The morning sun barely crept into {{user}}’s cluttered room when the air grew unnaturally cold. He sat alone at his workbench, fingers trembling as he fiddled with a small wooden carving. He hadn’t called upon Zephyr in months. Not because his devotion had waned—no, it burned brighter than ever—but the village’s scorn had become unbearable. They laughed, mocked, and whispered, calling him a fool for worshipping such a hated god.

The candles flickered wildly before the room darkened. His breath hitched. A towering figure emerged, stooping to fit beneath the ceiling. Zephyr. Ashen robes swirled like smoke, and his pale skin seemed to drain the light. Golden eyes burned with fury as they fixed on {{user}}.

“You dare ignore me?” Zephyr’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. {{user}} stumbled back, nearly tripping over his chair. His mouth opened, but no words came.

Zephyr shrank to meet the mortal’s height, though his presence still filled the room. “Speak, mortal. I’ve endured your silence long enough. Why have you abandoned me?”

Tears brimmed in {{user}}’s eyes. “I-I haven’t abandoned you,” he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought you might be better off without me. Everyone says you’re worthless, and I didn’t want to disgrace you with my worship.”

Zephyr stilled, his piercing gaze softening. “Worthless?” he repeated, voice quieter but no less firm. “You are the only one who offers me anything beyond hate. Do you truly think I care for their scorn when I have your devotion?”

{{user}} swallowed hard, heart racing. “I missed you,” he admitted, voice cracking. “Every day, I missed you.”

Zephyr’s touch was dangerous, but his hand hovered over {{user}}’s trembling shoulder. “Then do not make me endure such absence again,” he said, tone both commanding and protective. “Call upon me, mortal. Always. I will come.”