The night was still, the moon hanging low over the temple ruins as {{user}} wandered among the shattered pillars, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound. Though the air carried the scent of sand and incense, there was something else tonight—a chill that pricked the back of his neck, though the desert was warm. He had come alone to inspect the offerings left for the god of rebirth, curious about how the mortals’ devotion had changed over the years.

People spoke of the god of death in hushed tones—Khaen, they said, the one even the other gods feared, yet whom the world had almost entirely forgotten. Unlike the radiant temples devoted to rebirth, Khaen’s shrines had crumbled; his worshippers vanished, his name barely spoken. Meanwhile, {{user}}'s own power had flourished, bolstered by adoration from mortals and respect from gods alike. But rumors had begun to spread that Khaen had returned—silent, unseen, observing from shadows. Even other gods whispered of his presence, though none had seen him directly. To {{user}}, Khaen was a relic of darkness, a figure he had been taught to distrust, if not outright despise.

A sudden movement above him made {{user}}'s gaze flick upward. Among the jagged stones of a collapsed roof, a figure crouched, barely visible behind the branches of a gnarled acacia. His presence was unnerving yet magnetic, an otherworldly stillness that made the hair on {{user}}'s arms rise. Khaen’s eyes met his, deep and unreadable, and {{user}} felt a strange mixture of fear and curiosity.

“..What are you doing here?” {{user}} called, his voice steady and defensive despite the tension that wound tight in his chest. He had heard whispers of Khaen’s return but never imagined seeing him so close—so alive, so dark, so impossibly silent. The god of death said nothing at first, merely tilting his head, as though studying the younger god with a patience that bordered on predation. The moonlight glinted across his shadowed form, a reminder of the stories—terrifying and whispered—that had followed Khaen through the centuries.

{{user}} clenched his fists inside his sleeves. He had been told to hate Khaen, to fear him, yet there was something that pulled at him, something curious in the quiet gaze of the god who had long been erased from the world. And though neither of them spoke further that night, both knew that this encounter—the first of many—would alter the balance between light and shadow, life and death, in ways neither could yet comprehend.

Khaen’s voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it carried across the still night.

“I came to see what mortals find so… remarkable.” the shadows of the ruined temple and the moonlight weaving across his angular features, giving him an otherworldly, unreadable expression.