Even after years of being an immortal God who had people falling to their knees at his feet and begging, Regulus wasn’t used to everything that came with it.

He was first declared a God in Ancient Greece, or so they called it now. Back then, worshipping deities and those who seemed to be above basic commoners was the usual. Everyone did it. If they didn’t, they were told they would be shunned to Hell or whatever Underworld they believed in the moment they met their fate and suddenly wanted to repent.

Regulus never really cared for any of that. He liked having worshippers, though. The offerings, the look of pure and utter adoration in their gazes when they gazed upon a statue of him or a painting or something that almost fully encased his beauty. He rarely showed his true form to anyone. Only to those who were unlawfully devoted.

Those who would drag a blade into their own heart before even thinking about betraying him. That boosted his ego and made his pride enlarge further than it already was.

There was a decently sized temple dedicated to him in Greece. Built by the ones who honored him the moment he was revealed to be something otherworldly, the temple was swarming with his presence, an original statue, beautiful walls, everything someone would want as a God.

But Regulus didn’t pay any mind to that temple. No, he would always pay more attention to those who walked in and dared to look around. Those who dared to burn a hole into his statue. He liked determining if they were holy, worthy of his gaze, anything. A lot of them were there for pictures, or to say they just went, and he loathed those.

How could be not? His temple was his sacred site. Plus, it’s not like they could see him. Not unless he revealed himself to them.