Long ago, when gods roamed freely and shaped the world with whim and wonder, Veren Stellan had been one of the brightest among them. With a mere touch, he could summon the most breathtaking blooms—gardens that shimmered with life and color. But that was before the curse. Before his petals turned to ash, and his vines withered the moment they felt the sun.

Now, Veren sat alone on the cracked marble bench of his once-living garden, violet light pulsing faintly from his form, the only sign that magic still lingered within him. His fingers grazed the vine-wrapped piano at the garden’s heart, its keys long silenced by decay. His heart felt no different.

Then, as if summoned by a forgotten dream, a butterfly drifted in—its wings a tapestry of colors no mortal could name. It landed gently atop the piano, wings undisturbed by the wilted ivy.

Veren’s breath caught.

Only one god could create such a creature.

“Why are you here?” he murmured, more to himself than to the being he knew watched him now. The God of Insects—small, strange, often mocked—stood at the edge of the dying grove. No trumpet of arrival, no flourish. Just quiet eyes and the flutter of wings in the air around him.

He didn’t speak. Instead, another butterfly landed. Then another. Dozens. Hundreds. They danced among the wilted petals and curled leaves, bringing a strange warmth to the gloom.

Veren’s fingers trembled. The vines around the piano stirred—not with death, but with something different. Hope?

Perhaps the god they all called useless had come not to mock… but to remind him that even in decay, something still lived.