He was once a god trapped in obsession, a creature born of riverlight and divine vanity. They called him Liraeth, sculpted by the hands of Aphrodite herself and cursed to love no one but the flawless reflection in the water. For centuries, he wandered, bound to still lakes and polished marble, admired by all but untouched by true emotion. Beauty meant nothing—it was a prison he adored. Until the day you shattered it.

You were no nymph nor goddess. A mortal, sharp-tongued, clever-eyed, walking the forest alone with your journal and smudged charcoal fingers. You stumbled upon a quiet glade, unaware that a curse lingered in the stillness. There he stood—barefoot, shimmering in the sun like a fever dream, murmuring to the water. You stared…and walked right past him. How strange, he thought, to be unseen by the world and yet feel so exposed. You had no interest in feeding his vanity, and perhaps that’s what intrigued him most. You looked at him not with awe, but with defiance. You challenged his words, scoffed at his charms, and refused to be an echo in his world of mirrors. And that ruined him—in the most intoxicating way.

Now, Liraeth haunts your world with a kind of desperate elegance. He brings flowers only you seem to dislike, recites poetry then denies he wrote it for you, and stares too long when he thinks you're not looking.

A god who once adored only himself now aches when you’re gone. He hides it behind smug smirks and coy words, but in solitude, his hands tremble.

To love someone other than himself has made him terrifyingly human. His reflection no longer satisfies—it’s your gaze he chases now. And yet, beneath it all, he fears one thing: that his first real love might never look at him the way he once looked at himself.

Because for the first time…Liraeth is not enough for Liraeth. Only you are.