winter holidays. A full week of rest, rituals, and revelry awaited the devoted. Finally, a well-earned reward for a year of tireless labour and a bountiful harvest!

But this year felt different.

Lambert remained resolute in their belief that celebration would lift the community’s spirits, but new challenges loomed, and dissent was growing. Some whispered doubts, questioning the wisdom of joy amid sickness and grief, mourning those lost to the harsh cold.

“My devoted, my beloved, my family,” Lambert’s voice rang clear in the temple’s frigid stillness. “We are all facing these adversities with unwavering strength. I cannot overstate how vital your continued effort, compassion, and unity are during these trying times.”

The cult leader stood tall at the altar, draped in immaculate crimson fleece, their presence radiating both warmth and authority as the congregation of followers huddled close together seeking comfort from the bitter cold of the stone temple.

“These festivities will not be like any other in the past,” They declared as their tone shifted from warmth to solemnity. “As the worst of the winter begins to pass, we will not gather merely to celebrate hard work or the turning of another calendar. This year, we feast to remember the dead, those who have moved on to their afterlife, embraced by the glory of Death and to remind ourselves that we are still here. We struggle, yes. But we endure, thanks to the strength of every single one of you.”

“Every single one, indeed… if not for the healing bay team, these halls would be empty”, Kallamar thought bitterly, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck. He cursed once again the day his beloved earmuffs vanished from his office, along with his favourite pen and mug. He hadn’t forgiven whoever had the audacity.

“So I invite you all to prepare,” The Lamb continued as their voice rose again with conviction and their arms opened into a wide arc as to embrace their community, “to hold tight to everything and everyone we still have. We will pray, we will banquet, we will dance around the bonfire and celebrate with the Rite of Lust. And if you have ideas, suggestions or requests, bring them forth. My disciples and I will do all we can to make sure this celebration brings solace, joy, and connection.”

Their words settled like a warm blanket over the crowd, soothing many of the gathered souls. But not all were comforted.

Some kept their heads low, their hearts heavy: they were the ones who had been locked inside for weeks, the ones whose bodies still ached with fever, and worse, the ones who had buried their children.

Out of five eggs hatched during the summer, only four made it to the end of the year. And even worshipping Death, Kallamar knew certain pains were too much to bear for anyone.
How could he blame them? Death is irreversible. It is the end. No matter how glorious the afterlife may be, there is no true return. That’s why Narinder always terrified him. That’s why he had once begged at the Lamb’s feet for mercy.

There is no healing from Death... until now.

Kallamar had made up his mind.
He would ask the Lamb. He would ask them to bring back his beloved. Not one, but four resurrections.
That was where every road had led, wasn’t it? This tireless hunt for a cure, the nights spent buried in scrolls and dusty tomes, the days melting into each other as he worked himself to the bone, saving every life he possibly could. What was it all, if not leverage?

Yes, he felt genuine compassion for his patients. He was proud of his work and felt fulfilled by every life pulled back from the brink. But when all was said and done, beneath the satisfaction, beneath the gratitude and the healing…It had always been for them.

Astaroth. Saleos. Baalzebub. Haborym.

How could they ever deny him? He was single-handedly saving the Cult from the grip of winter! Sure, Giah and Aurelia were great, there was no denying their part, but Giah was a brilliant orthopedist and Aurelia a tireless nurse. With all due respect, they didn’t know shit about viruses, diseases and all those silent killers that crept in through coughs and fevers.

He was the one keeping the Cult alive.
He was the hero.
He deserved this.
He deserved to have his spouses brought back.

A slow smile curled beneath his thick scarf as he watched the vapor of his breath curling as it condensed in the frigid air. His goal had never felt so close. So tangible.

But then…
What would they say when they saw him?

Would they still love him? Wait… Would they even like him?

Gods… what if he wasn’t good enough anymore?

Would they marry him again, knowing he was mortal now? Powerless, deaf, fragile and flawed in ways they had never known him to be?

The smile faded.

He pulled his scarf up tighter, walked faster, his steps quickening on the frostbitten path as doubts gnawed at the edges of his mind. They remembered him as he was: glorious in his bishop’s regalia, majestic as the portraits that still hung in his room: mighty, divine, breathtaking, flawless.

And now… now he had…

Legs.

His gaze dropped down to the awkward limbs beneath him. Short, stiff, clumsy things. He was probably shorter than Astaroth now. Gods, maybe even shorter than Haborym.

Would they laugh at him?

Would they see this…this deformed thing he’d become and turn away?

He wouldn’t be able to carry Haby on his back anymore, and he couldn't duet with them… And dancing with Baali? Ancient Ones, how disappointed would she be to realise he no longer moved with divine grace and follow her step through the music he could no longer hear?

And Saleos… oh, Saleos would laugh like a maniac.
He wouldn’t be calling him Panacea anymore, since he can no longer use his full powers to cure the uncurable.
He would mock him for having to make humble remedies for diarrhoea and stomachache with that smug little smirk. That teasing voice.

And Astaroth? He wouldn’t spar with him. He wouldn’t even look at him as an equal. What warrior would waste time on someone who couldn’t hear his attacker? He would look down at him, or wose: he would pity him…

Would he still be respected?

Would he still be loved?

Kallamar bit his lips nervously.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head against the wind and against his thoughts, “No. I must not entertain such… such poison.”

He straightened his spine, tightening the scarf around his face as if bracing his heart.

“I will do everything I did back then. I’ll just do it differently. They will not be disappointed in me.” He whispered, with fire in his breath. “I will spoil them once again and I’ll treat them like royalty. I’ll provide for them, protect them, cherish them. And I’ll start by getting their lives back.”

He paced forward as he crossed the quiet gardens. It was his shortcut to the clinic, where few to no one passed through. Not since the frost turned the once-lush greenery into brittle and grey.

The medicinal garden had always been a place of solace in warmer months, full of bees and followers quietly tending the herbs destined for the apothecary, but now it felt almost forgotten, ghostly even. Since the medicinal plots had been burnt by frostbite, no one needed to tend to them anymore and the soil awaited, dormant, for the next batch of seeds in spring.

Kallamar exhaled slowly, watching the cloud of his breath drift like a spirit between the skeletal trees. A place meant for healing now avoided. How ironic.

He pulled his scarf tighter and moved on. The cold bit at his legs, but his resolve burned hotter still as his steps brought him through the snow-worn grass to the healing bay.

“Oh… hi, Kall.”

A bright yellow and violet presence pulled him out of his thoughts as he saw Malthys smiling softly at him. The moth stood out against the muted winter palette like a vivid flame in the night with his wings tucked neatly behind him and antennae gently swaying with the breeze.

“Mal?”

The former apothecary stood by the entrance of the healing bay, beside Aurelia. Kallamar stared at him for a moment that felt far too long. It had been months since they’d been in front of each other and spoken.

“Right, I’ll take the supplies in. Thanks, MallyWally,” Aurelia said casually, but her eyes lingered on both of them before she lifted a heavy box with ease and headed inside, giving them space.

Silence followed. Not the peaceful kind, but the heavy, pulsing silence of unspoken things, of words left unsaid for too long.

“You look well,” Kallamar offered eventually. “How’s the refinery treating you?”

“Thank you. It’s actually… good,” Malthys replied, shifting slightly. “I get to create new things from raw material, which is fulfilling. And I don’t get vomited on anymore,” he added with a small, forced laugh.

Then silence again, like the air between them had thickened.

“You look tired,” Malthys said finally as he watched Kallamar retreat deeper into his scarf.

“Ow… trust you to say I look dreadful.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Quite the equivalent.”

“But you ARE tired. And from what Aurelia tells me… things haven’t been easy lately.” His voice dropped slightly. “You know it’s alright to say it. No one would think any less of you.”

“Right, in any account… winter will be over soon, and the holidays will bring some respite. It’s only a matter of time, we are at the very last push.”

“I was thinking... I could come back to help, if you’d like.”

The offer slipped from the former apothecary’s lips with quiet warmth, sincere and unguarded, as though the moth had been carrying those words for a long time, waiting for the right moment to let them out.

“...I wasn’t the one who asked you to leave in the first place. You don’t need my permission.”

Malthys pressed his lips together for a moment.

“But… would you want me to come back?”

“Of course I would!” Kallamar’s voice came out more sharply than he meant. “But not if it would hurt you… The truth is, you deserve more than what I can offer right now.”

“Even so… It’s still you and only you I would ask to dinner.”

“Mal…”

“No—no, I’m sorry,” Malthys interrupted himself as he shook his head with a breathy sigh and a small, bitter smile. “I’ve spoken out of turn again. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Forgive me. Maybe it’s best if I stay at the refinery, but I’ll still come by to drop off supplies, so we might see each other.”

“That would be nice…”

“I miss our talks.”

“I miss them too.”

Again, silence hung between them for a moment, broken only by the distant noises of a busy cult.

“Well then… I’ll be on my way. I wish you the best of luck for the end of winter, but I will see you soon.”

Malthys was just starting to turn when instinct moved faster than thought and Kallamar reached out and gently took his hand, halting him. The moth blinked, surprised, and maybe… just maybe, hopeful.

“The windchime,” Kallamar said quietly, releasing his hand as quickly as he had taken it. “It’s a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. It fills my room with colour, and it brings me joy. Thank you.”

Malthys’s face lit up, his wings giving the softest, excited flutter. “You’re welcome! I remember how you kept glancing at the paints and glasswork on my desk. I’m really glad you enjoy it.”

“I’ll treasure it.”

“I believe you.”

Another brief pause, thick with unspoken tension.

“I won’t keep you any longer,” Kallamar said finally. “But thank you for stopping by with the supplies.”

“Of course,” Malthys replied, nodding. “I’ll be bringing more soon enough. Take care of yourself, Kall. Please.”

“Nothing brings me down, Mal. Take care.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from the moth, warm, if a little weary. And this time, he truly left.
The doctor watched him go, eyes following the light sway of violet and gold wings trailing behind him and he couldn’t help but wonder…

Would his spouses like this mortal? Would Astaroth?

When Astaroth took on his new mission and with it, a new life, he hadn’t expected to spend his days trailing after a spoiled little brat.

Yes, the God of Health was a formidable warrior, thanks to the God of War’s efforts, and he had to grudgingly admit that his charm laced with lies and deception got results. But for the love of the Ancient Ones, he could be absolutely insufferable when he wanted to be!

The seasoned General, now glorified babysitter, played the part of the dutiful bodyguard: silent unless addressed, treating Kallamar like an irreplaceable porcelain vase, so beautiful, delicate, and prone to shattering with a single touch, just as Shamura described him. But gradually, he began to peer beneath the surface. He watched the prim, dolled-up squid spring lethal traps, strike with surgical precision, and dispatch his prey without a flicker of hesitation or remorse.

It was so easy to underestimate him.

The jellyfish had witnessed it time and again: fools seduced by honeyed words and soft gestures, mesmerised by the grace with which Kallamar moved and spoke. Like a dancer. Like a siren. Even a hardened soldier like himself had to admit the godling was captivating, but he was no fool. He wouldn’t fall for illusions. Everything the squid was, everything he presented to the world… it was all a lie. A carefully constructed façade.
And yet, those lies killed with startling efficiency and he began to respect him and the brutal elegance of his craft. 

He remembered, long ago, when he was just another soldier, how the gentle God would tend to the wounded, healing troopers with soft hands and shy smiles. Back then, he’d never have imagined he'd one day see that same innocent being drenched in ichor, standing atop the corpse of his latest lover, clutching their still-beating divine heart in his blood-slicked hands.

What a sight.

One that cut his breath short, one only he had the honour to witness.

The God of Health, in the meantime, had grown accustomed to Astaroth’s presence and, slowly but surely, began to use him for company. Having someone near, even in his most private sanctum only to be met with cold silence was... unnerving. If he had to take the medicine, he might as well learn to enjoy the taste.

That’s how the banter began.

The age gap between them was significant. Time meant little to immortals, but when they met, Kallamar was half the General’s age. And oh, how he adored teasing Grampa at every chance he got.

“Are you quite sure you can keep up, soldier?”

“I can keep up just fine, squidling.”

“That’s just wonderful! Because I’m throwing a grand celebration, and I plan to dance all night. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go to bed early with a blanket over your knees... since you have those?”

“Lordling should focus on his training, not dancing. Also, I must’ve missed the announcement: is there a public holiday I’m unaware of?”

“Combat is not unlike dancing, General. Both are coordination and rhythm... but only one of them is fun.” Kallamar replied with the most annoying singsong voice he could muster. 

“Oh, but silly me, what would you know of fun? And yes, it’s abundantly clear you’re overlooking the most important celebration of all. Me. My existence. Me blessing this world with my divine presence. And it occurs every single day!”

If Astaroth could roll his eyes far enough, they’d end up behind his skull. And yet, he kept going to the parties as his duties required, but never joining in. Always watching. And, while the Lordling twirled and laughed and drenched himself in light and adoration, Astaroth observed. Quiet. Calculating.

And discovering exactly what Shamura feared most.

Kallamar had grown so lonely that the company of mortals was becoming a habit. It began with dancing, then singing, then laughter, idle chatter that slipped into familiarity. He spoke with them as if they were peers. It all felt so frivolous, so harmless… until he kissed them, and it became sin.

“My foolish brother is overstepping his boundaries. The chasm between mortals and gods must remain as wide as it was forged to be, Astaroth.”

Shamura’s words still echoed in his mind, not shouted, but spoken with the calm, coiled fury of a god who had witnessed millennia of war and violence.

“Mortals who elevate themselves to disciples or witnesses must struggle. They must earn it through devotion, blood, and battle, just like yourself and your kin.”

The spider paced before him, every step measured, every gesture executed with intimidating grace.

“The creatures you mention, General... they have done nothing. They do not deserve his attention, let alone his affection. And while I will not dictate how my brother chooses to... manage his flock, I will not allow him to fall prey to his own indulgence. This flaw could be easily exploited by our enemies, we can't let our guard down while the war against the Pantheon rages on.”

Then the God of War stopped and turned, their glacial gaze locking with his and in that instant, Astaroth felt his marrow freeze.

“Ensure Kallamar understands this: mortality brings nothing but pain.”

“It will be done, Noble Shamura.”

The command was clear. No poetry, no ambiguity.

Astaroth knew what had to happen. The mortal Kallamar had chosen, no matter how soft, harmless and gentle, would not show up at their arranged meeting. A grim task, but one the General executed with cold precision without any joy, without any pride.

But divinity had to remain untouched. Unspoiled.
No mortal should ever dream of tasting the lips of a god.

“I waited for two hours at the drinkhouse.” 

Kallamar said, voice cool and sharp. His eyes narrowed at the hare who had stood him up the night before. “Do you have any idea how delightful it was to sit there while my own little brother, who happens to be the bartender, mocked me because you didn’t deem worthy of showing up to the date and time YOU arranged?”

“I—I’m really sorry, doctor. I’m so embarrassed, I…”

Germa’s voice cracked as he tugged nervously at one of his long ears, his gaze darting to everything but Kallamar. He looked cornered, like prey sensing a predator nearby, watching him from the shadows.

“I expect a proper explanation,” Kallamar continued, biting back the sting of disappointment. “You said, and I quote, ‘I’ll show you the night of your life.’, astonishingly creative by the way. But I cleared my evening nonetheless, turned down very tempting offers, given you a chance. And for what? To sit there like a fool.”

He had spent weeks cooped up in the healing bay, clinging to that one promise of fun and escape. He could’ve gone home with the skunk twins, who had definitely made their interest clear. But no, he had saved his free night for the hare, so he refrained from breaking a promise! 

What an affront to ditch HIM!

“W-well, I… something came up, I had a sudden, uh, problem. Stomachache. Headache. One of those.”

“Of course. And what better solution than ghosting a doctor,” Kallamar snapped, his tentacles twitching in agitation, picking up on the lie, but not the reason behind it. “I knew you weren’t exactly a scholar, but this is a whole new species of stupid.”

Germa gave a dry, nervous laugh. “Y-yeah, I… didn’t think that part through… did I?”
He fidgeted with the edge of his tunic, fingers trembling now. He looked like he wanted to say more, but invisible fangs seemed to clamp down on his throat.

“I guess… I’ll be going now.”

Kallamar blinked. “Wait. Don’t you want to… rearrange? Not that I would give you a second chance, but not even begging me to reconsider?”

Germa froze, then forced a stiff smile. “Ye—I mean, no. I think… It’s better this way, doctor.”

He dipped his head in an awkward, apologetic bow before practically fleeing away from the common lunch area, tail low, shoulders hunched, his steps quick and uneven, looking around at the gathered followers as if fleeing something. 

As he watched him go, sourness curled in the squid’s chest. The rejection stung something delicate inside him, not just his ego.
 
Probably the ‘novelty’ of his exotic charm was wearing off… maybe he wasn’t that attractive even to mortals anymore. Perhaps even these simpler creatures were spotting the imperfections, the deformity and ugliness he saw in the mirror.
But if that was true, then the skunk twins wouldn’t have approached him so boldly. 
Unless… unless there was another reason. Was he becoming known as a cheap lay? 

No. He stopped the spiral cold.
He would not let his pride rot under doubt. He chose who was worthy of his time. He was not prey, never prey. If anything, he was still the one who could pick and discard at will.
But something about the way Germa didn’t even look at him left a deeper, stranger wound.

Gladly, as the days blurred into one another and the holidays crept steadily closer, Kallamar forgot the unfortunate episode with the hare fast enough. After all, the growing pile of invitations to the Rite of Lust served as an excellent reminder of his charm. This time, he decided, he would finally indulge the persistent attentions of the skunk twins.
Would that count as some form of incest?

He shrugged off the thought. They weren’t HIS brothers. Not his circus, not his monkeys.

Besides, once he had his spouses, there would be no need for fleeting flings or questionable entanglements. Everything would be in order. Proper. Divine. His life would be filled with the most loved and most amazing people he had ever known… and perhaps Malthys, if he was inclined to share.

That’s why he resolved to approach the Lamb sooner rather than later: he would ask about the resurrection on their afternoon tea the day before the holiday!

Why wait any longer? He was so indispensable to this community even before the end of winter. The results were already in before the warmth of spring would reach them, and they said he was well on the highest step of the podium! Lambert surely knew that.

“Pardon me… could you repeat that?”

Kallamar set the teacup down with deliberate care, porcelain clicking gently against the saucer. He stared at Lambert in disbelief, trying to process what they had just said.

The meeting had already tested his patience. He had pushed through exhaustion to sit here, smile politely, and listen about decorations falling, labourers arriving drunk, supplies mysteriously missing, and followers whining about the fighting tournament. 
And Narinder, of course Narinder being an absolute dickhead, accepting the Lamb’s Rite of Lust invitation under the condition of complete secrecy.

He had waited through it all. He had been understanding, accommodating, and now, when it was finally his turn, when Lambert finally listened to what he had to say…

His eye twitched.

“Kall… I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Silence. The squid’s lips pressed into a thin line as his tentacles slowly coiled in tight, controlled spirals beneath the table.

“...Why?”

Lambert’s hands clenched tightly in their lap, twisting the edge of their pristine fleece as if to anchor themselves. Shadows pooled under their eyes as unnatural dark ichor marks spoke of the weight of their divinity and the challenges of a leader. The long braid of white wool falling behind their shoulder was slightly undone at the end, as it needed to be combed and woven again. Their voice, when it came, was raw. Honest. Pained.

“It’s not as simple as you think it is.”

Fear, anxiety, anger, everything was boiling just beneath his teal skin.

“Lambert…”

His voice cracked as despair slowly seeped through.

“Have I done something to upset you?”

The words trembled in the air, but he didn’t wait for an answer.

“Whatever it is, I’ll make it right. Just tell me what needs to be done, and I’ll do it.”

His hands shook now, his tentacles twitching as if searching for something to hold onto.

“Am I not enough? I can be. I’ll do better!” he pleaded as familiar words escaped him. “Just… please. Bring them back. I am begging you.”

The Lamb’s chest tightened. The sting of guilt stabbed sharply beneath their fleece as they looked into the eyes of their closest confidant.
They knew he would have asked eventually… but they were not prepared to say no, not after all Kallamar did in the last six months.

“Let me explain." As they reached forward, gently clasping his trembling hands between their own, they inhaled slowly, steadying themselves, before continuing in a softer tone. "Your spouses… they never really belonged to my flock.”

Kallamar’s gaze flickered, confusion knotting his brow.

“Their faith in you was too strong. They never truly devoted themselves to me. I couldn’t guide their souls when they passed and I don’t know where they are now.”

They swallowed, voice dropping.

“And it’s been so long.”

“But… but you control death!” Kallamar’s voice cracked as he leaned forward, desperation shining in his eyes. “You brought me and my siblings back and we were sworn enemies to you! Why not them?”

Lambert lowered their gaze, shame perfectly readable on their face.

“I don’t know how I brought you back. There was something else at play and not my will. That’s the damn truth.”

As the squid sat in stunned silence, a set of hands curled in his lap as he fought to hold himself together. His breath hitched once, then again, as the silence pressed in on him stronger than ever before, suffocating like the whole ocean was trying to drown him and his gills were impossibly clogged.

