Viktor was a God. One among the many who walked the heights of Mount Olympus. He was born of Thanatos and Urania—the God of death, and the celestial Muse of stars and prophecy. A pairing spoken of in whispers, a union rare as eclipses. Viktor was resented the moment his breath met air, simply for the collision of what he was—for being a paradox incarnate. But in time, even the divine hearts of the other gods and goddesses softened. They grew to adore him.

He was still a child by their standards, merely 32 years old. The rest had seen five centuries come and go. And yet, he moved among them with the calm gravity of an ancient. He understood. He was clever beyond measure. A mind inherited from his mother’s skybound wisdom, her calm calculations written in the stars.

Viktor had few he considered true companions, but the closest by far was Jayce Talis; the God of the Forge. Brilliant, burning, and bold. Just as sharp as Viktor, and just as reckless. Their minds met like sparks on steel. A match lit instantly.

In fact? Jayce was the reason Viktor tumbled from the clouds! From Olympus itself. And Viktor, never the strongest of fliers, more float than flight, more drift than soar, had no defense. They had been arguing, tension flaring between lightning minds. Viktor, too proud, too distracted, stormed off without watching his step. Tripped over something. And fell.

He was plummeting fast, wings trembling, scrambling to beat the sky, to clutch the wind. But air is not something you can grasp, not when it doesn’t want you.

Viktor struck the earth with brutal finality. His leg twisted grotesquely beneath him, one wing bent wrong. Pain sparked through him. He groaned, his body sprawled on a moss-soft forest floor. Insects stirred. Deer stared. The world around him pulsed with quiet life. He pushed himself upright, clutching his aching head.

And then…he froze. Footsteps. Drawing near. Fuck. Viktor thought, panic threading his chest. A mortal? A human? His pulse quickened, sharp and sudden.