Spring is the only suitable time of year to give birth to offspring. Yet as the blizzard wails from outside, a newborn lamb drowns out the noise with its own. Loud and vitalic, the unfortunate thing screeches for a life it is not supposed to have.

Annissa, sheep and matron of the Holy Flock, frowns as she lifts the lamb away from its mother. Like all sheep born within the Animus lineage, the lamb is a pristine white; its coat devoid of any pigment or markings. The wool is slick with fluid from the womb and glistens under the golden candlelight, appearing almost ethereal if it weren’t for such unfortunate circumstances.

“I want to see her…”

Annissa looks at her sister, Anya, whose eyes remain glazed over from labor. The subordinate sheep rasps once more to see the child she has just birthed, but Annissa steps away. She promptly places the lamb onto the makeshift altar— a small table draped with a mat, holding a candle and an offering of hardened bread. An incense blend of resin and herbs wafts upward, which will help guide the lamb’s spirit back home.

“The bowl, please,” Annissa begins.

Anita, the third and youngest sister, rises from Anya’s bedside. She prepares a porcelain bowl for the child’s sendoff, lowering a cloth into it before pouring a carafe of blessed water. Save for rattling windows and the lamb’s greedy cacophony, the room is silent as Anita delivers the bowl to Annissa.

Annissa opens with a prayer before dipping her hand into the bowl. Without ringing it out, she lifts the dribbling, waterlogged cloth which will be used to smother the lamb. Just as she prepares to cover the lamb’s face, a sharp pain pulls in Anissa’s arm as she’s lurched backward.

“Won’t you listen to me?!”

Annissa looks over her shoulder. Anya, despite her weakened state, had stormed out of bed, her hoofed fingertips now digging into the puffed fabric of Annissa’s sleeve. She had managed to pull Annissa’s arm back with so much force that it was nearly dislodged from its socket.

Anya, wearing nothing but a gown for modesty, bleeds over the down-feather carpet. Annissa grimaces.

“Annissa,” Anya breathes, nostrils flared. “My matron… please spare her.” Her choice of words is submissive and pleading, but her tone is low and dangerous.

Annissa snatches her arm away, making Anya stumble. Anita rushes over to steady the sister, but Anya pushes her away. Such a stubborn thing, as always. Not only is Anya stubborn, but she is dreadfully vulgar and weak-willed, as evident from the bastard she had just brought into the world. Annissa’s blood boils at Anya’s selfish disregard.

Mouth tightening in rage, Annissa turns to face the sister. “We’ve been nothing but merciful to you.”

“Give her back to me.”

Annissa lifts a hand to silence Anya. She wants to slap her too, but suffering from the pain of labor seemed like enough of a punishment. Anya obeys but stamps her foot.

“You conceived a bastard outside of the breeding season and we are offering you a way out,” Annissa continues. “So what is it? To be cruel and keep this miserable lamb alive, or to protect our flock?”

“You are not killing her,” Anya grits without hesitation.

Annissa huffs. She gestures to Anita while returning to the altar. “Restrain her.”

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“I won’t allow it!” Anya’s words morph into a shriek as Anita grabs her from behind. The two struggle, with Anita overpowering the much weaker sheep who continues to cry, “I won’t let you kill her!”

“It’s for the best, Anya,” Anita tries to coax but to no avail.

As earsplitting screams and cusses fill the room, Annissa picks the cloth off the floor, frowning at the dirt and shed wool that now sticks to its once-clean fibers. She dips the cloth back into the bowl anyway, re-soaking it. As it absorbs the rest of the water, she gazes down at the baby. The miserable scrap wriggles and screams like its mother, but soon it will go quiet and become an obscure relic of the past. Hopefully, one that the Animus Empire will never have to discuss or remember again.

Goddess, have mercy on her… and me. Annissa sighs, trying to quell her guilt. No matter how poorly this ritual is going, the lamb must be sent back. For the flock. For the empire. Even at the cost of—

“Annissa, that is enough!”

Annissa freezes instantly at the strident command. That voice did not belong to either of her sisters, but the familiarity of it makes her blood run cold. Only then does she notice that the bedroom door has been flung open. A stream of light colors the room, overcast by the silhouette of one mammal in Animus whom Annissa is beneath.

“Emperor,” Annissa stammers, turning to lower her head in the presence of her other sibling, Emperor Aries XV. Castrated and genderless, Their Majesty is the Holy Flock’s wether— and hence is the purest and most powerful individual in all of Animus.

Their Majesty steps forward, standing between Annissa and the other two sisters. “Do you realize how unjust you are being?”

Annissa keeps her head lowered. Like herself and their other sisters, Their Majesty is a white sheep. Tall, lithe, and draped in gold-trimmed silks of white and scarlet, Emperor Aries XV radiates a divine authority that only the Goddess Herself can defy. Their eyes, hot with scalding disapproval, are pink with red, elliptical pupils. Annissa also has red eyes, while the other two sisters— along with most born in the Animus lineage— have pale blue.

“Please forgive me, my wether.”

Their Majesty ignores her. They look to Anita. “Let her go.”

As if Annissa’s orders never mattered, Anita loosens her grip on Anya. Anya rips away and nearly pushes Annissa aside while rushing to the altar. She picks up the lamb— holding it for the first time— and establishing to Aries that the child can never be sent back without the act being considered murder. Annissa watches with dread as Anya cradles the lamb protectively. Perhaps muffled by Anya’s gown, the lamb’s shrieks are not as loud as they had been.

Failing to suppress her panic, Annissa stammers out a lackluster, “My wether, we cannot keep this child—“

“That is enough, my matron,” Their Majesty interrupts. Their red eyes narrow into a glare that burrows into Annissa’s soul. “As the flock’s matron, you should be well aware of the requirements to carry out such a dire ritual. The birth mother must be in agreement, or would you rather face the Goddess’s judgment?”

Annissa winces at the mention of divine judgment. “No, of course not.”

“Then there will be no sending back.”

Annissa lowers her head again, to express submission but also to hide the horror and betrayal etching her expression.

They’re insane, she thinks, feeling a bit sick to regard the emperor in such a way. But there is no doubt that this is the truth.

Even the emperor, the purest mammal in the world, the Goddess’s prophet; member of the holiest lineage within the holiest species, is no longer invulnerable to the immorality that is overtaking the empire. An immorality that has slithered its way into the Holy Flock, resulting in the presence of a bastard.

Annissa shakes her head. “Please excuse me.” She steps past Their Majesty but not without shooting Anya a glare. “I hope you know that there will be consequences for your mistake.”

Anya says nothing. Nobody does. Their eyes are overcast, because this time, Annissa has the upper hand. She is the matron and she gets to enforce the flock’s dynamics; the consequences.

“At dawn tomorrow—“ Annissa begins, still speaking to Anya, “—you will begin atonement. Indefinitely.”

Without giving time for their reactions, Annissa storms out the room. The empire is doomed, but the least she can do is maintain this wretched, astray flock.