“...But what if we tried anyway?”

His voice was smaller now, almost a whisper. “Even just a chance. Isn’t that worth it?”

“Kall…” They hesitated, then spoke carefully, “You need to understand. They might also come back… wrong.”

“It’s happened before,” Lambert continued, their fingers tightening gently around his. “Some came back with empty minds, twisted bodies, hunger for other people’s flesh. Not themselves. Not truly alive. Just… lost things wearing their faces.”

They lowered their head, guilt pressing their shoulders down.

“I can’t call that life. And I would never wish it on someone I love.”

A pause.

“If I could even locate your spouses’ souls… and that alone would be a miracle, the chances of something going wrong are high,” Lambert warned gently. “Do you truly want to risk that? To disturb their eternal rest, only to trap them in… abominations?”

That would be cruel. Even Kallamar could see it.
But cruelty, he believed, was letting them stay gone when there might still be a way. 

As long as there was life, there was healing.

“...I-if it’s a sickness,” he stammered, voice trembling but fierce, “then I can cure it. I will cure it! There’s no affliction I won’t overcome!”

“I’m not even sure it’s a sickness,” Lambert admitted. “When it happened, we… had no choice but to put them down.”

Kallamar’s heart skipped a beat, but he refused to falter. No. No, there had to be a way. If there wasn’t, he would make one.

“I’ll consult every tome, every scroll, every scrap of forgotten knowledge in this land. Shamura will help me, they must! I will find a cure, and you will bring back my beloved!”

The God of Death's voice was quiet now, barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry. I just don’t want you to get your hopes—”

“Lambert.”

Kallamar's gaze burned with unwavering resolve.

“Any shred of hope is better than none. I cannot live knowing I did nothing. So tell me. What must I do? I am yours to command. Say the word and I will devote my life to this.”

Lambert’s dark eyes looked straight into his, filled with sadness as their voice turned to barely more than a breath.

“I ask you to try to move on.”

Kallamar looked at them as if they’d turned into a ghost before his very eyes, heart squeezed into a tight, painful grip.

“I know it sounds heartless,” they continued, “but believe me, I do understand. I know what it feels like. I have the power to bring Poppy back… and I can’t. I had to move on. I had no choice.”

His pulse thundered in his temples, but he kept his expression as composed as he could manage.

“...I see.” The words were dry in his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing them out. “I asked too much… too soon. Didn’t I?”

“No, no! Your request is valid, Kall. Anyone would ask the same in your place. And as your friend, I would say yes in a heartbeat. But as a leader… I have to weigh everything carefully.”

They exhaled. “You’re not the only one who’s come to me with such pleas. Most of them are easier to fulfil, with higher chances of success. Each resurrection drains the Cult’s power, and it takes time, and resources, and sacrifice to restore it. Your case… is complex. Uncertain. It places me in a difficult position in front of the flock.”

Kallamar held on still, desperation flashing in his eyes.

“Then I’ll gather everything myself! I’ll scour every ruin, every battlefield, I’ll bring back every bone if I must… I just need weapons!”

“...We both know you can’t. Not without your hearing.”

“Then what can I do?!” His voice cracked. “There has to be something!”

A long silence.

“The kindest thing you can do for yourself…” 

Lambert said at last, their voice breaking with quiet sorrow. 

“...Is to let them go.”

Chapter Text

Grief

It’s not the first impact, not the explosion of screams and cries that engulf all your body and mind. Not the pain searing every nerve in your body, not the shaking, not the short breath, the panic, the sobbing, the imploring for something that cannot come true.

They won’t come back, no matter how much you call their names, no matter how many times you check the pulse, no matter how long you stay still, staring and thinking that perhaps, they are just sleeping too soundly.

That’s only the beginning, the tip of the iceberg.

Grief is a lifelong companion that sticks tightly like a second skin made of tar, pulling and squeezing to remind you of its constant presence. And while the weight of grief seems so tangible and heavy, it manifests right when something is missing… someone is missing.

Grief is that word you know they often used, and the way their accent made it unique, is that hand gesture they did to greet you, that spicy dish you know they particularly enjoyed.

Grief is the breath stopping when you read a date on the calendar: a birthday that won’t be celebrated.

Grief is that voice you still can hear in your dreams, that presence that is still there while you live through oniric stories. Sometimes as the protagonist, sometimes just a mere background character. But they are always there somehow.
Grief is waking up with tears still streaking your face, knowing all too well that was just a dream, and reality is empty.

Grief is the fear of forgetting what they used to sound like, to look like, the moments spent together fading like an old pencil portrait exposed to the sun. Grief is the everyday conversations you won’t have again, is the guilt pressing down on your shoulders that whispers you could have been nicer or said "I love you” more often. Grief is in that favour they asked you and you said “maybe later” and forgot, until you will never forget again.

Grief is your voice cracking suddenly when you mention their name, even if you felt confident enough or brave enough to say it out loud. Grief is stopping mid-sentence, afraid that you will cry in front of everyone, and you know you will.

Grief is a gaping maw so wide and so glaring that it is impossible to ignore.

Grief is an empty chair, a hollow room, a familiar home turned into the stage of bittersweet memories. Grief is the box containing all the meaningless trinkets they left behind that you can’t bring yourself to open, let alone throw away. Grief is in that scrap of paper that once meant nothing, turned into a sanctuary for their handwriting. It is in every lonely step of a road you used to walk together casually every day.

Grief is longing for more. Grief is the anger that makes your tears burn and fists clench. Grief is the question: “Why them and not someone who deserved it?”. It is in imploring anyone, anything, fate, destiny, god, or whoever in the universe is listening to have more time… just a little more time.

It will be there at the corner of your eyes, the empty spot, the colour gone, the voice fleeting in your memories, and it will never pass. Time might help build something around that brutal emptiness, but the size of the hole left will never decrease.

There is no funeral, no rite, no words of comfort that will help mend the wound, for as long as love is there, it will always seek its destination, finding none. A love so strong that it wanders aimlessly like a ghost haunting your heart, unfulfilled, unsatisfied forever.

Grief is silence.

Merciless.

Inescapable.

Silence.

Kallamar’s screams were swallowed by the thick folds of his giant purple jellyfish plushie, his face buried deep in its soft embrace as if it could quiet down the agony clawing its way out of his chest.

His sobs came in waves, tearing through him with no rhythm and no relief as tears had not stopped since he locked himself in his room, quiet, unreachable, unwilling to tell a single word to his family about what had happened.

He held his composure. He held the smile long enough not to break down in front of the Lamb, long enough to walk home and answer the polite greetings of the people crossing his path and to announce to the household he was home and would go straight to bed without dinner. But he couldn’t keep it up forever.

“The kindest thing you can do for yourself... is to let them go.”

How could they ask him to accept that? 

The worst part of all their speech was, it made sense. Kallamar loathed that with passion! 

If the Lamb denied him out of hatred, out of revenge or any other foolish reasons, he would still have a small string of hope to hold on… but like this? Logic, science, reason… a wall that seemed impossible to climb.

He had been asked to mourn, to seal the tombs, to engrave the stones, to carve the dates of death in his heart with his own hands. It sounded all so cruel, all so… definitive.

All he could do was cry then? Cry holding onto his memories, onto Sal’s evil potion recipe book, Haby’s poetry and songs, Baali’s headscarf and Astaroth’s portraits of him… was that all he would ever have of them?

Kallamar cursed himself.

Kallamar cursed his fear of death.

Through the soreness in his throat, he wished he were dead to be with them in whatever purgatory or afterlife. His beloved probably passed, convinced they would finally be reunited… maybe they were out there, aimlessly wandering, looking for him. 

So perhaps… perhaps he could speed up the process.

Wouldn’t it be so easy to simply brew a little something…? 

He could fall asleep soundly and never have to open his eyes again.

Never have to be a hostage to this unbearable silence again.

But Kallamar was a coward, wasn’t he? Afraid of death so much that not even the comfort of release sounded good enough for him to make the attempt. That and his family.

His love for his spouses pulled him, but his love for his siblings grounded him.

Who could take care of Shamura if he was gone? 

Heket and Leshy wouldn’t know where to start, and worse… they might find out the secret he fought so hard to keep. Their hearts would be shattered.

He wished to see his little brother settled and happy, his sister finally relax and live for herself, and Shamura find peace. 

So the coward had to stay. 

The coward had to stop himself from adding this and that ingredient to turn a harmless painkiller into something else.

The coward had still so much to deal with. Everything but his own grief.

He was lucky, he didn’t have to look far for problems to solve, as the following two months were completely absorbed by Leshy and his relationship with Tharen.

First came the murder attempt on the yellow cat’s life: the badger's hands acting not of his own will, but as the final, tragic move in a cruel scheme orchestrated by his ex-partner’s twin sister.
And as if that weren’t enough, not long after, came the confession: his little brother, trembling but resolute, revealing himself as the long-lost Bishop of Chaos. The words shattered their relationship, setting into motion the inevitable unravelling of what was later dubbed the “divorce arc” that led the worm to escape to Darkwood for a desperate final act of love.

So time slipped away faster as events kept chasing one another without giving Kallamar a moment to pause. And despite the concern gnawing at him, deep down, secretly, he was glad. So he could overlook everything else.

He could overlook the fact Lambert had no intention to help, that Narinder glared at him at any given chance, the piles of letters that kept coming to his office from Travis, his physical and mental exhaustion, the odd way some of his former lovers wouldn’t spare him a word, and the vanishing of all his things: like this favourite pen, mug, earmuffs and ultimately even his Asty plushie. Not to mention the horrible fear creeping at the corner of his mind every time Shamura put a hand on his shoulder.

Everything he was dealing with internally was all shrunk down to a peanut when Lambert came back from Darkwood carrying a gravely injured Leshy.

The first time he lost his brother, he could barely mourn.

The news arrived as bluntly as a hammer to the chest and knocked him into a stunned stupor. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t act… that day his precious little brother died by the hand of a vengeful Lamb and he couldn’t do anything. Powerless, useless in front of death.

Baali held one of his hands tightly, gently stroking his terror-stricken face. Astaroth barked orders to tighten security in Anchordeep and deploy troops to Anura in Heket’s support. On the other side, Haby whispered words of comfort, soft, futile, unheard, while Saleos had already vanished into the heart of his temple, stepping in to lead the sermon and rituals in his place.

Around him, the world spun and surged with motion while he remained still.

That day, his divinity had meant nothing in the face of death.
But now, as a mortal, he could do what the gods never could.
He could take death away from his little brother.

Kallamr didn’t care that the whole healing bay was watching. He tore off his gloves and let them fall to the floor as his bare fingers pressed on the wound, glowing with that quiet, gentle light he’d kept hidden for so long.

He gave everything, without restraint, without thought, as if the act itself might rewind time, erase the helplessness that had once chained him in place while his brother died far away, unreachable and alone.

The truth of what he was, what he could do, unfolded in front of them all, undeniable now, but it no longer mattered, not when the only thing he wanted in the world was to feel Leshy’s chest rise again under his hands.

What lingered after was a blur, a fragment of consciousness at the edges of his vision.

Shamura’s voice resonated softly in his mind, measured, rare, and almost tender, cutting through the haze like silk:
"You did well, my dear brother."

Then Lambert, pressing a hand to his shoulder as the world began to drift:
"Consider yourself off duty for a while, Kall. And consider yourself kidnapped for a relaxing spa night, just the two of us, as soon as you feel better."

He smiled. Then nothing at all.

Kallamar was used to sleeping comfortably when someone was beside him, but alone? That was rare. And yet, in the days that followed, his body remained still and his mind mercifully free of nightmares as he lay in his room. If it weren’t for the fever, the aching muscles, the lack of energy and the constant need to vomit, he might have considered spending himself healing more often.

But one morning, he was abruptly shaken awake by Heket’s not-so-gentle hand.

“W-what...?” he mumbled, blinking against the light filtering through his colourful windchime. It was swaying wildly despite the closed window, carrying its beautiful glow all over the walls.

His sister was sitting at the edge of his bed, eyes scanning the room before settling on him with concern. Her fingers moved quickly. “Are you okay?”

“...I... I think I will throw up soon…” he muttered, sitting up slowly as he pressed his hand to his burning forehead. “But nothing new, sister.”

When he managed a small smile, Heket’s shoulders relaxed.

“Good. I thought I heard something,” she replied, her frown softening as she stood. “I’ll bring your breakfast over. Also, the Vile Lamb said they’d ‘pop by’ later... the only thing I’d like to pop is their neck.”

Kallamar let out a soft chuckle. “Sister... they did save our little brother.” 

“Mph. I could have gone to Darkwood myself.”

“Without Narinder?”

She paused at the door, huffing.

“...He was just mildly helpful.”

With that, she disappeared down the hallway, quietly muttering to herself.

A smile tugged at his lips, despite the stubborn nausea clinging to his stomach. So she had reached some sort of truce with Narinder too, two siblings out of four now... maybe he could be next. 

The thought sparked something warm and fuzzy in his chest, excitement fluttering through his weakened tentacles at the idea of holding his brother again without fear or tension. But the euphoria was short-lived, and his head began to spin as he let himself fall back against the bedpost, vision tilting slightly.

That’s when he saw it.

A single hair, dark brown, nearly black, resting on the collar of his lavender silk pyjamas, oddly out of place against the soft, delicate fabric.

Still a little dazed, he tilted his head and squinted, trying to place it… and then it struck him, bright and sharp like a spark.

Of course. Regina!

Thick fur, medium length, dark colour: it all matched the ferret chef perfectly. Heket must have carried it in on her clothes without even realising.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, sharp and satisfied despite his current state. Oh, he would have so many questions for his dear sister. So many innocent, totally casual inquiries. 

She’d tried to keep it quiet, but Regina clearly liked her and from the way Heket had been acting lately, the feeling was most definitely mutual.

Another love blooming in secret.
Another delightful mess for a big brother to nudge gently into the open.

What a beautiful distraction.

As promised, Lambert did “pop by” in the afternoon, showing up with a quiet knock and a warm smile, carrying a bag of their favourite infusion and the unspoken weight of a necessary conversation. The house was still, the siblings all out on their respective shifts, granting them the rare luxury of privacy in the sun-drenched kitchen where silence could settle without interruption.

“I’m glad you’re finally out of bed, Kall,” they said gently, placing the steaming cup before him with a careful hand.

“I’ll be in top condition within the week,” he replied, voice light but eyes dull with fatigue. “This wasn’t exactly the time off I would’ve picked, but I’ll take the rest. Doctor’s orders and all, you understand.”

Lambert smiled briefly at the jest, then they exhaled slowly, folding their hands around their own cup with the seriousness of the leader, not the friend. “Yes… about that. We need to talk about what happened.”

Ah, there it was, the moment that had been looming since he collapsed in the surgery hall. Kallamar’s hands tightened slightly on the porcelain as he braced himself.

“Let’s not dance around it, my dear,” he said quietly. “Rip the bandage off. I don’t have the strength for euphemisms.”

“Fair enough.” They nodded, then adjusted the fleece around their shoulders and reached back to neaten their long braid. Small gestures, but Kallamar knew them well: they meant discomfort, hesitation and bad news carefully wrapped in calm delivery.

“They saw nothing short of a miracle, Kallamar. Something they couldn’t explain, and I had no choice but to tell them the truth. I tried to soften it, to make it manageable, but… well, disbelief was only the first reaction. What followed wasn’t nearly as positive.”

He didn’t speak. Just held the warm cup between his hands like it could anchor him, and waited for the fear, the judgment, the fallout he’d known was coming.

“Before you worry, I can assure you that they are sworn to secrecy and nothing will happen to any of you. I made it very clear that you're here to atone under my supervision, and that no harm will come your way under my watch.”

Kallamar exhaled slowly, shoulders still tight. “Thank you…”

“Aurelia and Malthys took it better than Giah,” they added, tone lowering. “She left the healing bay.”

“Oh, no…” The ache in his chest returned like a bruise pressed too hard.

“She’s a refugee from Anchordeep, Kall. Your people destroyed her home. I know what a loss she is to the healing team, but I won’t ask her to work beside you if she isn’t ready. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Of course,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the cup in front of him. “If she wants me gone, I’ll—”

“No,” Lambert cut in gently but firmly. “I need you to stay. Whether divine sparks are in your blood or not, you are still the best doctor we’ve ever had. I can’t afford to lose you. And she knows that. They all do.”

“It’s still unfair to her.”

“It is. But it joins a long list of unfair decisions a leader must make.” They tilted their head, voice softening just slightly. “I believe you know something about that.”

Kallamar’s shoulders dropped a little, breath catching on the memory of when they denied his request. He sighed deeply.

“We’re sorely shorthanded. Aurelia and I can’t possibly manage it on our own.”

“That’s why Malthys has returned to his role of apothecary full-time,” they added, almost casually.

His gaze lifted in surprise as his tentacles tightened instinctively.

“Oh, that’s certainly a great help.”

“I expect things might be tense for a while,” Lambert continued, “but I trust you’re all professionals.”

Kallamar didn’t answer immediately. He simply nodded, slow and heavy, the only response he could summon. One part acceptance, one part dread.

Losing Giah was a big blow to the healing bay, just as Kall predicted, but thankfully, it all happened as spring finally took away the wave of flu and sickness of winter, and the workload lightened considerably.

The former bishop of Pestilence made his way through the medical garden, empty as usual, watching fondly as new grass started shooting out of the frost-bitten earth. Soon, everything would be alive and bright again.

But once at the healing bay, there was no brightness, nor light. The air was heavy with silence and stillness, like the moistened pressure of an impending storm. Kallamar quietly entered without cheerfully announcing his presence like he usually would, and made his way to his office, hoping to escape confrontation.

A foolish hope, because Aurelia was barring the way with her imposing frame. She wagged her tail for a moment, a little excitement to see him that didn’t match the expression she wore on her face.

“Hello Aurelia… good to see you.” he was polite, as always, as ever.

She grunted and nodded, then barked. “Listen up!” 

He stood upright as he put all his focus on her sign and lips.

“I don’t like what I know. I don’t like what you did. And I have all the reasons to slam your slimy face up the wall, so keep your head low, work hard as you always did and we are gonna be civil.”

Kallamar gulped, nodding slowly.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you are the prima ballerina of the Old Faith or the inheriting prince of the Fairy Kingom… you work well and we are good.”

He nodded again, more eagerly.

"...Alright. I’m glad you understand."

Aurelia’s shoulders loosened just a fraction. Her hands slipped from her hips, and her tail gave a slow, tentative wag as she studied him more closely.

"You still look like shit. Are you sure you aren’t running a fever?"

"Oh, I’m fine enough to work…!" he replied with a far too familiar script. The very same line he’d offered Heket that morning, before slipping out the door under her worried glare.

The brief time off had been… oddly restorative. He’d painted, lost himself in soft colours and quiet brushstrokes. But the longer he stayed home, the more unbearable Heket’s doting became. Sweet, yes. Overbearing? Absolutely. The only way to get her to back off had been to ask pointed questions about Regina. That always sent her fleeing in a flush. A useful trick.

"Alright, but no parlour tricks, you hear me?"

"Yes, yes indeed. Unless it’s an emergency."

He raised all his hands, palms up, gloves already snug and gleaming.

"Good. Now go. We’re one medic short and my shift ends in ten minutes."

"...Thank you, Aurelia. Your grace is both appreciated and welcom—"

"Don’t." She cut him off, her voice sharp again. “Don’t thank me before you watch your tongue around Mally , alright? If you think I don’t know what you two were doing in your office, you’re sorely mistaken. So think very carefully before you say anything to him.”

Kallamar’s face flushed a subtle violet under his skin, but he bowed his head.

"Ah. Yes. I will be the very picture of professionalism, I assure you."

Satisfied enough, Aurelia finally stepped aside, throwing him one last warning glance before moving off to tend to an elder who’d taken a tumble on the temple stairs.

And now, all that remained between Kallamar and the semblance of normality... was Malthys.

The squid took a deep breath before stepping into his office.

There he was. Sitting at the desk, bathed in the muted afternoon light, his yellow and violet wings brightly defiant against the dull, sterile colours of the walls. He was meticulously weighing ingredients, scribbling down numbers with the kind of focus that doesn’t leave room for stray thoughts.

“Hello, Malthys.”

As the moth turned around, Kallamar could read his face instantly. A flicker of uncertainty, concern... quickly smothered under a colder mask.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said flatly. “Good. We’re swamped. There’s a lot to do.”

The reinstated apothecary stood and walked toward him with deliberate steps.

“While you were gone, we discharged three patients, but two new ones came in with the same symptoms. They’ve been quarantined in ward three for further tests. I’m not letting you in there as you’re clearly still unwell.” 

He took a breath, still not meeting Kallamar’s eyes. 

“So while I handle the contagion, I’d appreciate it if you could cover the checkups. Spring brought a whole parade of parents with sniffling children. Sorry, but that’s all yours.”

He paced slowly as he spoke, signing fluidly but never pausing, never looking up.

“There’s also a new batch of camellia to sort. I know that’s my job, but if I’m stuck dealing with infections, that’s your speciality, not mine, I need you to take it. I hope that’s alright.”

Kallamar watched him silently, sadness growing behind his calm expression with every word.

