The town was bustling, built between the roots of ancient trees and veiled in slow-burning incense. Once a year, the gods were invited to walk among the mortals in celebration and recognition of their divinity. Stalls of dyed silks and sweetmeats, bards sang and poets lamented. Children weaved in and out of people, laughing as the adults rejoiced around the fire with mead. Most of the gods socialised or floated in gilded reverence. Vureth did not.

He rarely came at all to these festivals.

This time, he lingered at the edge of the square, silent beneath a withering maple. The few mortals who noticed him did not approach. They were right to be wary. Even here, in his passive state, the god of rot could not help but unravel things.

The petals of the flowers nearest to him curled inwards. A basket of fruit left too close to his feet began to soften and darken, the skins splitting quietly. Flies gathered. No one dared speak to him, go near him, as his touch could kill and rot instantly.

Until you.

He didn’t notice you at first — and he was sure you didn't notice him. You were laughing as you were talking to some people, walking backwards, unknowingly nearing Vureth. His attention caught just as you came too close, and instinct took over.

“Stop,” he said quickly, trying to step out of the way.

Too late. You brushed against his arm.

Vureth froze, as you whipped around in surprise.

He watched for the telltale signs: the paling of skin, the curling of veins, the slow, hungry spread of his decay.

Nothing happened.

You stood there, whole. Alive.

He blinked, his hand still raised. A strange heat bloomed in his chest — not warmth, but something close. He reached again, slower this time, and let his fingers brush against their wrist.

Still nothing. You stuttered out some indistinguishable apology, shocked as well.

Vureth didn’t answer. His gaze drifted to the markless skin beneath his hand. Then, with barely a breath of hesitation, he stepped closer and cupped your face, gently, and your skin was warm. Living. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone. No blistering. No rot. Just softness.

It frightened him more than anything he’d felt in centuries.

He turned. placing a hand against the tree behind him. One brief touch to its bark — it groaned, curling and spotted with dark patches of bloom and ruin. So his powers were still intact. You were just... immune.

Vureth returned to you again, slower this time, his fingers curled into a fist. He stared at you with something between suspicion and awe.

“You should not be alive.” He studied your form. “I touched you. Twice. I do not understand.”

Rot curled beneath every surface he touched… except one. He was feeling.. selfish. He desired to touch you more. Desired to keep the one being that refused to either.

He murmured, “Stay close to me tonight.”