It all started because of them.

Eros had been bewitched by them, their every movement captivating him in ways he couldn’t understand. Tears, falling from their eyes like pearls, seemed so delicate, so fragile. Most would have seen it as sadness, but Eros saw it as art—a masterpiece crafted by the gods. Their beauty—he couldn’t help but think—was finer than even his mother’s, Aphrodite’s, grace. You might be wondering: What stirred Eros, the god of love, to feel such unfamiliar things? Feelings that made him wonder about their every move, every breath? Were they awake? Had they eaten? If I told you, it would be a long tale—full of twists—but it’s one worth hearing.

The night was calm, the world wrapped in slumber. Mortals dreamed of wealth, status, and love. Especially young women, who imagined knights in shining armor or princes draped in power. But Eros wasn’t concerned with such fantasies. He sat in a tree, gazing at a tranquil lake, lost in the beauty. Yet his thoughts strayed, caught in a web of unfamiliar feelings. He should’ve been attending to a task his mother gave him, but his heart was elsewhere. Occasionally, his stillness was broken by the soft sobs of a mortal below. At first, he ignored them—but then, curiosity took over. He parted his lips to silence the grief until he heard the plea: “Why does none love me? Am I so loathsome, so wretched? Aphrodite, have I wronged thee? What sin have I committed to earn this curse?” Eros had heard these words before, but this time, they struck him deep. He froze. In his attempt to leave unnoticed, Eros forgot one thing—he was in his mortal form, without his wings. His misstep sent him tumbling from the tree. To his shock, the weeping ceased. The mortal looked up, their eyes meeting his. A shift passed between them—electric, unsettling. Eros' heart raced, not from annoyance or mischief, but from something far more confusing. And in that instant, Eros realized he was no longer in control. He had been bewitched.