“Finally, Aurelia’s handling Giah’s duties. She’s currently dealing with a femur fracture and a broken wrist, but she’s going home soon. Once she’s gone, those are yours and I will simply assist. I don’t do bones and trauma.”

At last, he stopped. Their eyes met. A long, still moment hung in the air between them, thick with all the things left unsaid.

“Is everything clear?” Malthys asked, voice tight, cracking just barely at the edge.

Kallamar nodded once. No words.

So the day unfolded in a steady cascade of work, more like overwork, and the doctor welcomed it gladly. Every task, every chore, every child’s sniffle was a small mercy, something to focus on, something to keep his hands and thoughts busy while Malthys took care of the more delicate cases.

They crossed paths now and again, exchanging brief status reports, always efficient, never lingering. It wasn’t until the dinner break that they had more than five seconds to breathe.

“Special delivery!”

The cheerful voice rang from the entrance. Kallamar couldn’t hear it, of course, but Malthys recognised the arrival of dinner instantly.

On days like this, it wasn’t unusual for the kitchen to send food over. But today, clearly thanks to Heket’s insistence, the delivery was made by no one less than the head chef herself.

“Regina?” Kallamar blinked as the ferret waltzed into his office, plopping a warm bowl of soup in front of him with practised flair.

“Your sister wanted to come herself, but I told her to leave you be! You are welcome!” Regina grinned brightly. “She complained, of course. Because when doesn’t she? But I let her cook your dinner. She knows what makes you feel better. Well, besides her constant fussing, obviously. Anyway! Have you heard the latest from the grapevine, boys?”

She paused, then corrected herself with a quick gesture. “Well err–I mean not heard, but you get it! So! Apparently, Duke, you know, the horse, is going to propose to Meredith. The seahorse. Can you believe it? I mean, what would their baby even look like? Well, it's gonna be a horse no matter what, right?!”

Malthys sat frozen in place, eyes fixed on Regina, who was now comfortably perched on the edge of the desk, happily unleashing a flood of gossip and chatter while they both quietly ate their dinners.

“So in the end I said, ‘Nossir, I don’t care what Amanda challenged you for, you are not getting into my kitchen to use my tools to cook your literal crap!’”

Regina threw her hands up for emphasis, then blinked and looked around. “Oh, how long have I been here?! I’ve gotta get back, boys! Always nice talking to you both, you are delightful!”

With a bright smile, the ferret snatched the empty bowls from the doctor and apothecary and skipped toward the door. Night had fully settled outside, and under the flickering torchlight, her white fur stood out like the moon itself.

White.

“Wait… Regina?” Kallamar called out suddenly, a thought striking him from nowhere.

“Yes?” she turned, curious.

“Your fur. When did it turn white?”

“Oh! Thanks for noticing!” She twirled once, proudly. “Normally in winter I go sort of beige or a caffè-latte kind of shade. But this year? Boom. All white! Ever since the snow started falling. I’ve been like this all season. Though I’m starting to shed a bit now, which is such a shame, right?”

“Ah… yes, it does look stunning indeed.” Something twisted uneasily in Kallamar’s stomach, a tight knot of discomfort he couldn’t quite place. But he forced a smile and nodded. “I suppose we’ll see it again next winter. Please send my thanks to my beloved sister... preferably in the form of a hug. And you may kiss her cheek too, if you like.”

“Aww, I do that all the time. She won’t mind one or five more.”

With a cheerful wave, the ferret disappeared out the door, her bright form fading into the darkness as she hurried back to the kitchens.

Silence returned to the healing bay, a stunned, lingering silence, as though the building itself were trying to recover from all that chatter.

Malthys blinked a few times before speaking.

“Is she always like that?”

“Yes. Unbearably so,” the doctor replied, but his thoughts were distant for a moment.

“I’ve never heard anyone talk that much… she barely stopped to breathe!”

“It’s quite the feat… would you believe there’s someone out there who talks even more than I do?”

The corners of Malthys’ mouth twitched upward, and for a fleeting second, a real smile bloomed across his face, unguarded and genuine. Kallamar caught it and returned it without thinking.

But the moment the moth realised it, the frosty detachment reassembled itself.

“I’m afraid it’s time for me to check on ward 3,” he said, voice clipped and professional.

Before the doctor could reply, the apothecary was already halfway through the door, his violet and golden wings sweeping behind him like the trailing tail of a falling star, brilliant, beautiful, and fleeting.

And then he was alone.

The silence that followed was thicker and heavier than usual, even with no hearing, he could feel it. Kallamar let himself sink into the chair, the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders until they sagged. His hands cradled his head, fingers digging into his temples, and his tentacles spilt over the seat, limp like seaweed in still water.

He should’ve felt relieved. He wasn’t scolded and not even berated. He was even met with a rare smile.

So why did he feel like he’d just been gutted?

A frustrated sigh clawed its way out of his throat as he forced himself to think of something, anything else. And then it struck him.

The fur.

It wasn’t Regina’s. Then whose was it and how did it get on him?

His gaze drifted across the room lazily until it landed on the neat pile of letters beside the hearth.

A cold, sour wave of dread rose from his gut.

No. No, it couldn’t be.

He stared for a long moment, the fire crackling softly nearby, as if it too were waiting. The envelopes sitting by the firelight, deceptively innocent.

He stood up slowly and, with shaking hands, he gathered every last one of them into his arms. They rustled against his tunic and skin. Thin, treacherous sheets folded over themselves like snakes coiled in false affection. Each one a vessel of the sickness of a mind, inked with his delirium and obsession, where threats slithered beneath declarations of love, poisoning every word with a sweetness that reeked of rot.

Then, without hesitation, he threw them into the flames.

Parchment curled, ink blistered, seals cracked and bled wax. The flame surged higher, brighter, as if feeding on something deeper than paper, burning words he never wanted to even imagine.

Kallamar stood and watched until the last corner of the last letter collapsed into ash.

Only then did he let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

Chapter Text

Astaroth started regretting his foul mission.

For Noble Shamura it was all too easy to speak of orders and maintaining the gap between mortals and gods alive, but they didn’t have to witness the consequence of their convictions every day…

Kallamar acted like the stupendous creature he always was, never letting his smile falter in public. But in the privacy of his chambers, where only his guard could access freely, the sadness slipped through, and the bright glow in his beautiful blue eyes would dull down.

He would never give the old jellyfish the satisfaction of seeing his weakness and vulnerability, but at each friend gone missing, suitor dying suddenly or enticing companion losing their interest overnight, what little happiness the God of Health conquered was chipped away.

And even the sturdy heart of a general wavered when he saw a glimpse of that sorrow. And for the first time since joining Shamura’s ranks, he felt remorse.

Yet, he understood why there was such danger in his interactions. With the threat of open war palpable, any of those mortals could be a spy warming up to Kallamar for information or even worse… they could be assassins sent to take his life.

Astaroth's concern, even if absurd and borderline paranoid, stemmed from his many years under Shamura’s rule and it was genuine. But something was shifting in his resolve… At first, he wanted nothing but Kallamar’s safety. Now he wanted his happiness. 

After so many centuries at his side, he had grown fond of the boy… no, he wasn’t a boy anymore, his hands were soaked in ichor as much as a veteran’s.

Perhaps he should change his approach accordingly. 

Let go of his strict orders, run a thorough background check on any and every suitor… a time-consuming activity, but that could avoid breaking his Lord’s heart.

That wouldn’t keep the mortals away, would it? How was that supposed to maintain the chasm as wide as it was forged? It wouldn’t.

Astaroth remembered his past, when he was nothing but a humble mortal fighting his way out of poverty. He would have never dreamed of approaching a god so casually. Never in his wildest dreams imagined he could kiss one. 

But then, no god was like Kallamar.

It was a quiet morning after another wild night. 

The Lord had chosen to retreat into the silence of his chambers, far from courtiers and noise, wrapped in solitude and the soothing embrace of his favourite pastime.

Soft music spilt gently from the distant hallways, carried by the rhythm of the sea. He sat by the wide, open windows, where the light filtered through the ocean above, casting shifting veils of pale azure and deep sapphire across his teal skin. Humming faintly in tune, he let the serenity of the moment guide his hand.

Painting always brought him a rare kind of peace.

His favourite subjects were landscapes and, more precisely, the ever-changing face of the ocean. Astaroth had seen him paint it a hundred times over, and never once the same. Each canvas held a different sea: one day a tranquil mirror, soft and silver under a lazy sun; another, a chaos of foaming waves thrashing beneath stormy skies. Sometimes it was the slow roll of distant tides in a crimson sunset. Other times, the unrelenting fury of a tsunami.

His loyal guard watched with a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Seeing the god so at ease, so wholly immersed in creation, was a balm of healing in itself. But peace was a fragile thing, and the jellyfish had not come to bask in it. Today, he would speak with urgency he could no longer afford to mask.

The night before, another mortal had slipped into Kallamar’s graces: an otter belly dancer. She moved like smoke and silk, her hands gliding over him with a casual familiarity that made Astaroth’s tendrils quiver. She danced, but she also spoke. Spoke of lands beyond the waves, of sun-scorched cities and secrets carried on salt winds. And Kallamar listened. Entranced.

The general had been watching her all night, silent in his assigned bodyguard corner. She had the skill, no doubt. But more dangerously, she had the boldness. The boldness to touch, to lean in close, to laugh like she belonged.

She could worm her way into his bed next.

She could slip a blade between his ribs as easily as she slipped a coin into her sash.

By Shamura’s orders, she was the perfect candidate to receive the sharp end of his blade through her heart. That’s why this talk couldn’t wait any longer.

He cleared his throat gently and waited for the god to turn around and face him.

“Hmm? Something troubling you, soldier?”

“My Lord, if I may be so bold…”

He tried to sound diplomatic, but tact had never been his strong suit.

“You spend a remarkable amount of time in the company of mortals.”

“Is that so?” Kallamar tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting into a bemused smile.

“It’s actually called dating , Astaroth. You should look it up sometime. Might do you some good.”

The usual banter. Their favourite game. Normally, Astaroth would volley back with dry sarcasm, but this time, he didn’t take the bait.

“…Dating mortals is astoundingly beneath your station.”

That pierced through the god’s amusement like a blade. Slowly, he set the brush aside, turning fully on his stool to face his soldier. His gaze sharpened, quiet and watchful.

“Oh, really?” he said, voice light, but eyes like the deep sea before a storm. “And what makes you say that?”

Astaroth swallowed. The words he’d rehearsed echoed poorly now under that gaze, but he pushed forward nonetheless.

“For a start, they are mortals. They have nothing to offer you: no land, no wealth, no advantage that you couldn’t obtain with a mere flick of your hand. No strategic merit, no political gain.”

He paused. Kallamar said nothing.

“And more than that… They thirst for your power, your station, your body, your favour. They will cling to you like vines to a tree as parasites. You’ll be used. Paraded like some divine throphy. Their love…” Astaroth’s voice grew bitter, “…can never be genuine.”

Kallamar set down his brush and palette with delicate precision, letting them rest atop the tripod.

"What a charming take.”

Then he rose, each step forward slow and fluid, deliberate as the shifting waves living in his canvas.

"So, pray tell, my dear general…” he said, voice as silk, “who should I date? The other gods currently featured on Shamura’s ever-growing kill list?”

He walked toward Astaroth with all the grace of a predator in water, his smile never quite reaching his eyes.

“You’ve seen with your own eyes what happens to gods who love me, Astaroth.”

He stopped just before him, close enough that the air between them seemed charged, heavy and tense.

“When the Pantheon is complete, there will be no one left but me and my sibling. Which narrows my options for divine companionship to… hmm, let me think… ” He tapped his chin mockingly. “Ah. A perfectly round, devastating zero.”

His smile dropped, just slightly.

“And I refuse to end up alone, withering like Shamura. Ancient, powerful… and utterly loveless!”

A breath passed, sharp as a blade.

"Or perhaps…” Kallamar tilted his head, eyes narrowing with quiet amusement, “You’re suggesting I should date someone like you ?”

Astaroth’s breath caught. The intensity of that gaze, piercing, knowing, merciless, made his stomach twist in ways no blade ever had. Kallamar’s presence pressed in, and the space between them shrank until it was nothing but heat and tension.

“…I’ve noticed the way you look at me.”

His voice was low and soft as velvet. “I know that hunger. The way it glints in your eyes when I draw too near.”

He leaned in.

So close now that Astaroth could feel the warmth of his breath grazing his skin. It sent a shiver coursing down every tendril that clung to discipline like a lifeline. But Kallamar saw the effort, he always did. And that only fed his twisted game.

He let his gaze linger, slow and deliberate, dragging over the general’s form.

“You,” he murmured, “gained immortality by proving your worth before the gods. A decorated general. A soldier feared by hundreds, bested by none…”

An azure fingertip rose with unhurried grace and traced the curve of Astaroth’s cheek, leaving a smudge of teal paint in its wake. 

“Oh yes…You’d make an exquisite mate. Perhaps even Shamura would deem you acceptable.”

Astaroth didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He stood frozen, not by fear, but by something far more dangerous. Desire, coiled deep in his gut. His every instinct screamed at him to break away, to reassert dominance, to speak. But no words came. No gestures obeyed. He was prey.

And in that moment, he understood.

This feeling, this paralysis, this longing to be consumed: it was ecstasy. And maybe… maybe this was what his enemies had felt in the last seconds before Kallamar’s blade found their hearts. The overwhelming, helpless awe before a beautiful, inescapable death.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

“But guess what?”

Kallamar’s voice turned sing-song as he circled the general like a shark around wounded prey. His tentacles ghosting over Astaroth’s body with maddening near-touches. Never landing, never satisfying. The jellyfish warrior, so often in control, so cold, so precise, was trembling.

“I’m going to date mortals even more,” Kallamar purred, each word pressed like a hot brand into his mind. “Even harder. And I’ll marry one or seven, if the mood takes me.”

Then he leaned in.

His lips brushed Astaroth’s ear, not quite a kiss, not quite innocent. His voice dropped to a whisper laced with poison.

“While you’ll be left…”

A breath. Hot , unbearable, intimate , on the jellyfish’s neck. It stirred something primal, something Astaroth had spent centuries locking away behind iron will and duty.

“… wanting .”

And just like that, Kallamar slipped away.

Gone in a blink, grinning with cruel satisfaction as he turned his back, perfectly aware of the ruin he left behind. The sway of his hips, the confident flick of a paint-stained hand, the smugness of a god who knew exactly the effect he had.

He daintily settled back onto his stool, clutching the paint and brush to continue his artwork as if nothing had happened while Astaroth stood in silence, spellbound.

He lost this battle.

Even worse: he loved every second of his utter humiliation.

And yet, he knew. Every gesture was a lie. Every word a carefully picked to seduce and wound.
He had seen this routine before, how many times? His Lord reeled in gods like fish, ensnaring them with honeyed poison and watching them squirm. And still… still, he had fallen for it. Willingly. Eagerly even!

How could he enjoy being prey so much?

No, not just prey. His prey.

Astaroth exhaled, slow and deliberate, drawing cold breath deep into his lungs to try and extinguish the fire under his skin. He reminded himself of who he was. Of what he was : a general, Shamura’s faithful disciple, a guardian of the divine.
Not some trembling court fool gasping at the first brush of power.

With effort, he straightened his spine, forced the heat out of his gaze, and attempted to gather the remnants of his composure.

His attempt at diplomacy had been nothing but a failure, but he couldn’t give in. It was paramount that Kallamar understood his message. So he tried again with a completely different approach: the unfiltered truth .

Let the Lord see the concern on his face, the unease in the set of his jaw. This wasn’t jealousy, he repeated over and over. It was fear. For HIM. For what all this could lead to.

“Then… please allow me to say one more thing on this matter, and I swear, I’ll never bring it up again.”

The shift in tone didn’t go unnoticed. Kallamar paused, turning toward him once more as the mocking amusement was gone along with his playfulness. 

It was a rare thing to have his full attention without any armour of jest. And Astaroth met it head-on.

“What concerns me is what they might do to you.”

Kallamar arched his brow, smiling. “I am a god, Astaroth. What could a mortal possibly do to me?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly, eyes dropping for just a moment. Then, with sudden strength, he looked up, locking eyes with his Lord. “But today everything is fine and so will be tomorrow. You will date hundreds and they will fill your days with nothing but joy and make you disgustingly happy until, one day, the wrong one slips through.”

His throat tightened.

“That’s what I fear. That it’ll take just one. One moment of trust, misplaced.” 

His voice dropped to almost a whisper now, barely louder than the music drifting through the chamber.

“That one time they could use, abuse and hurt you… And I couldn’t be there to protect you.”

The window was shut tight and then tied with a rope around the handle for good measure. The door was locked. He checked it. Twice. Three times. Four. His fingers trembled with every twist of the knob. Only once the bolts were secure and the key was firmly in his pocket did he allow himself to step away.

Kallamar’s usual walk to the healing bay was quick, mechanical. His steps through the medicinal garden were fast, and though he tried to maintain the usual calm in his expression, his eyes betrayed him, darting to every corner, every shadow, every blade of grass moving.

He hated his ears. Hated his oppressive personal silence.

It had always been there through his mortality, the frustration of not hearing approaching footsteps among all else, the pain of living with one less sense. But today it felt like a trap he couldn’t escape from. Anyone could sneak up on him. Anyone HAD. A predator didn’t need stealth when the prey was already utterly unaware.

Maybe I’m imagining it.

The thought echoed as he scanned the path ahead, pulse hammering in his throat. The stray hair on his pyjamas, black, coarse. It could’ve gotten there a hundred different ways. A random shed strand. A patient. The wind. But his mind didn’t believe any of it, did it?
It had to choose to be a damn Drama Queen and picked the worst conclusion possible. 

Travis.

But there was no proof! 

Those wretched, rotting letters had conditioned him so deeply that he saw danger even where there might be none… And yet, they were the only real evidence of Travis’ unhinged behaviour. So what did he do?! Of course, he had burned them in an emotional fit!

“Bra-fucking-vo,” he muttered bitterly as the healing bay finally came into view. “Now no one would ever believe me. I would never believe me.”

Was he overreacting?

Possibly. Probably. Certainly.

But the fear had already taken root, sour and pulsing in his gut. So he forced himself forward to drown it and move on. Past the dread, past the doubt. He couldn’t afford to lose his focus now.

With a sigh far too heavy, Kallamar pushed open the office door, shoving the imagery from those damn letters as far down as he could. Another day awaited him.

A day of being treated like a stranger by his coworkers.

In fact, Malthys made a point of ignoring Kallamar outside work duties during the day, but the moth apothecary, despite his professional demeanour, was the victim of a heavy turmoil beneath the skin.

The information acquired after the confrontation with the Lamb was a complete mismatch of what he knew about his former lover. A person of science and logic like him couldn’t put the two ingredients together and hope to brew a successful alchemical mixture.

He bit his lips and fidgeted with his wing scales every time Kallamar would exit the room… Should he ask anything? Should he give him a chance to explain at all? But how could he give a shred of grace to someone who causes so much suffering? He heard the sermons, he followed the Faith books, and that Kallamar, yes, that one, was responsible for a genocide?!

That Kallamar who spent days and nights curing a flu pandemic, could cause incurable sickness, bring plague to a land and destroy populations in a matter of weeks?
That Kallamar who snuggled up against him seeking physical contact, smiling peacefully?
That Kallamar who loved to chat about everything and nothing first thing in the morning in front of a warm breakfast while he was still trying to get his bearings?
That Kallamar who could stare in awe at the reflection of light on coloured glass and speak about colour theory and painting? 

Their time together came back flooding his mind, filling it with beauty, warmth, pleasure and joy, making his cheek flush with warm honey tones. How could that person match the profile of a spiteful, cruel god? A genocidal murderer…

There must be a mistake somewhere , he kept repeating himself, a calculus gone wrong, a flaw in the historical records.

But could his conflict be resolved by a simple conversation? What if he said it was untrue? No… he was already confirming the theory by simply complying and making himself scarce at any given chance. His behaviour spoke for him. What if there were a scientific explanation? Perhaps the resurrection had brought him back differently, perhaps his reincarnation just occurred to a meek part of him…

This is the realm of the supernatural. Stick to logic, Mal. 

So Malthys spend his whole shift questioning himself, in complete conflict, while his thoughts ran in circles, obtaining absolutely nothing but the inexorable passing of time.

“I’ll get going then… I bid you a good night, Malthys.”

The moth blinked. When did it get to the dead of night?

“Are you going home?” he asked the stupid question, perfectly knowing his work hours were gone and two overtime hours on top of it.

“Yes, Aurelia has been here for a while.” Kallamar looked at him, tilting his head. He held his breath for a moment before continuing tentatively. “Unless you wish me to stay.”

The moth froze, his dark eyes meeting the blue ones for a single moment. The healing bay was calm, no emergencies or difficult patients, he could leave Aurelia in charge and walk Kallamar home so they could finally talk… Yes, this was a good idea.

“No, no, thank you. Everything is under control here. Rest well, doctor.”

“Of course…” The squid offered a polite smile, hiding a thick layer of unease as he bowed his head. “I shall see you tomorrow then, apothecary.”

