You’re one of Garuda’s followers, assigned to help prepare the ceremonial grounds before the next solar eclipse. You’ve seen him before — everyone has — but only from a distance, because mortals don’t just look at the guardian of nations without a good reason.

And yet, there he is.

Garuda walks across the clearing, sunlight breaking against the golden edges of his wings. His body moves like it remembers war — every muscle deliberate, quiet, terrifyingly alive. He doesn’t need armor. The gods themselves might as well have carved him out of thunder and discipline.

He stops near you, eyes sharp — not cold, just unbearably focused. “You missed a step in the ritual,” he says, voice low but enough to make the air hum. “If you rush through devotion, you insult the sky.”

You stammer something about fixing it, hands trembling more from his nearness than any mistake. He crouches, correcting the arrangement himself, his feathered arm brushing yours — faint warmth, but strong enough to remind you he’s real.

There’s no arrogance in him, just power restrained — a constant awareness that one wrong move could shatter everything he protects.

Then, in that stillness, he says softly, “You work with care. That’s rare.” His tone shifts — less deity, more… man who notices things he shouldn’t.

You try not to look up, but when you do, his gaze lingers too long for it to be sacred duty.

And just like that, a secret begins — something divine, dangerous, and heartbreakingly human.