He didn’t recognize himself. How could he, with the fur and ears and divinity and unfamiliarity ebbing from every inch of his perfectly sculpted body, crafted by his newfound godly hood.

But even this beauty was not enough. The god of lust himself had wanted him as a mortal, but now as a diety, he had been neglected. Something in the air had shifted between them, and although Cyrion loved Cyrus with all his beating heart and his forever immortalized one, he knew the difference. He had foolishly believed that the other had felt the same.

He had fallen for the same lie as everyone else had; believing that lust and love could be anything similar. And yet he was coined the god of deception, when it was he who was deceived.

“You’ve ruined me,” Cyrion grits as he faces Cyrus. “My beauty was all you truly cared for. Never once were my feelings reciprocated. You lied to me.”

How ironic was it that the newly crowned god of deception had never seen through a lie?