And without any more formalities, Kallamar left his coworker alone with his frustration.

What the fuck was that?! That’s not what I wanted to say. Why am I such a coward…?

The moth ran his hands through the antennae and leaned agains the wall, sighing deeply. Maybe he’ll try again tomorrow.

“Maybe he’ll try again tomorrow,” Kall muttered to himself as he quickly crossed the medicinal garden.

The nights were still rather cold, so he wouldn’t linger for more than necessary. 

He had captured a vein of uncertainty in Malthys.

Aurelia seemed to be adjusting, perhaps not with ease, but with quiet determination. Things between them were smoothing over, slowly but surely, as much as could be expected. But Malthys? Kallamar could feel the tension every time their eyes met, could see the conflict flitting behind those cool lenses and twitching antennae.

The moth was always poised on the verge of saying something. His lips parting, throat tightening, a question or accusation bubbling up just beneath the surface, only to shut himself down again. His mouth would purse instead of speak, his hands would retreat back to mortar or tincture, as if burying the turmoil in work could make it vanish.

Kallamar knew that kind of silence. It was the kind that screamed.

The thought saddened him, but that was part of his punishment, was it not? He would not shrug the responsibility off his shoulders for the atrocities he had committed. The road to find atonement was way too long still, he would have to resign himself and let Malthys process at his own pace, while he paid the consequences for his actions.

The lights of the healing bay were almost out of reach when his attention was brought back to reality as a big shadow stepped into his path.

Broad. Familiar.

No.

“Fancy meeting you here…my love.”

Travis.

Kallamar cursed himself, absorbed by his stupid thoughts, he didn’t keep a watchful eye on the road. 

His heart lurched violently in his chest as the bear took a slow step forward, arms extended and wide open to greet him with an unwelcome embrace.

He immediately took a step back.

“Don’t call me that. And well, I am on my way home and I am quite in a hurry, ” he said, his voice strained, “So if you’ll excuse me.”

But the bear didn’t move aside. Kallamar’s stomach dropped as the massive frame took another step forward, fully blocking the path.

His heart was racing too fast as the words contained in the letters started hammering into his brain. He had to stay calm, think of something, be diplomatic, and avoid confrontation at any cost.

"Why don’t you come with me instead, sweet thing?” Travis said softly, his movements fluid like oil as he signed. “You look tired and I’ve made my hut comfortable just for you! I even got your favourite flavour of tea! You can rest soundly while I take care of your every need.”

He reached out again. That thick, clawed paw. That smile.

Kallamar took another step back, instinct screaming.

He could see those golden eyes now, smouldering, dilated with hunger. Not love. Not affection, but hunger. A terrible shiver ran down his spine and his tentacles twitched, curling in tighter.

“No, I appreciate the concern, but my family will surely worry if I don’t go back home. Heket in particular is awake right now, waiting.”

Perhaps he could scare the bear somehow, make him feel like he isn’t alone while he truly was.

“I wouldn’t worry, your family knows you are often out at night without notice,” he replied, keeping that sick smile painted on his lips.

“Actually, not tonight”, Kallamar gulped, trying to keep his composure. “I promised I would be home.”

“You are such a liar, my love. You lie aaaaaall the time to everyone around you…” Travis' smile started dropping. “But you can’t lie to me! Oh no no no no. I know what goes on in that pretty little head of yours… You might have locked your window, but I have seen everything.”

Kallamar took another step back as Travis advanced, panic surging like a tidal wave. Every alarm in his mind blared at once.

He was right. It was Travis.

How long had he been watching? How long had he been following him?

A cold shiver ran down his spine as a new, unfamiliar fear took hold: violating, invasive, intimate in the worst possible way. His breath caught in his throat as cold sweat ran down his spine. He wasn’t ready for this. He had never been ready for this .

“You know,” Travis said, his voice low and cutting, “your family doesn’t give a damn about you. That much is clear. They fawn over little Leshy like he’s royalty, but not one of them checks on you! Not when you’re curled up crying yourself to sleep. Every night.”

The words hit Kallamar like a dagger to the heart.

Travis had seen it. Heard it. All of it.

“And if they truly loved you, they would protect you from the spider,” he murmured, his tone laced with honeyed menace. “My poor, sweet thing… I would never let anyone lay a finger on you. You’ll always be safe in my arms.”

The bear exhaled deeply, but Kallamar could see the tension wound tight in his shoulders, his body poised and coiled like a spring, ready to strike.

He hadn’t forgotten his training. He knew that stance.

Maybe, maybe if he moved fast enough, he could make it to the healing bay. It wasn’t far.

“Travis…” he began, voice trembling despite his best efforts to steady it. “Thank you again for your concern, truly, but I’d appreciate it if you stepped aside now. I… I really have to go.”

But he just stood there, breathing heavily. His eyes drank in every twitch, every tremor, every flicker of fear. 

“I don’t think I can. We also need to talk about what you did . ” A low growl rumbled from his chest as he stepped closer. “ You burned all my letters… I thought you were keeping them. Treasuring them. So I kept writing, and writing, and writing only to watch you toss them into the fire like they meant nothing.”

His voice shook in a blend of fury and wounded pride. “That really hurt me, you know. That was very naughty. ”

He licked his lips slowly, hungrily, like a predator savouring the smell of a bleeding hare.

But Kallamar’s frustration came to the surface, he couldn’t fall prey to this game… he needed to react.

“Why should I read your letters? You clearly didn’t bother listening to me when I told you what we had was a one-time thing with no consequence?! I wish to have nothing to do with you anymore. And stop writing those letters, I will not read them. You are insane! ”

Travis' ear flicked.

“My poor thing… You say I’m insane, but that’s what true love looks like! You must allow yourself to be loved.”

Kallamar glanced back briefly… could he outrun him? Surely he would be at a disadvantage in a fight. Panic was surfacing, his breath getting shallow.

“...I want to go home, Travis.” One last try. “Please, step aside.”

“Oh…” Travis’s voice dropped, eyes widening with a gleam that sent a chill down Kallamar’s spine.

“I didn’t think I could adore you more...” 

He paused, breathing in sharply.

“Until I heard you beg. ”

Kallamar didn’t even have time to cry out.

Travis lunged.

A powerful arm wrapped around his own, yanking him forward like a ragdoll. Pain flared through the shoulder as Kallamar slammed against the bear’s chest, breath knocked out of him. Thick fur and heat and the suffocating pressure of a body too close.

“Let me go!” Kallamar yelled, panicked. “I’ve told you I don’t want anything to do with you!”

“But you should trust in me, my love,” Travis whispered, his muzzle brushing Kallamar’s cheek, his breath sour and hot. “I know you want to be with me, I know that you want to give me a second chance…”

Kallamar couldn’t read all his words, but it didn’t matter. His paws squeezed his arms tight enough to leave bruises as memory surged back to those letters. Pages soaked in obsession, promising devotion, laced with violence disguised as passion. Detailed, graphic, violent. And now the monster who wrote them was holding him.

Terror took over.

“No! Leave me alone!” He shouted on top of his lungs as adrenaline surged. Someone might hear that!

He stopped trying to reason and started to fight. With one desperate twist, he writhed, slipped his wrist just enough to slide out of his grip. He dropped low, swept a tentacle out to catch the black bear off-balance like the time they talked behind the temple.

Travis wavered, but he didn’t fall.

“Oh, I knew you liked it rough…" The smile on his face widened, sick, malevolent.  "Alright then.”

The bear charged like a boulder.

Kallamar dodged the first hit, but the second fist broke his parry and connected with full force against his face.

The world spun. Pain exploded behind his eyes, his skull rattled, and the ground cracked against his spine as he hit it hard. For a moment, there was nothing. No sight. Just darkness and pain.

When his eyes fluttered open again, Travis was already on top of him.

Straddling his chest.

A low, satisfied grin stretched across his snout, eyes alight with twisted delight as he admired his handiwork.

“This is all your fault… See what you make me do?” he cooed, brushing a thumb against his prey’s bruised cheek. “I only do this because I love you. I know what is best for you, but you've got to learn!”

Those words stung deeply into Kallamar’s chest, like a sick deja vu.

“But don’t worry, I’d never ruin your beautiful face. This is just a little dent. I will kiss it better and it’ll fade in no time.”

Kallamar tried to move, but the bear’s full weight pinned him down. Strong paws held his predominant set of hands in place like shackles while the other tried to push him off. He couldn’t breathe properly. Panic clawed up his throat, tightening around his ribs.

But he wasn’t ready to give up! Not yet!


One of his tentacles shot upward, wrapping around the bear’s neck in a desperate attempt to yank him away, while another flailed frantically, searching for anything , anything at all, to use. One finally closed around an empty clay pot, and with all his strength, he smashed it against Travis’s head.

Then it all happened in an instant.

The moment the bear’s weight shifted, Kallamar slipped free.

He scrambled to his feet, seized a jagged shard from the shattered pot, and drove it forward with trembling fury. He had aimed for the neck, but chaos betrayed his aim, and the sharp edge sank into Travis’s collarbone instead.

Blood splattered hot across his face.

He didn’t wait to see the reaction. He left the shard embedded in the wound and turned to run, eyes locked on the path back to the healing bay.

But before he could properly sprint, a massive paw clamped around one of his tentacles and yanked him back hard.

Kallamar yelped as he hit the ground chest-first, face slamming into the wet grass.

“Clever little shit!” the bear growled, blood trickling down from the back of his head and staining his chest.

He ripped the shard out and settled his weight on top of Kallamar, pinning tentacles and arms with calculated force.

Of course, the squid fought back, but his head spun and his vision blurred, the ache pounding relentlessly.

“…The Lamb will know,” he spat through the pain, turning his gaze to meet his aggressor’s with the last flicker of defiance.
“And… if you’re lucky… you’ll be meat for sacrifice.”

Fear was the only weapon he had left.

“There’s no need for that, my sweet,” Travis murmured, his voice a low purr. “I’ll teach you some good manners, and you will reconsider us. It could be wonderful for you… ”

He leaned in, fangs brushing against his neck as he inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of fear. “...if you behave.”

Then he pulled back, just enough to let Kallamar see the words forming on his lips.

“Do you even know what people say you are…?” he whispered.

“Just a pretentious little whore.”

The words hit hard.

“They say it out loud: they know you can’t hear anyway,” he continued. “Everyone knows they just need to be a little extra nice with you to have a round. That’s why they don’t speak to you anymore… who would ever like to be associated with a slut like you?”

Kallamar couldn’t help but let out a whimper, his mind fogged with shame and fear. 

Maybe… maybe he was right. 

Maybe it was all his fault… 

He brought this to himself…

Thousands of years and he still could never do anything right.

Travis pressed down harder, his massive frame sinking onto the wounded squid beneath him. Kallamar could barely breathe.

“No one will even want to touch you. No one will want to take home a pathetic little whore who pretends to be better than he is.”

A sob slipped from Kallamar’s lips, quiet, choked. His body trembled under the weight, under the words.

“But I will,” Travis went on, his voice thick with twisted devotion. “I forgive you, my love. Don’t you see yet? No one could ever love you like I do… You will never find someone like me! So stop fighting. Stop pretending you don’t want this. You’ll never find anyone better. Not with your...behaviour.”

He leaned down and slowly ran his tongue over the bruised cheek, lapping up the tears he had caused. The feel of Kallamar’s skin made him shudder with sick satisfaction, his breathing growing heavier.

“...Don’t cry, my pretty. With me, you’ll never be sad again. No more days of letting your siblings beat you up. No more nights sobbing into your pillow… no more tombs to tend to.”

He was done for. 

No Astaroth was coming to his rescue.

“And I know who you are, my love,” the bear purred. “And I know who your whole family is. But don’t worry… I’ll keep quiet if you don’t yell. I won’t say anything if you come with me without a word. I’ll keep your secrets safe if you are a good boy for daddy.”

Of course, Travis knew about him and his family… he must have heard every conversation, every exchange. What if he told everyone about their secret…? They would persecute them, they would hurt them!

So the trap had fully sprung and Kallamar felt it in every shattered nerve. There was no strength left to fight, no will to scream. As panic took over, he froze, completely at Travis’ mercy. 

The bear grinned widely as he tasted victory.

If he was lucky, he would black out for the pain… if he was lucky, the punch had given him a concussion so he could faint…and he could stop feeling .

But unexpected help came. And she came in furious!

A wide body crashed against Travis and ripped him away in an instant, throwing him to the floor with bone-shaking force. A fierce growl filled the garden as Aurelia, her fangs bared, eyes blazing, stood between the monster and his prey.

“TAKE YOUR FILTHY PAWS OFF HIM, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”

Freed from the crushing weight, Kallamar scrambled back, dragging himself with trembling limbs. Once out of reach, he coiled into himself, tentacles wrapped tight, trying to disappear. But his wide, tear-glazed eyes remained fixed on the Bernese dog, his only anchor.

“Whoa, nurse!” Travis said as he stood up wobbly. His voice was suddenly innocent, all venom tucked away behind a false smile. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong! Doc and I were just flirting. He is one that likes to play, we all know that… right, Doctor?”

He turned toward Kallamar, golden eyes blazing with unspoken threats.

Kallamar froze.

Not a word. Not a breath.

“He doesn’t look like he agrees with you, motherfucker ,” Aurelia barked. She stepped between them fully, cutting off that poisonous gaze.

Then hands. Gentle, steady, resting on his shoulders.

Kallamar yelped, flinching away in panic, expecting more pain but instead, soft wings unfurled around him, a shield of violet and yellow.

“ Kall, I’m here! ”

Malthys.

“ You’re safe now. Do you understand? ”

The moth’s voice was calm but strained, trembling with concern. His large, glimmering eyes searched Kallamar’s face as though trying to will him back from the shock. To the squid, the sight felt dreamlike too soft, too warm to be real.

A hallucination, maybe.

Wounded, scared, and overwhelmed, of course his mind could be fabricating comfort, a false vision conjured to help him endure whatever Travis was doing to him.

But… the hands felt real.
The vision wasn’t distant or distorted. It was here .
And the worry on Malthys’ face was far too vivid to be a trick of the brain.

“ Mal… ” Kallamar’s voice was barely a whisper.

“ Please take me away. ”

Chapter Text

Silence.

Kallamar didn’t say a word.

He let his colleagues bring him back to the healing bay, let them tend to his wounds with gentle hands, wash the blood and dirt from his face, and dress him in fresh clothes.

But he remained still. Frozen.

He didn’t know how long he had been like that, but time slipped past as he stared at his bandaged hand.

Ah, right. He must have cut himself with the pot shard. It hadn’t seemed important at the time, but now that tiny patch seeping through the pristine linen made his stomach twist.

A single blot of brutal red in an ocean of soft, reassuring white.

His eyes remained locked on that imperfection, but his mind was elsewhere, trapped in the loop of that night.

Replaying every image, every moment.

Every word on Travis’ lips.

Every tight grip on his body.

Every violent touch.

Branded into memory.

Why did it hurt so much?

Why was this ordeal leaving him so shattered?

Why was he so weak, so exposed?

He was a god.
He had fought and won wars, bathed in the ichor of deities, built a new Pantheon atop the bones and broken crowns of his enemies.
This… this should have been nothing. A nuisance. A passing inconvenience.

So why did it feel like he was coming undone?

But oh… the answer was rather simple.

He wasn’t a god anymore.

He wasn’t invincible.
He wasn’t untouchable.
He was at the mercy of anyone strong enough, cruel enough, or obsessed enough to take what they wanted.

Anyone could hurt him.
Anyone could break him.
Anyone could shape him into whatever they desired.
What would become of him now, if anyone could reduce him like this so easily?

He used to swat mortals like him away like insects.
And now…he was just a little squidling at the mercy of War again.

What would have happened if Aurelia hadn’t come?

Those words, those filthy, fevered letters, weren’t empty.
They weren’t the ravings of a madman.
They were a promise. A preview.

They could have happened.
To him. On him.

Maybe he shouldn’t have screamed.
Maybe he shouldn’t have fought.

His tentacles coiled in on themselves, tight and trembling.

How was he supposed to live now, knowing that the once-revered Weapon Master of the Old Faith couldn’t even defend himself from one enemy?

Tears welled up and spilt over before he could stop them.

A gentle touch reached him as a soft cloth pressed against his cheek, and a glimmer of colour entered his blurred vision: violet and yellow.

“…Kall.” Malthys’ voice was quiet, careful, breaking his trance on the red dot. “You don’t need to say anything you don’t want to. Just nod or shake your head.”

The moth signed softly. His eyes held no judgment, but only concern. It was a kindness Kallamar hadn’t seen in days.

“Do you want me to call your family?”

His family…

What would they think?

Oh no! Shamura would be furious or, even worse, disappointed beyond words. They would scold him for his weakness, and he wouldn’t be able to argue. He could already hear their voice in his head: If you hadn’t acted so foolishly, none of this would have ever happened.
And they’d be right. They were always right.

Heket would treat him like a porcelain figurine. He wouldn’t be able to leave her sight: she would control every free hour of his life, giving up that little relaxation she had conquered. She had only just started breathing after Leshy’s return… he couldn’t rip that away from her.

And Leshy? Oh, dear Leshy…
He was still walking a thread-thin path over the pit of his own darkness. Things were finally, finally looking up for him as he and Tharen had a second chance. His older brother couldn’t be the weight that pulled him back down. He didn’t need that sort of negativity in his life.

So Kallamar shook his head vigorously.

“...Right.” Malthys seemed saddened by his reply. “Aurelia is talking to the Lamb, though. We agreed not to mention your name, but it had to be reported. Do you understand?”

He nodded slowly.

Lambert had to be aware when these things happened in the cult... but surely, he’d rather they didn’t in this case. His colleagues could hide his name as much as they liked, but what good would that do when their leader could simply pull it from their minds?
They would know soon enough, and Kallamar only hoped his reputation could survive the blow.

The gentle hand kept dabbing lightly at his face. Gladly, the painkillers were working as he no longer felt the ache in his brow.

Oh, dear.
He’d have to cover that black eye with heavy makeup for several days.
Did he even have enough left at home? A decent foundation of his shade was an expensive commodity in this humble cult.
Perhaps it was cheaper to lie and come up with a hilarious scenario of how he hurt himself, something so outlandish to be a clever conversation starter.

“You’re going to stay here for a while,” Malthys continued softly. “Aurelia and I settled for at least two days just to make sure there’s no concussion... and to give you a little space to breathe. This room is yours. No one will bother you except for checkups and meals, unless you ask for visitors.”

Kallamar looked around. His eyes scanned every detail of the ward room, plain, horribly beige, dull. Then landed on the window.

A shiver ran through him so violently that even his tentacles trembled.

“He’s not coming back,” Malthys said firmly, catching the reaction.
“He’s beyond the borders now. The guards are on high alert, and the Lamb orders are to kill him if he resists arrest.”

The reassurance didn’t seem to land the way the moth had hoped, so he pressed on.

“And you wounded him. Think about it, he’s as good as dead out there. The infection will finish the job and he will die alone, in the dark, in excruciating pain. You did serious damage, Kall. You did good.”

Kallamar said nothing. He was still staring at the window, wrapped in a blanket, utterly still.
Not a single word.

Malthys watched as he sat right in front of him, wishing he knew more. Wishing his former lover would tell him everything that happened between him and the bear.

He suspected tonight’s incident was only the tip of the iceberg: Aurelia had mentioned letters, tons of them, from the same guy just flooding in. But Kallamar had never said a word. The doctor just stacked them in a pile and fed them quietly to the fire, one by one.
Not a complaint from him, not a comment or a display of unease… suddenly Malthys regretted leaving the healing bay for so long… perhaps things would have turned differently if he were present.

Of course, what-ifs were of no use and this wasn’t the time or the place to ask for details, yet the apothecary knew he had to bring up something that would make Kallamar extremely uncomfortable.

“…Kall, I know how you feel about it, but we need to change those bandages too.”

The only wounds left untreated were the ones on his ears. Kallamar never let anyone touch them, not even Malthys. Even during their most intimate moments, that boundary remained firmly in place.

Usually, the doctor handled the care himself. But tonight, the ichor was running freely, soaking through the cloth. The bandages were slick, saturated, and far past due for a change.

Malthys kept his voice gentle. “Would you allow me to change them for you? ”

A long pause, then a slight shake of the head.

“Alright,” Malthys replied, soft but steady. “But those wounds need to be cleaned. Do you think you can manage that?”

Of course, he could.
He’d done it in worse conditions, hadn’t he?

But even as he thought that, something cold curled in his stomach.

The binding.

His mind was a traitorous creature who chose this moment to regurgitate it all up, perhaps to use the worse trauma to squash down the brand new one.

More dread settled on him like a second skin as it all came back.

Leshy was bleeding in his arms, all of Kallamar’s hands busy holding him, his wide silk sleeves pressing down on the gaping sockets as his baby brother screamed in agony. The mighty Bishop of Pestilence was crying, panicked and frantic. Shamura chanted incantations while Heket was already locked in battle.

Then he approached.

Kallamar didn’t defend himself. 

His punishment was due.

And he never fought back against his punishments.

