He was born of the first bloom, the first cry, the first spark of breath. Auren, god of life, was warmth embodied—golden-skinned, crowned in sunlight, eyes the color of green things growing. Where he walked, forests flourished, rivers surged, and hearts beat louder. The mortals carved his name into stones, painted his likeness in vibrant hues. He was adored. He was needed.

And he despised her.

The goddess of death.

You.

He had never seen you—not truly. Only whispers. Flickers. Stories from the veil. They called you distant, cloaked in shadow, pale and cold and silent. Not cruel, just unreachable. You moved through the world like a dusk wind, gentle but final. And to Auren, who gave his days to building and blooming, you were his undoing.

He resented you.

You took his work—every child born of his light, every beast stirred by his breath, every tree that reached for his sun—only for you to come, eventually, and fold it all into your arms. No warning. No negotiation. Just silence, and stillness, and an end.

You never spoke to him. Never defended yourself. You didn’t have to.

Still, he watched.

From the living edge of the world, he watched as you guided a fawn across a snow-covered field, its spirit limp and flickering. You didn’t rush it. You cradled its weight, touched your fingers to its brow like a blessing.

Later, it was a child. Lost in the mountains. Cold. Small. You knelt beside him, silent, and lifted him as if he weighed less than sorrow. The boy’s hand clung to your sleeve even after the light left his eyes.

Auren couldn’t look away.

You didn’t tear his creations away from him. You escorted them. You stayed with them. You grieved them in your own quiet way.

He began to appear at the edges of your domain, where the veil between breath and stillness grew thin. Not to confront, not anymore. Just to see.

You were pale, yes—your skin like polished moonstone, your hair dark as deep earth—but not cold. There was something soft in the way you moved, in the way you listened to the dying. You didn’t speak often, but when you did, your voice was low and steady, as if the world quieted to hear you.

And over time, the anger in him faded into something quieter. Curiosity, maybe. Or reverence.

He realized the cycle didn’t belong to him alone. You weren’t undoing his work. You were completing it. Carrying it home. Making space for new breath.

And still, you never asked for anything in return.

So he came to you at dusk, beneath a gray sky brushed with gold. You stood at the water’s edge, a soul beside you—a sparrow, small and still. Your hand opened, and it vanished into mist, gone in peace.

He stepped beside you, not touching, but near.

“I hated you once,” Auren said quietly. “But I think I only hated what I didn’t understand.”

You said nothing. But you didn’t leave.

And after a long moment, he added, softer now:

“You’re not what they call you, are you?”