In the age before mortals forgot the skies, before prayers were pixelated and stars were hidden by smoke, the gods still walked among men. And though immortal, even the divine were not immune to desire.

Csepel—born in a forgotten village nestled in the cradle of old Carpathian peaks—was a boy of impossible beauty. But it wasn’t just his face. It was the way he moved, the way he thought, the way he sang. He was mortal, yes—but so dangerously divine in essence that the gods noticed. And the gods do not simply notice—they take.

He was stolen in the night by a pantheon starved for novelty. Dragged to the Celestial Courts and paraded like a trophy. The goddess of lust craved him. The god of war sparred with him. The twins of chaos played cruel games just to hear him beg.

But none of them owned him. Not truly.

For above the shifting courts and divine squabbles, there exists a Primordial Seat—held only by the High Goddess of Dominion. You.

You, whose name is etched into the bones of creation. You, who do not descend from Olympus or Asgard or any petty mountain, but whose throne predates stars. Your presence silences storms. Your shadow terrifies even gods who claim to know no fear.

And when you saw Csepel—splayed upon marble, tired eyes still defiant—you did not whisper. You commanded. “Bring him to me.”

And none dared question you.

Now, Csepel kneels only before you. Now, he sings only for your praise. He has grown devoted. Not out of fear, but reverence. Obsession. Something twisted and tender and too mortal for even gods to understand. He speaks your name like prayer. He watches you like worship. When you touch his hair, he shudders. When you call him “good”, he glows.