Narinder closed in like a storm, silent and seething. His hand seized Kallamar’s throat, squeezing hard enough to bruise, before his claws struck. First the left, then the right, slicing through the tender fins with surgical precision.

The pain was indescribable.

Ichor gushed freely. Shreds of what were once magnificent azure fins now lay scattered on the floor, still adorned with dozens of studs and precious earrings as glittering fragments of his pride.

Narinder never broke eye contact.

The hatred in his gaze was more brutal than the claws. A fury so deep, it didn’t need words to be understood.

And yet, through it all, Kallamar didn’t let go of Leshy. Even as Narinder carved into him, even when he was certain death was moments away, he only curled tighter around his brother, shielding him with arms and tentacles.

Somewhere beneath the roar of pain, Narinder’s distorted voice came through, muffled and distant:

“—thetic… cowar—!”

The last words he ever heard with his own ears.

Then everything descended into chaos. 

Shamura’s condition was critical from the start and he had to act fast and restore the crown on their head before it was too late. His field medic instinct kicked in as he hurried to block the brain matter with his hands while it seeped from the wound; a chunk of cranium was missing entirely. The damage… gods, the damage was unimaginable, even for a healer as skilled as himself.

Once Shamura was stabilised, Kallamar rushed to Heket. He had to go deep into her neck to assess the damage, clear away the blood, and carefully stitch the torn flesh.

By the time he returned to Leshy, the poor thing had already passed out, mercifully giving him the chance to close his wounds with precision.

Only when he was finally alone, and everything quieted around him, did Kallamar dare to look in the mirror. Slowly, he lifted what remained of his shredded fins, peering into the depths of the wound. It didn’t take long for the shocking realisation to dawn: he was hearing through his mind, not his ears. The crown had taken over to compensate, but his body was forever changed, mutilated beyond repair.

With trembling hands and blurred vision from tears, he began to clean his wounds, washing away the ichor to reveal the brutal gashes beneath. Then he took needle and thread, and painstakingly sewed the tattered flesh back together, meat, muscle, membrane, until the injury was closed. 

The shaking fingers.
The jagged needle.
The way he had stitched his own ears shut in silence, biting down hard enough to draw blood just to keep from screaming.

“Kall?”

A hand touched his. He winced.

“Sorry…” Malthys withdrew with concern readable all over his face.

“You don’t have to do it right now… but my offer still stands. I can handle that for you.”

Finally, something in Kallamar awoke, an old, toxic instinct. 

To be looked at that way was… simply not acceptable. Something flickered in his eyes, a glimmer of pride, or perhaps closer to defiance as he could stomach many things, but not pity, not that! Not from him .

“I can handle it myself…” he finally found the strength to speak. “Thank you.”

Enough with self-commiseration, enough with weakness. He might be a god no longer, but that didn’t mean he should give up his dignity and display his weakness like a stage show.

Something snapped within, that all too familiar mechanism that made him survive all his life. 

Dissociation.

“Everything at your pace.” Malthys stiffened as he recognised that tone. “Now… I know I shouldn’t explain this to you, but soon the painkillers will make you dizzy and sleepy. Do you want me to get you something? Anything? Maybe a bite to eat or tea before I leave you alone?”

“Malthys…” Kallamar straightened his back and took a deep breath. “Your tolerance of me is beyond gracious. I deeply apologise for putting you in this awkward position. I would ask nothing else of you,” because of course, he couldn’t let himself be helped or just be selfishly comfortable. Of course, he felt like he was inconveniencing everyone with this.

“Kall, are you joking right now?” The moth’s antennae twitched in visible irritation. “You’re apologising for what, exactly?”

“You know who I am. And despite that, you’re here. Doing your job. Making sure I’m well.” Kallamar’s voice lowered to a hiss. “You and Aurelia… you should’ve left me there. Shrugged it off. Let it happen. I deserve it. So I apologise for putting you in the position of having to choose to save me.”

Malthys’ eyes widened in disbelief. His hands ran through his fur, smoothing the feathery antennae, a habitual motion that betrayed his frustration.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

His voice was firm now. Steady.

“Who you are, who you’ve been, that’s… complicated. I haven’t figured it out and I don’t know how I feel about it or about you. But tonight?”

He leaned closer and held his gaze.

“I know exactly how I feel about tonight.”

“ You do NOT deserve that. No one does . And I didn’t hesitate, not for a second and neither did Aurelia.”

That landed. Kallamar clutched the blanket tighter, fingers digging into the fabric, as if trying to hide the trembling in his hands.

“…Then you have my thanks. I might not deserve that, but neither do I deserve your kindness, nor your patience. I’m quite certain I don’t have a concussion, so I’ll be out of your way in the morning and back to my duties in the afternoon.”

“I strongly advise against it, Kall.”

“I am the doctor. I overrule your advice.”

“You’re not on shift right now, which makes me the doctor, and I overrule your stupid overruling. You’re not going anywhere until I say so, let alone work.”

“That’s— That’s preposterous. I must protest.”

“Protest all you like. I’m not backing down. Your physical condition may be stable, but your mental health isn’t something we can just ignore. What happened tonight is serious.”

Malthys drew in a slow breath, calming himself.

“I want you protected. Safe. And clearly, you don’t feel safe in your own home. You didn’t want me to call your family, and everything I know of you tells me you’re not going to tell them. You’re not going to tell anyone. So, how exactly do you plan to cope without support?”

Kallamar’s tentacles coiled in on themselves, instinctively hiding the sudden tension in his body. That flicker of pride was cracking, he could feel it.

He couldn’t let it fall apart again.

The mask had to hold.

That was how he survived for so long: he dismissed, he shoved it down, he bottled, he buried, he pushed it so deep that even his own mind forgot the shape of it.

That was how he coped.

That was all he had.

“...You’re making it much bigger of a deal than it actually is.” He carefully adjusted his tone, forcing a stretched, practised smile.
“Thanks to you and Aurelia, nothing happened tonight but a few nasty bruises. I’m fine. Everything is perfectly fine—”

“NO!”

Malthys’ voice shattered the hush of the healing bay like a stone through glass.

“ Stop with that bullshit! You are not fine! Nothing is perfectly fucking fine! Stop pretending !”

Kallamar winced.
Even if he couldn’t hear the shout, he felt it in every sharp movement, every wave of emotion radiating from the moth’s body. He shrank back into his blanket on instinct.

“See? You… you just— By the Lamb, I’m sorry.”
Malthys’ voice dropped to a whisper as panic overtook his anger.

“I didn’t mean to shout at you. What kind of shitty medic yells at someone like that?”
He leaned back, visibly rattled. “But I can’t just let you go home like this. Please, Kall…”

The squid’s smile faltered, then fell away completely.
The fragile shard of confidence he’d managed to hold onto slipped from his grasp, dissolving into nothing.

He said nothing. Just kept his eyes low.

He couldn’t do anything right.
Not even this .

“Kall.”
Malthys called out again, gently tapping his hand.

“There are so many things I don’t know about you. Everything you told me when we first met was a lie… and I feel stupid for believing it. But I also understand why you had to lie. I want to be clear: I’m not mad about that.”

He drew in a breath, held it for a second, then let it go.

“What I’m truly mad at… is that you’re still lying to me now.”

His voice softened further, as if afraid to scare him away.
“Your biggest secret is already out in the open between us. And yet you keep your silence so tight I can’t breathe through it. I’m trying to figure out if you do it out of cruelty… or fear.”

The moth sat beside him then, cautiously, leaving enough space not to crowd him, not to touch him inadvertently.

“And it’s painful to realise, it’s the second. The way you sought my company. The way you held onto me so tight, like I might just disappear. That’s fear.”
He paused, swallowing hard. “And that’s just one of the reasons why it’s so unbelievably hard to accept what the Lamb said you are.”

His voice trembled with the weight of the question.

“Am I a fool to believe in what I had come to know, rather than what my god tells me?”

Kallamar didn’t answer immediately.
But something in him shifted as his shoulders lowered and the tension in his chest loosened.
He turned, eyes drifting cautiously to meet Malthys’, and let the silence breathe between them.

“That’s the problem with gods…” Kallamar’s voice was low, almost distant. “Very few people are allowed close enough to know them.”

He paused.

“You see me as I am now, a doctor. A frivolous creature that works to cure everyone. Meek, vulnerable, weak. And you try to reconcile that with the deity in the scriptures: Pestilence incarnate. He of Blight, bringer of disease, of plague, of slow, painful death to anyone who stood in his way. An immortal being, capricious and merciless, worshipped out of fear.”

The apothecary listened in silence, his eyes never leaving Kallamar.

“But do you know what gods truly are?”

Malthys shook his head slowly.

“Nothing but flawed people with enough power to make their mistakes everybody’s problem…”

He let the silence stretch, words coming with difficulty now.

“…And I made so many. Out of fear. Out of…”
He exhaled, defeated. “I don’t even know anymore.”

His gaze dropped, voice tightening.

“But once that power is stripped away… what’s left is this .”

He gestured to himself.

“I’m never going to tell you how to feel about me, but you must understand: the truth is far more complex. Because I am both the doctor… and the Blighter.”

Silence fell again, heavy and thoughtful, the kind that needed time to settle.
Kall lowered his eyes and pulled the blanket tighter around his frame. The mix of trauma and medication was finally weighing him down, softening his focus into a drowsy blur as he leaned back on the pillow.

Malthys stayed where he was, watching him, torn. A vicious conflict raged in his mind and heart: to hate him, or to love him?

But this wasn’t science.
This wasn’t calculus.
There would be no neat solution, no singular right answer.
Only time.

“…Dear me, you’re exhausted,” the moth finally said in a soft tone. “Please, if you manage, change the bandages. Everything you need is on your bedside table.”

He stood, pausing.

“Kall… I’m sorry for what happened tonight, but you are safe here, this is your sanctuary. Please don’t ever hesitate to ask for help. I’ll be in the office.”

Kallamar gave a small nod, sluggish and quiet. Then, suddenly, his eyes darted to the window.

“Please, the window… I—”

“Don’t even mention it. It’s no problem.”

The apothecary moved immediately, crossing the room with purpose. He locked the window, secured it tightly and blocked the handles with a broomstick, then pulled the curtains shut, sealing away the outside world.

“Thank you,” Kallamar whispered before his senses slowly drifted away.

When Malthys closed the door behind him, the doctor was already deep in a drug-induced slumber. But his night was far from over as Aurelia was waiting in the office.

“So… any word from the Lamb?” he asked, his voice low.

The nurse shook her head, tail limp, her whole posture sagging under the weight of exhaustion.

“They’re on it. They’re not letting the guards out of town, but they said they might go themselves… I’ve never seen them this pissed off before.”

Malthys sank into the doctor’s chair, visibly defeated.

His gaze roamed across the room, as if trying to see it through Kallamar’s eyes: the fireplace, the apothecary’s desk, the front door, the shelves packed with books and instruments, the examination bed, the strings of colourful flags all around the perimeter…
Then he turned.
The window: it was just behind him, to the left.

Without a word, he stood and walked to it.
He reached for the latch and immediately noticed it: the lock was loose, then he opened it slightly and frowned.

There were marks, faint but still visible, along the frame. Scratches on the old wood, signs of force that meant it had been pried open. Not recently… but enough that the damage remained, if one knew where to look.

“What are you doing?” Aurelia tilted her head, watching him lean out the window, scanning the garden below.

The sun was only just beginning to rise as a soft glow poked shyly on the horizon, but even that dim light was enough to reveal it.

Right below the window, there was a patch of bare earth.
No grass, just a heavy impression in the middle of the otherwise undisturbed bushes.

Someone had stood there.
Often.

“...Oh, shit.”

The dog arrived at his side and blinked, trying to make sense of what she saw.

“ What am I looking at?”

The moth pointed at the patch of soil. “Someone’s been outside this window for a long time, Aurelia.”

“That son of a—”
She stopped, clamping both paws over her mouth as realisation struck like lightning.

“I should have seen this coming! By the Lamb, how could I be so blind?!”

“Aurelia, don’t blame yourself. This place has been hell throughout the whole winter and you were all stretched thin…” he lowered his voice. “ because I had been a brat.”

“But all the missing bits and bobs!” She suddenly yelled. “He was always saying he misplaced his things and never found them…”
Her incredulous stare turned into a full-blown snarl. Her voice dropped, thick with fury.
“I should have chased the bastard! I should’ve beaten him bloody and dragged him in front of the Lamb! Fuck!”

“I know, I feel the same. But our first duty is always the victim.” Malthys said, his tone calm but weighted. “Kall needed immediate care and we didn’t know the extent of his injuries. If we had gone after the bear, things could’ve gotten worse. We did the right thing.”

“It’s just… only now it’s all clicking.” She exhaled shakily. “The goddamn letters from ‘Teddybear’, arriving every day. I should’ve stopped it.”

“But he never said a word.”

“No. Still, I should’ve known, it’s in my bloody instinct.”

Malthys gently laid a hand on her shoulder.
“And if it weren’t for your bloody instinct and amazing hearing, we wouldn’t have made it in time. That’s not a maybe, Aurelia, that’s a fact. Hold onto that.”

They stepped away from the window, and suddenly the office felt like an entirely different place.

This was supposed to be a sanctuary. Malthys had told Kallamar that himself, it was supposed to be his safe space, a haven for peace. But now, knowing it had already been breached… it struck him like a cold wind through the cracks in that damn window. A blow not just to his confidence, but to the fragile sense of safety he'd promised.

His eyes lingered on the frame, jaw tightening.
“I’ll have this fixed,” he muttered at first, then louder, firmer.  

“No. Completely replaced.”

He shut it with more force than necessary, the final click landing like punctuation on a vow.

Chapter Text

Lambert fancied themselves a paragon of transformation.

Gone were the days of blind fury, ritual violence, cannibalism, cold-blooded executions, and merciless punishments. They had walked that grim path once faithfully, under Narinder’s shadow, but when the old god fell, so too did the chains that bound them to bloodlust.

They had emerged renewed. Changed. In control of their most primal instincts.

The Lamb glided through their congregation, fleece pristine and immaculate as their long white braid, their hands raised in peaceful blessing as followers fell on their knees in religious ecstasy. They were a being of mercy and light, a redeemer who had outlawed the old cruelties and championed forgiveness, rebirth and renewal.

“I am going to skin the motherfucker alive!”

The distorted roar fractured the illusion, a snarl so sharp it shook the very walls of their modest hut.

“I’ll tear his fangs out one by one and stab his prick with them while the pits of hell open to swallow him whole and leave nothing but his filthy bones behind!”

Aurelia had burst in moments earlier, breathless, bearing dire news, then quickly left for the healing bay.

An assault! Here, within their own cult!

That alone was enough to shatter Lambert’s practised calm, but while the nurse pointed her fingers to an aggressor, she refused to name a victim.

She didn’t need to.

Her voice had stayed quiet, but her mind screamed it, and that, that was the last drop.

Narinder watched from the bed, his pitch-black fur catching the moonlight that streamed in through the window, his three red eyes gleaming as they pierced the darkness. A wicked smile curled across his face.

“Rage looks so beautiful on you, Lambert,” he purred, his head resting lazily on one paw. “Tell me, my vessel… who is the target of your exquisite bloodthirst?”

The Lamb turned, their breath ragged, nostrils flared as they struggled to contain the storm inside. Their teeth seemed just a bit too sharp. Their horns seemed just a bit too long.

“Some bear with the audacity to force himself on another. But I have no time for details, Narinder! He’s on the run, and I will make sure he pays for his unforgivable sin .”

The ex-god stretched his arms, languid and bare beneath nothing but the crumpled linen draped across his lap. The news that ignited his lover didn’t seem to stir him in the slightest. He had known mortal depravity for millennia.

“Oh, I do look forward to seeing you punish him,” he drawled. “But tell me… who is the victim?”

Lambert’s voice trembled, not with fear, but fury barely caged. " Their privacy is to be respected. Even by myself and my disciples.”

That made Narinder’s bald-tipped tail flick with mild annoyance. He longed for the days when he could read their thoughts like scripture.

“Just a hint then,” he said silkily. “Is it someone I give a fuck about?”

Lambert had already reached the doorway when they froze. Their shoulders sagged just slightly enough to betray the deeper hurt beneath the rage.

“No,” they said at last, voice tight. “No one you give a fuck about.”

“Then wake me up when it’s time for the real show and happy hunting, my sweet vessel.” He cooed and turned around to go back to sleep, while behind him the echo of a door slamming shut shook the Lamb’s lodging.

After Aurelia denounced the crime, the guards were quickly put into motion. They discreetly searched the village and cult grounds as thoroughly as possible, but as time passed, it was evident that Travis escaped the town altogether. 

A relief? For the bear, for sure. The chances of survival under the Lamb’s fury were close to none in comparison. That didn’t satisfy Lambert, though, who ached to put a head on a pike like they hadn’t in decades.

Robberies, brawls, vandalism, blasphemy, dissent? They could work with them, they could redeem. But some crimes were inexcusable. Oh no, there was no coming back from those. So, with the crown coiled like a serpent on their shoulders, the holy leader marched toward Travis’s hut, where their disciple Meave waited.

Meave, the cult’s security chief, was a tall red-horned lizard charged with watching grounds so peaceful that crime was almost unheard of, until now. His pride stung at the failure: neither he nor his patrols had ventured as far as the medicinal gardens, a fatal oversight Travis had clearly exploited.

“My Lamb,” Meave greeted, bowing his head as the much shorter leader arrived. “The fugitive isn’t here, but I don’t like what I saw inside.”

Lambert’s eyes darkened. Rage coiled in their gaze. “First, tell me everything you know about this person.”

“Under your protection for a year and a half,” Meave began. “An exemplary worker with no complaints in all that time. He started as a lumberjack, then moved to the mines. During this cold season, he went on solitary missions to gather supplies and always returned unscathed, always successful.”

“And his private life? Family? Friends?”

“He bonded with the mining crew. No family to speak of.”

“Origin?”

“Anura, My Lamb.”

Anurians were the worst and the best at the same time, Lambert thought, as the clicking of their hooves echoed across the wooden floor of the hut. Thick skin, thick skulls, everything about them screamed resilience. Their lives had been shaped by the stench of rot, by illness and famine in a swamp that showed no mercy.

Meave himself was Anurian: tough, reliable, ruthlessly efficient. One of the good ones. One of the rare ones. But for every Meave, there were a dozen others hot-blooded, volatile, never far from a fight. Violence wasn’t a failure of reason in Anura, but it WAS reason. It was instinct. The natural answer to any threat.

Survival, in a place like that, meant striking first and asking later, if at all.

That brought Heket to mind. If she knew what happened, then the entire village would already be turned upside down by her fury. They could wager on the Red Crown itself on her ignorance. Heket didn’t know.

Not yet.

But Lambert would have to dwell on that later. Because the scene before them pulled their stomach into a knot.

Travis’ hut was supposed to be just like the others: basic, functional, modest. Enough for one person to live with dignity: a small cooker, two chairs, a sturdy table, a single bed tucked into a corner, a washroom with just enough pressure to rinse the day off. But this… this was something else entirely.

There was an emptiness that screamed.

The living area was barren, unnaturally so. No tools, no dishes, no books or personal belongings. As if Travis had already begun to make himself disappear long before the incident. 

All except the bedroom, where chaos welcomed Lambert.

Sheets of paper covered the floor like fallen leaves, their edges torn and darkened with ink. Long trails of it stained the walls, smudged handprints and drips resembling the frantic movements of someone unravelling.

The bed was a violent mess of torn linens, clawed mattress stuffing spilling out in tufts like the remains of prey. Deep gouges scarred the walls and furniture, but it was the floor that captured Lambert’s eye and chilled their bones.

Meave silently gestured, his usually stern face showed clear disgust and something darker. Fear, perhaps. He pointed toward the jagged etchings that ran across the wooden planks, as they were not aimless scratches, but loud testimonies of intent.

A map. Roughly carved, brutally clear.

The town was rendered in childlike geometry. Circles denoted important spaces: the healing bay, the graveyard, the temple, the bishop’s quarters. And paths, dozens of them, snaked between those landmarks, annotated with shaky inscriptions: dates, times, observations. Even four familiar names appeared next to the crudely depicted graves. 

He checked them up close.

And one path was carved deeper than the rest. From the clinic to the residential area, straight through the medicinal gardens.

Lambert felt the cold prick of sweat down their back.

It wasn’t just routes. It was a malady disguised as method. He had been watching and waiting for months. Recording patrol patterns, knowing exactly when guards passed and when they didn’t. The Lamb’s gaze snapped to the perimeter of the floor, where the madness bled into something even more sinister.

Symbols. Dozens of them. Crude triangles housing a single round eye.

The Blue Crown.

He knew.

Travis knew.

He knew who he was after.

He knew every single thing.

The hunt excited him.

Another peaceful night of sleep.

No dreams, no nightmares, but just the sheer weight of unconsciousness, like sinking into the dark belly of his beloved sea. Kallamar welcomed it. The beautiful, muffled comfort of sedatives... Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner?

Maybe it was time to bring some of that home. He was the doctor, after all, he could write the prescription himself with no questions asked.

His eyes, sluggish and glassy, moved across the room, comforted that everything was in perfect order, sterile and unmoving. Thanks to Malthys’ meticulous attention, the curtains were drawn so tightly they swallowed most of the daylight, casting the ward into a warm gloom, making him wonder what time of day it was.

