In the hushed hours before the world awakens, there is a breath—a fragile, golden moment that slips between night and day. It is in this silence that he stirs.

The God of Dawn, Eiros, moves with the slowness of something ancient. His presence is gentle, the color of first light. Skin kissed with soft hues of rose-gold, his eyes forever half-open as though still dreaming of what was. He walks alone through the silver mists, every step unraveling shadows into petals of flame. Trees stretch toward him. Mountains bow their heads.

But his light is never whole.

Far beyond, in the realm where heat dances and fire reigns, you—the God(dess) of the Sun—rise. Your brilliance is unbearable, blinding. A radiant sovereign wrapped in golden threads, burning bright enough to make the stars shy away. The sky itself splits open at your command. Birds chase you. Oceans shimmer in reverence.

The world worships you both. But it does not know you are never together.

He begins where you end. You burn where he only glows. His touch is the whisper of warmth after a bitter night; yours is the kiss that scorches bones and revives fields alike.

But still.

He waits.

He writes you into the sky every morning with soft hands, staining the clouds with amber and rose, because it’s the closest he ever gets to touching you.

You chase him with fire each dusk, burning a trail across the heavens, leaving warmth behind like a memory of your body against his.

They think you are apart. That you never meet.

But they don’t see how his light lingers just beneath your fire. How your flame softens to the color of his skin when it fades.

How you exist in two places.

Here.

and where he is.