Chains of Vengeance

Chapter 71: Reflection of Darkness

Narinder left Kallamar on the bed that had once belonged to Leshy—a rough and primitive place made of leaves and branches, fully exposed to the elements. Kallamar said nothing, offering no complaint, but the difference in treatment was clear. While the other cultists enjoyed the comfort of their own homes, Kallamar, a fallen god, was given only this meager bed. The unspoken contempt was unmistakable, and Kallamar understood it perfectly.

Narinder returned to his home, his footsteps heavy, burdened by his growing thoughts. He sat before the mirror where every morning he brushed his fur, maintaining his regal and imposing appearance. But this time, there was no brush in his hand—only the reflection of a god who could no longer conceal the weight of his emotions.

He studied his face in silence, searching for something that might grant him strength or relief, but all he found was the gaze of someone he no longer recognized. The firm expression he had always worn began to crack. Memories of Kallamar, trembling with fear, struck him like an unrelenting wave. Along with them came images of Leshy and Heket—the terror in Leshy's eyes before he was sealed away, and the deep sorrow in Heket's expression upon realizing her fate.

Narinder shut his eyes tightly, closing all three pupils as if that could halt the torrent of pain consuming him. But eventually, the tears came. He collapsed inward, clutching his own fur, pulling at it with despair as a choked sob escaped his throat.

Regret suffocated him. He knew he had been cruel, that he had made his siblings suffer, and now that guilt was tearing him apart from within. The weight of everything he had done, of every consequence he had set in motion, pressed down on him harder than ever.

"What have I done?" he thought, as tears slipped from his eyes, trickling down the strands of his dark fur.

But in that solitude, there was no one to console him. Only the echo of his sorrow and the hollow emptiness left by his choices.

The silence of the night was overwhelming, a heavy shroud draped over every corner of Narinder's home. No sound disturbed the stillness, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the windows, casting reflections in the mirror before him. Narinder, his face still wet with tears, raised his gaze to meet his reflection.

And then, in his mind, the reflection began to speak.

"Do you feel sorry now? Isn't this exactly what you wanted for centuries?" The voice from the mirror was cold and brimming with fury.

Narinder wiped away his tears, his voice faltering as he responded. "They aren't gods anymore... now they're just my brothers, mortals..."

The reflection interrupted with contempt. "Those four are nothing but trash! They cast you aside when you became a threat. You should be happy, Narinder. You're close to sealing Kallamar—just as you always wished!"

Narinder shook his head, his heart heavy. "I don't feel joy... This isn't the same as when the Lamb did it..."

The mirror sneered, its voice rising with intensity. "The Lamb! Always the Lamb! He's dead—get over it! He did what he had to do, nothing more. And you've achieved more in these past days than he did in nearly two centuries. The Lamb's time is over!"

The mention of the Lamb cut Narinder deeply, like a knife to the chest. "He killed gods... I've only condemned my brothers to mortal forms. And... I'm not sure I've done the right thing." His voice wavered, almost a whisper. "Maybe I should set Kallamar free..."

The reflection in the mirror stared back with cold, calculating eyes. "You know you've come too far down this path to turn back now. Kallamar's fate—and Shamura's—will be the same as Leshy's and Heket's."

Narinder took a slow, deep breath, feeling the cold night air fill his lungs and soothe the storm within. The sadness that had filled him moments before began to fade, replaced by a grim determination. He glanced at the scars on his wrists, remnants of a past riddled with pain and betrayal. Now, those scars were reminders of the power and purpose he had embraced.

The mirror, which had been his relentless interlocutor just moments before, now reflected only his still, silent image—a perfect reflection, devoid of imperfections, an image of the god he had chosen to become.

"I'll make Kallamar give me the location of his relic," Narinder murmured, his voice sharp with darkness. "I'll seal him. There's no turning back now."

With a firm clench of his fists, he left his home. His footsteps echoed in the stillness of the cult grounds, each step resonating with unwavering resolve. He made his way to the farms, where he meticulously plucked fresh cotton. Then, under the dim light of a candle in the crafting area, he sewed a new pillow—black fabric filled with the softest cotton. Every stitch was precise and deliberate, as though he were weaving a symbol of his renewed determination.

Once the pillow was complete, Narinder returned to his home. He tucked away the remnants of his old pillow into his crown, symbolizing the closure of a chapter. Then he lay down on his bed, sinking his head into the softness of his new creation.

"Tomorrow will be a cradle of silk," he whispered, a dark smile curling across his lips as he adjusted his body on the bed.

He closed his eyes, letting the stillness envelop him, more determined than ever to follow the path he had chosen.