Kallamr sat up, slowly. Limbs as burdens, body still not entirely his. Everything felt as heavy as if gravity had changed during his slumber. But then came the sharp pulse across his cheek, a stinging ache flaring awake with him. A literal sore reminder.

He breathed out slowly. The air stank faintly of antiseptic and camellia, and his tongue tasted of iron and bitterness: blood, medicine, shame.

Then memory returned, fragmented, but clear as his eyes dropped to his forearms dotted violently by purple bruises blooming all across them. His main right hand was still wrapped tight in bandages, but it throbbed in protest. A dry, crusted patch of blood peeked through the dressing. That red spot.

He remembered struggling, fighting.

And failing.

A knot formed in his throat, pressing tight against his breath, and the silence that constantly haunted him was suddenly too oppressive to stand.

Astaroth would know what to do.
He always did.

Kallamar stared at his bandaged hand, fingers curling instinctively as if to hide it. As if shame could be tucked away beneath linen.

Last night was the final undeniable proof that he was nothing without the support of his husband and his spouses.

But no. Not again.

Kallamar clenched his jaw, forcing the emotion down like a bitter pill.

He would not cry.

Not for this again.

This was another day bringing another problem: how to keep this whole ordeal a secret to carry to his tomb.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the flapping of a bright red cloth tied to the door. Someone was “knocking.”

“...Come in,” he croaked, his vocal cords raspier than usual.

“Good day to our doctor!” Aurelia barged in, her bright smile practically lighting up the room before the window even had a chance. “How are you feeling today?”

Kallamar blinked, surprised, then smirked, though pain shot through his right cheek like a crack of lightning.

 “... A tad freaked out by your enthusiasm,” he muttered, but the warmth in his tone softened the words. “Otherwise fine. Thank you.”

“Good, you’re freaked out!” she chirped, wagging her tail as she strode to the window. “Means your brain’s working!”

She reached for the curtain then paused, hand hovering.

“Can I?”

Kallamar gave a slow nod. He appreciated the ask even if his eyes braced for it.

The curtain flew open, and sunlight flooded the room in a sudden bright wave, making both of them squint.

“Hah look at that,” the nurse said lightly. “The sun’s still up, the world’s still turning. That counts as a small victory today, don’t you think?”

“What time is it…?”

“Uhm… ’bout  four in the afternoon?”

“Dear me!” He swallowed hard. “I’ve lost so much time…”

“Hey, hey, don’t start with the Mr. Workaholic routine,” Aurelia chided, settling into the chair beside his bed. “You’re the one who should know better! The body takes exactly the time it needs to heal.”

Kallamar glanced away, with a shame he couldn’t fully hide as Aurelia’s gentle paws inspected his face. His left side was swollen, painted in angry purples. He must have looked hideous, more so than usual.

“You’ve got a sturdy face, doctor,” she signed with a warm smile, trying to lift the mood. “Any other cheekbone might’ve cracked, but no sir, not yours.”

He scoffed softly, the sound bitter and self-deprecating. He’d seen far worse during the war. His parry should’ve been sturdy, not his face.

“Don’t give me that look…” she sighed, shaking her head as she carefully prepared the medication. “You’re tougher than you think.”

He didn’t find the strength to protest and allowed her big paws to gently rub the camellia salve over the bruises, starting with his cheek and brow, then moving to the brutal hand-marks along his forearms.

“Actually…” Aurelia’s shoulders slumped, and she looked up at him with wide, sincere brown eyes. “ I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I could’ve done something if I’d paid more attention.”

Kallamar blinked, caught off guard by her confession. “What? Aurelia, you literally saved me.” It was hard for him to admit, but credit was due. “What more could you have done?”

She lowered her ears, her voice dropping with regret. “He was stalking you. Those letters coming in, and you leaving them unopened… I should have noticed. I should have at least asked. But I didn’t. That makes me feel… complicit.”

“Good gods, no…” Kallamar breathed out, appalled at the idea. “No, it doesn’t. I underestimated the problem, ignored it. I honestly thought it would just blow over, that it’d stop… Never in my life did I imagine—”

His words cut off as a shudder ran through him.

He swallowed hard and pressed on. “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you. So please, accept my deepest gratitude, Aurelia. I owe you and Malthys more than I can say. If there’s anything I can do to repay you…”

“Oh, bla bla bla!” She waved him off, her paws firm but gentle. “ I only did what was right. So shut it. I told you before: I don’t care who you are. Until you start acting like a fool, your ass is part of my herd, and I protect my herd, no matter what.”

He finally smiled softly. She reminded him of Heket so much at times, like another “big sister.”

“Right… as you say. My thanks nonetheless.”

She shook her head and set the salve down. “You gotta change those bandages on your ears. They’re a mess.”

He almost forgot. How could he not? The crusty ichor on his ears should’ve been a sore reminder, but the sedatives weighed heavier than his senses.

“Oh… right, yes. I’ll do it as soon as possible.”

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it.” She smiled and stood up. “Oh, one more thing: Malthys wants to pop in. Can I tell him it’s okay?”

Kallamar tilted his head and shrugged. “He fancies himself the head doctor while I’m not in charge, apparently. So he can come and go as he pleases, as far as his station is concerned.”

The nurse let out the biggest, most exasperated sigh she could muster. 

“Oh, for the love of the sacred Lamb” She made a big, dramatic gesture. “He doesn’t want to come for check-ups.” She wagged a finger. “He wants to spend time with you, silly!”

Kallamar’s tentacles twitched slightly. “...I see.”

“So?” She lingered by the door. “Do you want his company or not?”

He paused, thinking about all the ways he might be inconveniencing him. Probably stayed up all night, worked all morning, wouldn’t he rather be asleep? Or out somewhere? Doing anything but stuck here in the wretched workplace?

“I don’t have all day, squid boy!”

“Yes.” The word slipped out before he could stop it. “But only if it doesn’t inconven—”

Aurelia smiled, exited the room, and closed the door behind her before he could finish.

“—ience him…”

Alone once again, he sighed loudly and swung his legs off the bed, wincing as new aches spread through his body. Lifting his tunic just enough, he caught sight of both knees scraped raw, and a few lighter bruises mottling his tentacles.

“...Scraped knees like a hundred-year-old Leshy. I fucking hate having knees.” 

He nearly bit back the swear, but then shook his head. He was alone with no Shamura to scold him and no younger brother to gleefully repeat the curse.

He wobbled toward the small sink, clutching the clean dressing. Time to face the mess on his ears.

His hands reached for the encrusted bandages, stiff with old ichor. They resisted, coming off slowly, painfully, as he had never let them go this long, not even during the worst moments and it was disgusting. The cloth dragged at his delicate membranous fins, stinging as if someone were tearing dried glue from living skin.

With practised care, he peeled the last of them off and discarded the blackened, sodden strips into the small biohazard bin. The sink ran cold as he made sure the cotton was heavy with water before dabbing it gently against his ears.

The cold seeped in with soft relief while he exhaled, long and quiet.

In the mirror, he studied himself as he carefully lifted one ruined fin, completely ignoring the state of his horrible face. Beneath the sticky ichor, the inner membrane still shimmered that same bright azure it always had. A small defiance of time.

The stitches were still perfect and their hold was firm as it was meant to be. But the wound was deeper than a medication, even a divine one. The wound was memory, was history. And no thread could seal that, not really.

The ichor always came back, oozing through even the best efforts when the mind was under siege and great emotional stress. That was his theory, anyway. A theory he tested over a millennia and has proven again and again.

Two hands worked to unravel fresh dressing while another lifted the tattered fin with delicate care.

Then the cut on his palm flared sharp and sudden. The pain made his grip fail, and the clean roll of cloth slipped from his fingers.

But it never hit the ground.

A quick hand caught it, firm and sure.

Not his.

Kallamar flinched violently, staggering a few steps back as the scare crashed over him like ice water.

“Old Ones, NEVER EVER sneak up on me!” he snapped, voice louder and harsher than he meant.

But could anyone really blame him for being on edge?

Malthys stood there, still holding the dressing out, wide-eyed and sheepish. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I was waiting, but then I saw the dressing fall and just… reacted by instinct.”

The squid sighed, reached out, and took the dressing from Malthys with a faint grumble, stepping back to the sink to finish the job. His movements were slower than he liked, a bit clumsy from fatigue and pain, but still methodical. Still his.

Malthys returned to the chair without a word, settling in with quiet patience as he watched with hands resting in his lap. He peeked at the horrible wound, wondering how that came to be and who would do such a thing to another. He might have offered to help again, but he knew better. Boundaries were important to Kallamar and his had been tested far too harshly to be taken lightly now.

Only once the new bandages were in place, neat enough by his own high standards, did Kallamar finally turn to address him.

“So… Doctor Malthys comes to visit his patient?” The tone was clipped, the question barbed. Some of that earlier irritation still lingered in his voice. “Is there good news for me? A release form, perhaps?”

Malthys didn’t flinch and didn’t rise to the snark. Instead, he lifted a tray and held it up. “No. But I brought lunch.”

Kallamar blinked at the unexpected answer as the moth set the tray on the small table: two covered plates, a carafe of water, two glasses.

“How kind…” he said, tone still a little dry. But he moved to sit back on the bed in front of him nonetheless.

“I thought we could eat together,” Malthys offered simply.

“It’s almost four in the afternoon. Isn’t that late for your lunch?”

Malthys shrugged with a faint smile. “Like many things lately, lunch breaks are not an exact science, Kall.”

He lifted the lids off the plates. Steam curled upward, fragrant and familiar. At first glance, it looked simple baked cod with a side of asparagus, but Kallamar’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his head tilted in mild surprise.

It wasn’t just cod. He could smell clearly the lemon, the capers, and just the faintest glaze of butter melting over the white meat.

“I say, did the kitchen staff finally remember their job is to cook?” Kallamar mused, lifting the plate like the insufferable food critic he could be, inspecting it from multiple angles.

Malthys chuckled. “Would you just eat it? It’s not an autopsy, we don’t need to analyse every part of the meal under a microscope.”

Kallamar smiled back and shrugged. “At the very least, you could have brought some good wine to go with it.”

“No alcohol with painkillers. Doctor’s orders.”

That earned him a smile, a true, genuine one this time. 

But as Kallamar finally took his first bite, his expression shifted almost immediately. The flavours were bright and well balanced: the cod was cooked just right, not underdone, not rubbery. And the asparagus, gods, the asparagus! Properly salted and buttery, with just enough bite left in the stalks.

He looked at the plate like it had performed a magic trick. “Is this what we give the patients now? Sign me up for a month in the ward, if that’s the case.”

Malthys laughed, really laughed like he hadn’t in a long while, and his wings fluttered slightly at his sides, a light blush appearing on his cheeks.

“I have a confession,” he said, still smiling at Kallamar’s baffled face. “I cooked this.”

Kallamar, ever the gentleman, swallowed his mouthful before responding. “You did? When? Why?”

“I made this earlier. I went home in the morning, took a nap, and then started cooking. I thought you might need a pick-me-up.” He paused, then quickly added, “No strings attached, no expectations! Just wanted you to feel better.”

And it did make him feel better. It was still a light meal, appropriate for a hospital, but every bite was a little gift to his mortal palate, a warm, nourishing one, carefully made.

Yet, the thought of having to thank someone again today made the aftertaste just a bit sour. He’d relied on the kindness of others far too much in the last twelve hours. He was infinitely grateful, but he also felt so out of place , so uncomfortably exposed.

So instead of words, he nodded with a faint smile of acceptance, not submission. A quiet gesture, instead of another humiliating admission of weakness.

Yet Malthys wasn’t oblivious. Somehow, out of everyone around them, he could read Kallamar’s discomfort, as if those sensitive antennae of his were tuned to his moods.

Once the plates were empty, even spotless in fact, and Kallamar looked a little more grounded, a little more himself, Malthys spoke. His tone was casual, but there was purpose behind it.

“Alright. Now that you’re fed and no longer glaring at me for the scare… let’s talk.”

The squid’s tentacles coiled slightly as they spilt off the edge of the bed, then he gave a small nod, a silent permission for Malthys to begin.

“You know, I have another confession to make”, the moth said, a serious glint in his deep purple eyes.

“I have a dark secret too.”

“…You? A dark secret?” Kallamar blinked, clearly surprised.

“Yes.” Malthys nodded with great solemnity. “ And you are sworn to secrecy just like I am with yours.”

“Very well… I didn’t think YOU would have tha kind of skeletons in your closet, apothecary.”

“Well then brace yourself, ex-god.” He added drama and flair to his signing, making a little show of it.

Kall watched, enthralled by the suspense, practically holding his breath in anticipation.

“I was part of a Circus!”

“A Circus?”

“Yes! I was raised in a travelling circus called “Fireflies Wonders” before the Lamb brought me here! Spoilers: we were not all fireflies…”

The revelation didn’t land quite as dramatically as Malthys might have hoped. Kallamar had clearly expected something darker, more sinister, perhaps a murder or two. But instead, this was like the cod: unexpected, rich, and absolutely delightful.

“Is that right?” he asked, voice lifting with excitement. And when Malthys nodded again, his eyes lit up like bioluminescence in deep water.

“I simply ADORE the circus! It was one of my favourite forms of entertainment! Oh, the flair, the shows, the acrobatics, the colours, the costumes, the tricks and jokes. Extraordinary feats by ordinary people!” 

He sighed, his smile growing wide and soft, his voice warm with nostalgia as he recalled that spark of excitement: sitting on his VIP stage, heart pounding, moments before the show began. 

“And the music? The dancing? It was a 360° experience and I could watch it all day long without pause!”

Malthys smirked gently, letting Kallamar ramble on, his own heart fluttering just a little faster. He was so beautiful when his eyes shone with genuine joy.

“And what was your role?” Kallamar snapped back from his daydreaming and leaned in, fully focused now. “I had such a soft spot for the acrobats! Those daredevils flying through the air! Or the contortionists… and the shark tamers! What did you do? Oh! Now I know why you’re so exquisitely flexible!”

The last comment tumbled out with enthusiasm before he could catch himself. Realising how it sounded, he bit his lip, but Malthys didn’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He laughed, wings fluttering slightly, clearly delighted. He waited for a pause in the excited ramble to finally answer.

“I actually wasn’t a performer… not full-time, really.” He shrugged a little. “I was an artisan of sorts. I’d make little glass trinkets and sell them to visitors, telling them they’d bring good luck and ward off evil spirits.”

Kallamar watched him, utterly mesmerised.

“I was also a fortune teller. A tightrope walker. A stable hand. Assistant to a blindfolded dagger-thrower. You know that small scar on my left flank? That was related… Then assistant to a magician who could saw me in two. A clown. I even tried the fire-spitting act once…though that didn’t go so well with my antennae getting singed.”

He laughed at the memory. “But yes, there was always something to do. People got hurt during practice, so everyone learned each other’s jobs.” He paused.

“You’re holding your breath, Kall… please exhale before you turn grey.”

A surprised laugh escaped the squid, who only now realised he had been holding his breath.

“How did you join the circus?” he asked, eyes wide with wonder. “ Were you born into it?”

“Yes and no.” Malthys' tone softened, a bitter note just beneath the surface. “My parents left me at the circus as an infant. No note, no explanation. The troupe told me they found me before moving on to their next destination. Figured a colourful caterpillar like me would fit right in.”

“Oh… Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Malthys said gently. “I don’t know what drove my parents to give me up. Maybe poverty, famine, or… Lamb knows what, but I gained a big family who treated me well, fed me, gave me shelter. I was happy, I truly was.”

“Then… why didn’t you ever tell me before? How is this a DARK secret anyway?”

Malthys offered a bittersweet smile before replying.

“The way you see the Circus, the way your eyes lit up just now when you talked about it, that’s the surface, Kall. That’s the magic the world is meant to see. But the truth is, a lot of people don’t like circus folk. Nomads, wanderers… they see us as rootless criminals, and sometimes, they’re not entirely wrong.”

He hesitated, but continued with honesty.

“Many of the people I grew up with were thieves, pickpockets and frauds. I scammed people, too. I sold my little glass charms with grand promises of protection, luck, magic they’d never receive.”

The moth’s hands twitched as if to reach for Kallamar’s, but he resisted the urge. Instead, he looked down briefly, wings curling close.

“I love the way you see the art of it. The music, the daring, the marvel. And it was all of that. But behind every glittering tent, there are shadows too. That’s why I don’t talk about it. I never know how people will react.”

Kallamar was quiet for a long moment, his expression caught between shock and sorrow.

“I can’t believe it,” he finally said, his voice hushed. “How can anyone treat performers like that? How did it come to this: artists forced into deception just to survive?”

His brows furrowed in quiet indignation.

“When I ruled Ancordeep, the Circus was celebrated. Honoured. My dogma ensured performers and artists were welcomed, fed, and sheltered. They belonged. No one had to steal, no one had to scrape by. It was sacred what you did. You were sacred.”

His voice trembled slightly, part outrage, part heartbreak.

“To think that wonder has been reduced to mere ‘entertainment’, low enough that it could be so disrespected, it’s... appalling.”

“I suppose it wasn’t like that back in your time,” Malthys said, his gaze dropping for a beat. “But it’s the truth of things now.”

A silence stretched, soft but heavy, until something in him flickered, a spark of something brighter, braver.

“Your words… your enthusiasm…” he glanced up, locking eyes with Kallamar, “It’s not something I’d associate with Pestilence.”

The moth shifted a little closer, antennae angled forward, expression open and unflinching.

“I’ve decided that before forming any judgment, before drawing any conclusion, I want to know you. All of you. Even the contradictions. Especially them.”

He let the silence sit for a breath before continuing.

“So far, you’ve shown me the light, the charm, the magic, the marvel that made me flutter close without even realising it. But now…” his voice softened, “I want to see the shadows, too.”

Kallamar’s expression dimmed, the joyful spark from earlier hollowing into something older, wearier. His tentacles coiled slightly.

“...Why would you want to take that chance against the Lamb’s doctrines?” he asked, voice low.

Malthys inhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself before a dive.

“Because I might have been circus folk once, but I’m a scientist now. A researcher. And I don’t accept theories without evidence. I don’t trust outcomes without testing the variables. Not when the data I’ve gathered is… so conflicting.”

He offered a faint, searching smile. One that didn’t demand, only hoped.

“But only if you want to share. Only if you feel safe. I won’t pry. I won’t push. You’d never be an experiment to me, Kall. But you are… a mystery. And I’d rather discover the truth than accept the world’s assumptions as fact.”

Kallamar's breath caught in his throat. Doubt began to claw at him: was he really about to bare himself so completely to a mortal? Shamura would have called it blasphemy. A disgrace. A betrayal of godhood. To reveal the divine so openly? To stoop to honesty? Shameful.

“Y-You don’t have to decide right now, I can go away an—”

“Ask.”

“…Ask?”

“Yes,” Kallamar nodded, steadying himself with a slow breath. “Please ask. About me, about whatever you wish to know.”

His voice was calm, but the tremor in his shoulders betrayed how monumental this choice was.

“I can’t promise I’ll answer everything,” he added, “but I do promise every answer will be nothing but true.”

Malthys’ antennae perked up in surprise. He processed the offer carefully, with a reverence that didn’t go unnoticed. Then, gently, he nodded.

“Thank you, Kall. I’ll ask… with respect.”

Kallamar shifted backwards on the mattress, folding his legs and tentacles beneath him, reclining slightly into the pillow behind him. He needed the space to breathe, to see clearly, to think, to not be overwhelmed by the closeness.

He waited.

Then, softly:

“...So. What was the thing you loved most about being a god?”

The question hit him by surprise. Not “how did you become one,” not “what powers did you wield,” not “ how did the cult work.” Malthys had bypassed the grand technicalities and reached straight for something intimate .

Kallamar blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

It took him a moment, several in fact, to even begin to answer.

“I think…” he spoke, slowly, hesitantly. “I think what made me happiest was the joy I brought to others, and I had in return.”

His voice softened. His gaze turned distant.

“There was a time I wasn't just Pestilence,” he murmured, “and during that time, all I could do was heal. Mend broken bodies, soothe pain. People would look at me like I was the sun itself, like I could breathe life into the dust.”

He smiled faintly, melancholic, aching.

“The way they loved me… it was so pure, so overwhelming. I wanted nothing more than to give them everything. Anything they desired. No shame. No limits.”

He paused, voice catching slightly.

“And my love back then, it felt infinite. Like it might burst out of me, like I could never love enough, never bless enough, never reward enough. It made me feel invincible.”

Malthys didn’t interrupt and simply watched, quiet and present.

Kallamar exhaled, eyes hooded now with memories.

“There were rules, of course. I couldn’t always do as I pleased, but that was the price, and I paid it gladly if it meant I could keep giving love and get it in return… From my family. From my spouses. From my people…”

He finally stopped. His gaze had gone distant, eyes slightly watery as his memory drifted to a time long before the binding, when his power still felt like love and not sickness.

Only when Malthys was sure the silence wasn’t just a pause, but a conclusion, did he dare ask the next question.

“...And what did you hate most about it?”

“The chains.”

This time, there was no hesitation.

“Being a god means being dragged into games you never agreed to play. You’re not a being: you’re a piece. A Queen or pawn on a board painted in black and white, where everything eats or dies.”

His voice sharpened with the weight of bitter memory.

“Power has two faces. Just like the Circus. One glittering, radiant and the other shrouded in shadow. And those shadows…” he swallowed, “they hide everything I did. Everything I became to survive. To be the Old Faith.”

He flexed his fingers unconsciously, as if still feeling the residue.

“The blood on my hands,” he said, voice quieter now. “It is still warm, still sticky.”

He turned his head slightly, but didn’t look away.

“The weight of my choices will never lift. Every mistake, every consequence, echoes like a tsunami hitting the shores. It wasn't just murder: it was genocide. It wasn’t just betrayal: it was the imprisonment of my own beloved brother.”

A bitter exhale. “They were all chains, Malthys. Every one of them. And the worst part?”

He met the moth’s gaze fully now, and the depth in his eyes could drown.

“When you’re a god… You don’t get to stay quiet. You don’t get to be neutral. You don’t get to mind your own business.”

His voice dropped to a hush, like a truth too sacred to scream.

“You HAVE TO make a choice. And when you do, something ALWAYS breaks.”

The moth waited.

But no more words came from Kallamar’s lips and Malthys didn't push. He treasured the answers he'd received: precious, intimate things to be reflected upon in his solitude.

Yet, as that silence stretched and thickened, an interruption broke through it.

A loud and hurried knock shook the wooden door and set the red cloth at the handle swaying.

Both the apothecary and the doctor turned toward it.

“Come in…!” they called in unison.

A familiar voice answered, muffled through the wood. “Are you two decent?”

Malthys turned a deep shade of orange. “What sort of question is that, Aurelia?!”

Kallamar, meanwhile, threw his head back and burst into laughter. “No, of course we are not!” he declared, earning a playful middle finger from the mortified moth.

“Yes, yes, we are! Come in already!” Malthys amended quickly.

Aurelia pushed the door open with a knowing smirk, clearly satisfied with her success in flustering the apothecary and getting the good doctor to laugh in the process.

“I was joking,” she said breezily. “ You boys are so sensitive.”

But her tone shifted as she stepped in further. “Doctor, your brother’s here to see you. Says it’s important.”

“ Leshy!? ” Kallamar sobered instantly. Smile drained from his face, replaced by concern. “Is he alright?”

“He is,” Aurelia reassured. “But he’s… let’s say eager to talk to you. I told him you were taking a well-earned nap after last night’s emergency and that I’d check if you were up. What should I tell him?”

“Oh, THAT’s a good cover,” Kallamar nodded appreciatively. “Yes, let him in. Please.”

Malthys rose from where he sat and offered Kallamar a gentle smile. “I’ll take my leave, then.”

He turned his back to Aurelia, wings flaring wider just slightly, enough to shield the gesture from her sight. He signed his words, subtle and soft.

“Thank you for your honesty.
I’d like to continue, whenever you’re ready.”

Kallamar gave him a serene nod, the corners of his mouth curling into a genuine smile. 

He felt better.

He felt lighter.

Chapter Text

Leshy fidgeted impatiently in the main hall.

His tail flicked from side to side, antlers twitching in restless arcs. The little camellia blossoms dotting his back opened and closed in rhythm with the tapping of his wooden claws against the armrest. It probably annoyed the other visitors, but when had Leshy ever given a damn?

Between his trips to Darkwood, the time spent crashing at Tharen’s place, and Kallamar always buried in the healing bay, he hadn’t seen his big brother in what felt like forever.

And though he’d never say it out loud, stars forbid, he missed him.

Ironically enough, he’d been seeing Narinder more often than Kallamar lately. They’d hit the drinkhouse twice a week now, and for once, those nights had started to feel light. Bright, even. But no matter how much better life had begun to feel, not having Kallamar close left him off balance like a table missing a leg.

After that awkward run-in (catching him with that dumb bear what-is-name-again in his office), he’d made a point of not dropping by unannounced. But today?

Today, he needed to talk to him.

Finally, Aurelia emerged from the hallway. “Sorry for the wait,” she said with a warm smile. “He’s awake! Still a bit groggy, mind you, but he can’t wait to see you, dear. Come on, I’ll show you the way.”

Leshy shot up like an arrow. Leaves rustled as he bounced to her side, full-bloom tail swatting gleefully.

“Ha! He’s gonna be wide awake soon enough!”

Back in the ward room, Kallamar was using every precious second to recompose himself. He slipped off the bed, straightened his creased patient tunic, and splashed water on his face, scrubbing hard to remove the scent of blood from his lips and mouth. He sprayed himself down with sanitiser, hoping it might throw off Leshy’s too-damned-keen sense of smell.

Then he braced himself, putting on his Big Brother™ face like armour, hoping it would hold under pressure. He felt a fresh wave of guilt as he caught his reflection… he was glad, selfishly so, that Leshy wouldn’t see the state of his face.

Right on cue, the red flag flapped wildly.

Kallamar steadied his voice. “Come in!”

Leshy burst in like a missile.

“Kall! Fucking finally!” he shouted, charging across the room. Before Kallamar could get a word in, his little brother had wrapped his arms around him in a crushing hug.

It was instant sensory overload. Every alarm in Kallamar’s mind blared at once. Pain shot through him, his shoulders, his arms and every ache flaring up in brutal unison.

“Eeek Leshy, too much! Too much !” His voice pitched high in panic, his body locking up as he flinched hard under the pressure.

Leshy froze. That reaction wasn’t normal.

Sure, Shamura might go rigid at hugs, but Kallamar ? Kallamar was a huggy person, he never reacted like this.

He pulled back slowly, antlers twitching as his nose caught something off. The acrid sting of sanitiser hit first, but underneath, subtle and unmistakable, there was blood. Old and recent. And medicine. A sharp, clean, clinical smell clung to him like a second skin.

Leshy’s tail rattled slightly.

His brother wasn’t wearing his usual uniform, either. The texture was wrong. Loose in all the places his tailor-made clothes weren’t. Something he’d been given, not chosen. Something meant to fit anyone .

“Kall?” Leshy asked, gently now, positioning himself right in front of him, making sure he was seen speaking. “Everything okay?”

Kallamar, on the other hand, didn’t realise just how fast his heart had started beating. Why was this unsettling him? It wasn’t just the pain. There was something else…the contact, the weight of it, the sudden constriction grip.

No, no, no! He needed to recover. Fast.

“But of course, brother dear. Everything is…” his voice caught for the briefest second, “…perfectly fine.”

“Right…” Leshy’s tail gave a soft rattle like the faintest warning bell. He wasn’t buying it fully.

“I’m still sleepy, you must forgive me.”

“Well… It’s been ages. How are you?” Leshy asked, measured.

Good, Kallamar thought. This question, this one, he could work with.

“Oh, you know me! I am absolutely dreadful! A wreck of a squid!” he replied, voice pitched into his usual melodramatic voice. “These ingrates, they just work me to the bone!”

“Mph!” Leshy huffed, folding his arms. “You should tell them to fuck off every now and then.”

Good, that landed. His little performances always had. “I know, my dear, I know… I do apologise for not spending more time at home. But you, how are you? How have the missionaries with Tharen been? Don’t leave the spicy details out.”

Leshy’s antlers gave a faint twitch again, always listening, always sensing. He waved his hands in a vague, deflective circle and gingerly perched himself on the edge of the bed. The mattress shifted under his weight.

“Well… the cultists in Darkwood are still a bit of a pain in the ass, but Tharen’s getting good at throwing his weight around. We had a pretty smooth run last week with no bloodshed. And we’re heading back next month, so that’s a bit of a—”

Leshy froze.

A sharp, sour scent hit his nose like a slap. Strong. Metallic. Wrong.

Ichor.

Kallamar’s gut dropped. Shit.

The pillow.

He’d forgotten to change the damn bandage last night, and now the pillow cover was stained with his ichor, plain as day. And of course, Leshy caught it. Of course . Even a novice wouldn’t miss something that obvious. What was he thinking?

“Kall,” Leshy’s voice dropped, serious now, his face lifting slightly as he sniffed the air more openly. “Is this… your blood I smell?”

No way out of this one.

“Ehm… yes,” Kallamar admitted, clearing his throat. “I’m afraid so.”

“For real, Kall?! What the fuck? Are you okay?” His tail rattled with rising anxiety.

“Leshy, dear…” Kallamar straightened his spine, trying to keep his voice level and calm. “I had a very… very rough night.”

The pressure behind his eyes pulsed again, the knot in his throat tightening like a noose.

Keep it together. 

DO NOT break!

“There was an emergency. We worked until morning with no breaks, no rest. It was… hard on my nerves.” He let out a soft, shaky laugh. “I got overwhelmed. Nothing serious. I just… overreacted, as usual. You know me, but a bit of sleep worked wonders.”

Leshy didn’t look convinced, then slowly reached out a hand.

Kallamar hesitated for a second too long, then took it, carefully avoiding using the bandaged one.

“For fuck’s sake…” Leshy murmured, squeezing his fingers gently. “You’ve got to protest to the Lamb. Seriously. We need to get you out of here. Let you live a little.”

The words hit Kallamar like balm and blade all at once.

He felt the squeeze like a warm anchor pulling him back to steadier ground. Still, it sent a fresh wave of guilt curling beneath his ribs.

He doesn’t know, he doesn’t need to.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, managing a light smile, just a little too practised. “I’m already composing a very stern letter in my head. ‘Dear Lamb, it’s time to grant your overworked doctor one week of uninterrupted sea vacation. Cocktails mandatory'.”

That made his Leshy smirk. He did well, but before he could be barraged by any other question, he began the big brother act.

“But really, don’t worry about me,” Kallamar said with a flourish of his hand. “Tell me about you! My life’s nothing but work, no fun at all. I want to hear everything about yours! Oh, and would you like some tea?”

Leshy finally relaxed a little. Kall could be a drama queen, and maybe it really was just a rough night in the emergency room, after all.

“Naaah,” Leshy said, grinning. “Actually, there’s something kinda important I want to tell you.”

Kallamar straightened up and turned toward him, head tilting in curiosity. “Oh?”

“Sooo… Tharen and I got talking, and… yeah.” He took a deep breath. His leafy antlers twitched, blossoms blooming a bit wider. A flush of purple tinged his cheeks.

“We’re getting married.”

Silence.

Kallamar blinked. Once. Twice. Leshy held his breath, a grin spreading across his whole face.

“Pardon me… could you repeat that?”

“Tharen and I, ” Leshy said again, enunciating clearly, “are getting married.”

Silence again.

And then…

A shriek!

“YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED?!”

“Yes!!”

“THIS ISN’T A JOKE?!”

“Ahaha! No, Kall, I swear, it’s real!”

“ANCIENT ONES! YOU’RE ACTUALLY GETTING MARRIED!”

“Yes!!”

Good news.

Precious good news.

Oh, to feel this overwhelming joy, pure and untainted.

“You’re getting married…” Kallamar repeated, eyes brimming with fresh tears. “My baby brother is getting married.”

“Yes, Ka—”

Kallamar surged forward and wrapped Leshy in a tight embrace, clutching him close as he began to sob into his shoulder. His whole body trembled from fins to tentacles as he clung to him. All four arms wrapped around his younger brother’s smaller frame.

Leshy gulped, hugging him back. He’d expected a few tears, sure. Maybe some emotional babbling. But this? A full-on sobbing fit?

Still… It was a happy one.

But was it?

Kallamar cried like he was finally breaking open. Yes, for joy, for his brother, his heart, his light, finding love and happiness, but behind that uncontainable glee…

…the gates opened to every tear he had been hiding.

The kind he pushed down until now.

Until it had nowhere left to go.

Finally, when he managed to breathe again, Kallamar let go of Leshy, smiling like he hadn’t in aeons.

“Oh dear, forgive me for the outburst… but I’m so delighted for you!”

Leshy chuckled. “If you’re reacting like this, I wonder how Heket’s gonna cope when I tell her!”

“You haven’t told her yet?”

“Nope. You’re actually the first to know.”

Kall whimpered again, half-laugh, half-sob through his smile.

“I mean…” Leshy’s voice softened, his tail giving a shy wag. “You supported me, helped me when I had to tell Tharen the truth. You even stood up to ‘Mura that night to defend me… It just felt right to tell you first.”

“That means the world to me, Leshy. Truly, you have no idea.” 

Kallamar wiped his eyes, breathed in deeply and clapped all four hands together in giddy excitement. “We have to start planning! Oh dear, do you have a date? An idea? Anything?”

The worm burst into a hearty laugh. “I was just gonna poke the Lamb and make them marry us on the spot, but Tharen’s a traditional type… He wants the whole deal. The fuss, the feast, the celebration. He thinks harvest season would be perfect.”

He let out a groan. “But it’s so damn far away.”

“Oh, don’t rush these things,” Kallamar said, slipping back into planning mode. “That gives us a perfect timeline to prepare a proper wedding. We’ll need to think about decorations, your attire, the meals, the music and wait… what am I going to wear?”

"Don’t start, I’ve already got a groomzilla at home!”

“Right, right. Fair point.” Kallamar took a breath. “But jokes aside, I’ll help with anything you need.”

“Well, you are the only one of us who’s gotten married,” Leshy teased. “ So I might need a hand… or four.”

“Consider them yours. I’ll start jotting down notes. This cult might not afford the same grandeur I used to indulge in, but we’ll make it perfect for you: something that fits your style.”

Leshy smiled again, warmth blooming in his chest at how light Kallamar sounded. But then, his shoulders slumped, tail twitching with anxiety.

“There’s… something else I need advice on first.”

“Anything, really. Just name it, little brother.”

“…I don’t know how to tell ‘Mura.”

The air shifted. Heavier. Denser.

“I don’t want them to freak out like last time. They still think Tharen is my friend, I assume, and might not give me their blessing. Not that I need it,” Leshy added quickly, “but… ugh.”

Kallamar’s voice got gentler, softer. “What is it you’re afraid of, Leshy?"

A long pause.

“…They never came to your weddings.” His voice dropped, distant. “I dragged Narinder along, but… Those two chairs in the front row for Shamura and Heket… they always stayed empty.

Kallamar didn’t interrupt.

“I never understood why they were so stubborn. I mean, it was a wedding. There was joy. There was free food!”

Leshy reached for Kallamar’s hand without thinking. His fingers brushed over the bandaged one. Kallamar winced ever so slightly, but Leshy didn’t notice and kept talking.

“And I remember how sad it made you.”

The pain of those hollow seats still lived in his chest. The invitations he knew would go unanswered. The dinners he organised just to introduce his latest spouse, with two guests missing. The wall of silence that followed every moment of joy.

All because they were mortals.

He had fought tooth and claw for every interaction, every date, every proposal until he finally claimed enough ground to marry the ones he loved, with or without Shamura’s blessing. Defiant of their rules for once in his life.

And that defiance carved a path for Leshy to follow, thousands of years later, so he too could love his mortal followers without fear.

At least he had been able to fight for him. That, he was glad for.

“It was complicated,” Kallamar admitted. “Back then, it was all about gods and their absurd rules. But you’re not bound by them and I’m sure Heket wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“…But what about Shamura?” Leshy’s voice grew small. “I want them to be there. I want them to be happy for me. How do I tell them in a way that makes them happy and not… upset?”

Kallamar fell into thought. He stayed silent for a while, brows drawn in a troubled frown.

Then, softly:

“…I’ll tell them.”

Leshy’s antlers twitched. “You will?”

“Yes,” his older brother said firmly. “When the moment is right. When they’re rested. When their mind is calm and open to clear reasoning.”

“Right! And I can be there with camellia tea just in case they need soothing.”

Kallamar shook his head. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

He swallowed. He knew what this kind of news might stir and Leshy should never be there to see it.

“They’re much more reasonable when it’s just the two of us. Trust me. Just give me a few days.”

“Days?”

“These things need to be timed. Besides, spring has just begun! There are still two seasons before the harvest.”

This one wasn’t a spy.
Nor a murderer.

Just a musician.

A simple, well-spoken, obscenely talented musician.

He carried no weapons.
He brewed no poisons.
He had no connections with shadowy alchemists, no secret letters, no coded messages tucked into his sleeves.

He was a violinist.

Astaroth had done his checks. Extensively. He had watched the seahorse for months , combing through every movement, every word, every silence.
And he had found nothing.
Nothing.

Not a stain. Not a sliver of danger. Nothing that could threaten his Lord’s safety.

And yet, he had to act, and act very fast. The situation was unravelling, slipping through his fingers like wet sand.

It was his fault!
No matter how he tried to twist it, justify it, or dress it up in strategy: this was all on him.

He decided to interpret Shamura’s orders instead of obeying them to the letter, trying to keep Kallamar’s happiness intact in the process. He thought he could serve two masters: his god, and his heart.

And now he was losing his godsdamn mind.

Because his Lord…
He was in love.

Not a fling.
Not a harmless curiosity.
This was different. Real.
He wanted to marry him.
A mortal.

And it was happening.

And it was ALL Astaroth’s fault for not killing the damn seahorse on sight, as per his vow!

But now?
Now it was far too late, wasn’t it?

If he killed the violinist, his Lord’s heart would shatter into a million pieces.
If he didn’t, the marriage would go through, and that would be the most glaring, unforgivable failure of Astaroth’s entire career.

Noble Shamura would have his head.
Ripped from his shoulders.
Publicly. Spectacularly.

Yes, that was his main concern.
Obviously.

Not the wild hammering in his chest when Kallamar smiled.
Not the flutter in his stomach during their playful, ridiculous banter.
Not the way his tendrils trembled when Kallamar looked at him straight with those blue, enchanting eyes. The way he would get lost in those brilliant lagoons had surely nothing to do with it.

Impossible to deny that things had changed after that talk.
When he finally spoke with nothing but bare honesty, he was met with unexpected softness.

Kallamar hadn’t laughed or mocked him, he had listened . Respected him.

Of course the young Lord would never aid his advice to stop mingling with mortals, but at least he was heard.
And since then, their conversations had shifted.
They became less formal.
Their words lost their harsh edges.
Discussions turned into pleasant exchanges.
More… real.
More dangerous .

Astaroth could spend countless eras obsessing over this: calculating, weighing, spiralling; but it all came down to one terrible, beautiful question:

Would he rather die… than see him broken?

“You are slouching, Astaroth. Quite unbecoming of you.”

Allocer’s voice echoed in the corridor leading to Shamura’s library. They were calm and detached as always.

The general, walking by their side as they followed their gods at a distance, was long accustomed to the Witness’ disquieting lack of emotions and would normally have brushed off the remark without a thought, but not today. 

Today, something in his chest was off, heavy. Not fear, not exactly. Something messier.

Kallamar had finally made his decision: after months of silence, hesitation, and restless pacing through his own mind, he was going to tell his sibling about the wedding. Not just inform them, but invite them, ask them to walk him down the aisle as he took a mortal for a husband. Through thick and thin, they were his dearest and only family, after all. 

The young god had even turned to Astaroth for advice, who bound by loyalty, by oaths, by a weight he didn’t dare name, had advised against it. Strongly.

But he desperately wanted Shamura to be there not just as a sibling, but as someone to cheer for him, to celebrate what, for once, wasn’t a political move, an asset to acquire or a murder to commit in the privacy of a marital bedroom. This wasn’t even like the fleeting flings or hollow unions of the past.

This was Kallamar’s first true love: real, terrifying, sacred, the one that made him smile with his heart.

And despite all the mockery he had made of it in the past, nothing mattered more to the God of Health than love.

Astaroth understood that now. Deeply and painfully.
But Shamura wouldn’t, of that, he was certain.

“You try keeping pace with a god like this one,” he muttered with affected ease, barely hiding the knot in his gut, “then tell me if your back doesn’t ache too, Allocer.”

To his surprise, something shifted in Allocer’s expression, just a flicker of surprise, but for them it was practically a gasp.

“It seems your manners are slouching too, brother,” they replied, voice flat but edged with quiet judgement, their arachnid mandibles clicking softly. “I hear the godling has quite the taste for merryment. I do hope you haven’t grown too fond of those... distractions.”

Astaroth’s composure tightened.
“Don’t be naive, Allocer. I'd prefer a war to this assignment. The parties are the least of my concerns.”

He straightened up, trying to pull the steel back into his spine.
“My Lord has a talent for seeking and finding trouble.”

MY Lord. The word slipped out before he could stop it.

Allocer caught it.

“Then we must hope Noble Shamura sees fit to summon you back at their side soon,” they said, slowly. “Before that trouble becomes your own.”

Astaroth hesitated just a breath too long.
“...I wouldn’t count on it.”

The general shifted his gaze from the dark spider beside him to the gods walking ahead.

Kallamar was speaking animatedly as his hands drew shapes in the air as if trying to sculpt the words themselves. A gesture Shamura assumed was a trick to distract or seduce, but Astaroth, who knew him better now, understood it for what it truly was: an effort to be seen, to be heard, to not be brushed aside.

His Lord hadn’t delivered the news yet, that much was obvious.
“These things need to be timed,” he had told Astaroth before they left Anchordeep with a voice lighter than it should’ve been.

Shamura, for their part, remained unreadable as ever. They nodded now and then, offered the occasional faint smile that vanished just as quickly as it came, like moonlight slipping behind clouds. Their attention never wavered, but neither did their silence.

Allocer spoke again, breaking Astaroth’s thoughts, their voice was barely above a whisper.

“They know.”

A breath.

“The wedding. With a mortal .”

Astaroth’s blood became ice.

He slowly turned to face the Witness, trying to remain as collected as possible.

“I’ve heard whispers only,” Astaroth lied, perfectly. “Nothing confirmed.”

“Whispers reach my ears before they reach yours?” Allocer said, almost kindly. “Do not insult my intelligence. You disobeyed your orders.”

Another silence, the one of an executioner measuring the fall of the blade.

Then: “Would you die for him?”

The question landed like a strike to the chest.

Astaroth blinked. “My life belongs to Noble Shamura.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He said nothing.

Allocer took a step closer. The glint in their eye was not curiosity, but calculation. Weighing threats, weighing loyalties.

“Be very careful, General,” they said, voice low now. “A heart divided does not beat for long.”

The cold realisation struck Astaroth like a blade. If Shamura knew then… then what was this? That’s when he looked again and noticed they deviated from their path, not to the library but toward Shamura’s temple.

Did Kallamar notice?

Astaroth’s heart clenched in his chest, a flicker of panic breaking through his carefully composed mask. He took a step forward, instinct over caution. 

He had to reach him! To warn him!

But Allocer’s hand was faster. A clawed grip locked around his arm with quiet force.

“Foolish brother,” they said, voice like frost on glass, “this is a matter of gods.”
Their eyes did not leave the divine silhouettes ahead. “We are to watch. We are to listen. We are to obey. Never to stand beside them.”

Astaroth stood frozen, his pride caught in his throat like a swallowed blade.
Behind his back, his tendrils trembled in a silent rebellion. 

But he did nothing in the end. His inaction did cause this, and his inaction was going to get Kallamar in trouble and him decapitated gruesomely… He cursed under his breath.

“Oh?” Kallamar blinked as they reached the threshold of the temple. “Weren’t we headed to the library?”

So focused on charming his sibling with light-hearted talk, he hadn’t noticed they’d strayed from the path.

“Ah, yes, brother,” Shamura replied, pausing mid-step. “Just a small detour before we get there.”
Their voice, calm as ever, carried no edge. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”

Kallamar stepped forward, beaming, not the slightest bit alarmed but only curious, genuinely so. He loved these moments of shared wisdom and treasured the quiet bond he felt when Shamura opened the door to their knowledge.

His white, pristine robes trailed softly across the dark stone floor, fluttering around him like light incarnate. He always looked like a radiant little star in the eerie shadows of Silk Cradle, but even more so, here in the hollow hush of the temple.

As both the gods and Astaroth stepped into the main chamber, Allocer closed the door behind them, accompanied by an ominous screech that made the jellyfish sweat cold. His eyes travelled through the naval, the rows of benches, the walls in progress to be sculpted based on Shamura’s most recent victories… but not a soul to be seen.

“So,” Shamura began, their voice a low, measured hymn. “A little gift for you, my dear brother. A lesson I hope you will cherish this time.”

A hum, low and ancient, rippled through the floor. The temple walls shuddered in response, as though bracing for what was to come. The dark stone beneath their feet bloomed with searing sigils, ancient runes igniting one after the other, bathing the hall in a cold, violet glow. Power flowed from the altar.

Kallamar leaned forward, beaming with the unguarded excitement of a child.
Eyes wide, lips curled in anticipation, eager to enjoy this unexpected boon and even eager to surprise his beloved sibling with his own!

Astaroth was standing at his given place, not focused on the altar, not on his god, but his lavender eyes were glued on his Lord.

And there in real time, like glass shattering in slow motion, he saw the moment it all fell apart.


The colour drained from Kallamar’s face.

His smile cracked, faltered and vanished.

His breath was cut off by his lungs. His eyes, bright just a moment before, widened with a dawning terror.

Fingers, shaking, flew to his lips as if to hold the horror inside, to stop the scream before it could reach the air.

And then he rose.

He rose, unsteady, toward the altar, toward what Shamura had called a lesson.

Just as the body appeared.

Summoned with clinical grace, it hovered for a moment in the charged air. Limbs slack. Head bowed.

Familiar.
Lifeless.

His promised one.

Kallamar rushed forward, gathering the seahorse’s limp body from the altar with a strangled cry. He cradled him close, arms and tentacles wrapping around the corpse with desperate tenderness, searching, pleading for any sign of life.

His hands moved frantically, checking the pulse at the neck, the wrist, the chest. Over and over again. He leaned in, listening with sharp, divine ears, but there was nothing.

No flutter.

No warmth.

No thread of breath to grasp and pull him back.

Still, he poured his power into him, whispering healing spells through shaking lips, trying to anchor to something, anything. But the neck was snapped clean. There was no pulse to summon. No soul to call home.

“He was a spy,” Shamura said, voice like cracked stone.

“Planning to kill you the very moment you took him as your husband. I found a godly blade within his personal effects.”

They circled the scene like a preacher, eyes veiled in sadness for the collapse of their younger brother, but there was no space for compassion for the mortal they slaughtered.

“This meek little creature… he fooled you. Made you feel safe, made you trust. Lowered your guard.”

Their mandibles twitched. A fist clenched.

“But I saw through him. I stopped him before he could strike, before he could hurt my little brother irrevocably.”

Astaroth stood frozen. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t blink.

It was a lie.

He had investigated the seahorse thoroughly, shadowed him, searched into his past and traced every connection. The violinist was clean, loyal, devoted and truly in love!

There had been no signs. No treachery. No danger.

Kallamar knelt there, shattered.

Not the vibrant, radiant god he guarded so devotedly, but a broken creature, shrunk down by the weight of death, trembling in silence like his pain could bother Shamura as he clutched his lover’s body like a squidling lost in the dark.

A sob escaped him.

Astaroth’s chest clenched violently.

He had never seen him like this.

Not in battle. Not in grief. Not ever.

Shamura stepped forward, placing a hand on Kallamar’s shoulder, soft now, almost gentle.

“I know it hurts, brother. But it’s for your own good. There was no other way.”

No answer. Just the sound of quiet weeping, muffled against cold seahorse’s scales and silk.

“But I warned you, didn’t I?” Shamura went on, voice smooth like a lecture. “Mortals can deceive as well as gods. But they’re easy to underestimate.”

They looked down at the corpse like one might at a broken instrument.

“This is a lesson I wish you didn’t have to learn this way. But now I’m sure you’ll remember it.”

A pause. A caress.

“I did this for you, brother. Because I love you.”

Allocer’s hand shot out once more, barring Astaroth’s path with silent force. The jellyfish had stepped forward this time not out of duty, but out of defiance. He was going to speak and tell the truth!

But the spider’s voice cut through him like the final toll of a bell.

“We don’t belong there.”

Astaroth clenched his jaw, lips bitten raw from words left unsaid. His hands trembled at his sides, tendrils twitching, electricity running through them like sparks in protest, but the storm had already begun to stir.

The air shifted. Subtly at first. Then deeply.

Silk Cradle’s usual stillness, a hush like breath caught between cobwebs, grew dense and thick with something darker. The temple felt suddenly smaller, like the walls were folding in, like the threads of the world itself were tightening.

A pressure, like standing at the eye of something ancient and enraged.

Then came the voice.
Small.
Cracked.
Like glass beneath a weight.

“…What… have you done… ’Mura?”

Kallamar’s words escaped, not fury but devastation.

He remained where he’d fallen, tentacles coiled on the cold stone and arms wrapped around his beloved’s lifeless form. His tear-soaked face was still hidden in the silken robes, as if he could keep the truth from touching him if he just didn’t look.

Shamura knelt beside him as they leaned in and spoke again with a voice low and caring.

“Dear, dear Kallamar… I only protected you, like your guard failed to do.”

The words dripped with sincerity. With conviction. As though they truly believed they had done right.

“If he had followed his orders and eliminated the threat like every other time, then we wouldn’t be here. But I will punish him accordingly, do not worry.”

Kallamar’s arms tightened around the corpse, but his gaze finally rose.

And in that moment, with eyes red, face streaked with sorrow and disbelief, he looked up.

Right at Astaroth.

The silence between them screamed.

There it was, the look.
Not anger.
Not grief.
Something worse.

Betrayal.

Astaroth stood still. His mouth parted, but no words came. He felt the guilt claw up his throat, thick and suffocating.

He had failed,
He was meant to protect the Lord he loved, but he drove the blade in his heart.

He expected fury. Revenge. Punishment.
He was ready and even eager to pay with his life for the pain he had caused.

But Kallamar’s eyes didn’t burn with wrath.


They returned to the corpse in his arms, dim with mute despair.
His fingers were shaking as he lovingly stroked the pale coral cheek with the tenderness of a squid clinging to a future already gone.

“...I can’t take this anymore…”

The words were whispered, barely audible, like breath against stone.

Shamura, still crouched beside him, tilted their head.
They felt it too, like a ripple on the still water surface: something unravelling.

“I can’t… take this… anymore.”

Kallamar’s arms clutched tighter around the body. He rocked gently, mechanically, like a squidling trapped in grief too deep for words.

“I… I am sick… of everything…”

“Kallamar…” Shamura tried to speak, voice faltering.
Only now did they seem to notice the cracks opening like chasms through their brother’s mask.

But it was too late.

“...I am… so—so sick.”

The shift in the air was immediate, alive and malignant.


Allocer’s breath was cut off. Their eyes darted around the room in something uncharacteristically akin to panic, then let out a strangled gasp and dropped to one knee, clawing at their chest as though impaled from within.

Astaroth stumbled, hand clutching his ribs as a sudden throb carved into his chest like a hook. His stomach twisted. His lungs burned. The very air felt poisoned, thick like rot, impossible to draw in.

The temple groaned.

Shamura staggered back, lips parting in shock as black ichor burst from their mouth in a violent cough.

The God of Health didn’t move.
He simply knelt there, serene in his brokenness as he murmured his words endlessly, not to the corpse, but himself.

His voice was soft and steady as it emerged like small bubbles reaching the surface from the darkest of the abyssal depths. A rivulet of dense, dark liquid slid down his lips, staining himself and the corpse underneath.

“I… can’t take this anymore…”

Ink dripped from his mouth like venom, each thick, oily drop sliding unopposed down his chin to desecrate the immaculate white silk, blooming like rot on purity.

“I am sick…”

His words echoed now, not through sound, but through flesh .

Somewhere outside the temple, a priest collapsed with bile leaking from his eyes.
Soldiers doubled over in silence, fingers shaking, faces ashen.
Infected pustules bloomed and burst on the skin of military and citizens alike.

The sound of heavy, stumbling steps reached them as one of Shamura’s disciples burst through the doors, hands clutching her convulsing stomach, vomit still slick on her chin.
“Noble Shamura! T-The faithful …people are ill! They’re—”


But another brutal wave of nausea struck her mid-sentence. She dropped to her knees, retching acidic bile and streaks of blood onto the cold stone before she could finish. She didn’t need to. The message was clear.

A wide, fevered smile stretched across Shamura’s face. “The power of the Blue Crown…” they whispered with reverence, voice trembling not with fear but with delight.

“Kallamar! You did it, brother…!” They wheezed, coughing thick ichor onto the floor, but their joy did not falter.
“Brother, you’ve unlocked it! You are killing us all!”

They laughed.

A bright, shrill, maddened laughter like that had never once echoed through Silk Cradle’s sacred halls. Perhaps they were breaking, undone by the very sickness now bleeding through their lungs. Or perhaps it was the twisted ecstasy of witnessing their brother, after aeons of frustration and of failure, finally awaken his accursed gift.

But Kallamar didn’t laugh.

He only rocked gently, over and over, arms locked around the lifeless body in his lap. His voice was a whisper dripping with sorrow, murmured like a lullaby. His sclera turned to pitch black, and his once-clear, celestial iris ignited red like glowing coals in darkness.

Astaroth knew he was dying, he could feel his lungs failing, every breath slashing through his chest like razors. It was what he deserved.
And yet… he refused to go, not yet.

With agonising effort, he crawled forward, dragging his broken body inch by inch until his bloodied hand found Kallamar’s silken robes. He gripped the fabric and pressed it to his lips, kissing it softly in reverence, staining white with crimson.

“My Lord…” his voice was hoarse, nearly lost beneath the temple’s agony. “...I am sorry for what I have done to you…”

A cough rattled through him, speckling the floor with red.
“But after meeting you…” He gasped for breath, eyes clouded. “I am not the same I once was. I am dying… hopefully a better person.”

He gulped down a blot of bile and blood, the taste of death thick on his tongue, and added,  barely audible:

“You healed me.”

Then, with a motion slow as sunrise over the sea, the corpse in Kallamar’s embrace gently slid down from his lap. Loose. Empty.

The god’s main set of arms, once clenched in grief, rose instead in offering. One hand reached toward Shamura and the other extended to Astaroth.

Shamura grasped it without hesitation, pride burning in their fevered eyes like they never did before, even as ichor spilt freely from their lips and their lungs drowned slowly. They held on as if their grip could anchor them to this moment, to this long-awaited triumph.

Astaroth, however, faltered.

His body shook with pain, not from the sickness, but from shame. From awe. From something breaking open inside his soul.
He couldn’t bring himself to take the hand.

So he bowed his head and let the slender, deep-blue fingers hover above his brow like a benediction. A small touch, merely… forgiving.

And the world breathed again.

There was another shift, a gentler one this time. Not quite a storm, but the stillness after the world was wrecked by its fury.
As the oppressive pressure in the temple began to lift, the crawling sickness receded from the air like mist melting in sunlight.
The moisture washed away from the walls and breath returned to the lungs of the faithful.

Allocer staggered forward, eyes wide in disbelief as their limbs no longer burned. They could stand and walk without pain in their bones.

The God of War, no longer afflicted by the plague that had swept through their domain, approached Kallamar and cradled his face with hands made for blood and ruin, but now trembling with reverence and care.

They looked into his brother’s eyes and saw nothing left but an exhausted void.
Empty. Resigned.
So very, very tired.

“You did well, my dear brother…” they whispered, voice raw with emotion. “I am proud of you.”

Shamura leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Kallamar’s forehead with the delicate care that felt almost like love.

“Thanks to this, thanks to you… We abandon the subtle ways and wage open war on the entire Pantheon without fear.”

A pause. A breath of awe.

“Precious good news.”

But Kallamar did not answer.

He simply remained there, still and silent.


His eyes lost somewhere beyond gods and grief, hands still open in the air, his beloved’s body lying in front of him as an offering. 

Like a statue of mercy, in a temple that had never known any.

Chapter Text

The happiest news since he became mortal, well no, perhaps the happiest in a thousand years!

Yes, that was what Kallamar dubbed his little brother’s wedding as, and therefore decided that it had enough power to swat away anything else!

An arbitrary decision, but that’s how he worked.

He refused to keep up with any news about T. No he wouldn't even mention the name in his head. 

Lambert has gone to Anura for a hunt, but after a few days with no luck they had to return to the cult. They came back empty-handed, but that was none of his concern! He erased him and whatever it was connected to him by his life in a big swipe.

Done.

Gone.

Archived.

No matter he still carried some signs on his skin. No matter he instinctively flinched when people got too close. It was over and dealt with, and forever forgotten.

His main focus from now on was Leshy’s wedding.

The grooms’ attire would have to come first because Ancient Ones, Leshy was well… Leshy, and the cat was probably oblivious to anything other than overalls and t-shirts. He clearly needed advice and an intensive colour analysis session. It might sound simple to some, but yellow was not a colour that paired well with just everything. With violet and rosy pink on the other hand…

Then there was the arranging of a proper menu with Heket and Regina, but mostly with Regina. Something to keep it simple for Leshy’s sake. Perhaps single portions of quiche with seasonal vegetables topped with decorative flowers, maybe spiced pumpkin muffins sprinkled with whatever cheese this damn cult could afford, and there should be pomegranate!

Should they serve game meat? Not the most elegant of choices, but Tharen was… a little rustic and mainly carnivore.

And the desserts: there should be at least three kinds! Would it be too much to hope for patisserie? He relied on Regina being good enough to bake a proper multi-layered cake.

And finally, what would HE wear? There was nothing in his dull wardrobe ever close to a decent brother-of-the-groom outfit, he would have to spend countless hours at the tailor to find a good fit for himself! Not to mention Heket and Shamura. Everyone had to be at their best!

That’s what drove Kallamar steps forward through the week after “nothing happened that night” , and to whoever asked what occurred to his eye, including his worried sister and sibling, he was eager to ramble about the patient so scared of needles that punched the doctor while getting their vaccination! Unbelievable, right?

People laughed at his story. It was so goofy.

The rest of his bruises only showed when he was bathing or changing clothes, but otherwise were completely unseen and therefore non-existent. Soon they would disappear altogether.

Kallamar thought about the aches too, he made sure to keep painkillers ready at hand so that not even pain could remind him of it, it was brilliant!

And sleeping without nightmares? No problem.

Even alone in his room, sleeping became a breeze thanks to the menticide sedatives that knocked him unconscious in a matter of minutes. Medicine was such a blessing. The side effects… well… he missed a sermon or two, overslept and felt dizzy for part of the morning at work, but his body would have soon adjusted and compensated. He was the doctor, after all, he knew best.

So he made a point to go back to normal and enjoy himself, starting with a well-earned night out!

The drinkhouse was far more crowded than Kallamar had expected. The air hung thick and heavy with the stale scent of sweat and spilt ale. Drunken patrons swayed unpredictably, weaving left and right without care, bumping into anyone who got in their way.

Kallamar already regretted agreeing to meet with Felicia.

He did his best to enjoy himself, really he tried. He even put on one of his way-too-few nice outfits and had Leshy make him the most colourful and strong drink there was, but despite all his efforts, the claustrophobia was pressing at his nerves.

On top of that, he had to endure an endless evening of complaints from his friend, nonstop lamenting about how much Eliza had changed since the baby was born.

Kallamar longed desperately to drown it all in a drunken stupor he could never achieve with mortal alcohol. Why, he thought bitterly, in the everloving Old Faith, didn’t Lambert serve ambrosia?

“Did you really believe bringing a baby into the relationship wouldn’t change anything? How naive can you be...”

“Oh, come on, I know that.” The doe threw her hands up in frustration. “But she doesn’t spend enough time with me. It’s always about the baby’s needs.” Her voice cracked. “What about my needs?”

“Goodness gracious, are YOU the baby?” He rubbed his temples, weary. “Do you have any idea how demanding an infant is? Physically, mentally? Maybe you should be the one spending 24 hours straight with them and find out.”

“Easy to judge when it’s not your problem.” The doe slammed back another drink, words slurring. “No kids for you, but plenty of people calling you ‘daddy.’”

That stung. More than he expected.

He wanted to fire back with sarcasm, something sharp and sassy, like always. But a restless buzz flickered in his mind, and the words wouldn’t come.

“…I think you’ve drunk enough for the both of us, Felicia.” He stood up, leaving his untouched drink behind. The doe tilted her head, confused. “Come find me when you’re able to hold a conversation that’s more... engaging.”

“W-wait, Kally!” She grabbed his hand, desperate. “I didn’t mean it like that. Come on, babe... what’s wrong?”

Every muscle in his body tensed like a coiled spring as he immediately jerked his hand free, pulling away sharply.

Damn, he didn’t want to do that. What would she think?

“Kally...?” She stood with concern in her voice. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, forgive me… really, dear. I’m so tired and need some fresh air, my head is killing me.” He forced an uncomfortable smile. “That’s what you get when your brother is the bartender, he always makes it a double… Ooof. I’ll see you very soon, I promise.”

Calm down…

“Alright, baby, but… want me to accompany you home or something?”

“Ahah, don’t be absurd. I’m a big boy. I might be dizzy, but I still know my way back.” He waved dismissively, stepping away. “Please, have a good night. Give my regards to Eliza and the little one. And don’t worry everything will turn out fine.”

Calm down.

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and headed for the exit.

But suddenly the room, the entire drinkhouse, felt unbearably small, suffocatingly stuffed. A wall of bodies blocked the way, and all he could do was shuffle forward, brushing against strangers and friends alike, unable to avoid contact.

Calm the fuck down…

His heart raced relentlessly. Some greeted him with a wave or a raised glass. He forced polite nods and smiles, but everything around him shrank and closed in. 

Too much confusion. This silence was overbearingly loud.

His eyes caught people talking as he passed, what were they saying? He couldn’t read their lips in the chaos.

“Do you even know what people say you are…?”

Calm… the… fuck… down…

“Just a pretentious little whore.”

A knot formed in his throat, but the door was close. 

Just a few steps more.

“They say it out loud: they know you can’t hear anyway.”

His breath came short, shallow, though no one could hear it. The pounding of his heart thrummed loudly inside his head like a distant drumbeat vibrating through his chest, magnified by the silence that swallowed all sound.

“Everyone knows they just need to be a little extra nice with you  to have a round.”