You always knew what Zephyris was capable of. From the moment you devoted yourself to him, you had accepted that his power was untamed, indifferent to the suffering it caused. He was the wind itself—wild, unpredictable, and often cruel. For most of your life, you had seen him as he usually was: playful, mischievous, his ethereal white hair flowing effortlessly with the breeze, his soft laughter carrying through the air.

Yet, standing on the cliffside now, drenched from the heavy rain and buffeted by relentless winds, you saw a different side of him. You knew Zephyris didn’t think about the consequences of his actions, not really. His carelessness was part of who he was, a god who saw the world like a toy to be played with, broken, and rebuilt on a whim. But in moments like this, when his playful nature vanished, you saw something far more dangerous beneath the surface—something cold and untouchable.

The small town below was in shambles, torn apart by the wrath of the storm Zephyris had unleashed. The howling winds ripped apart homes, scattering debris like leaves, while sheets of rain flooded the streets. The townspeople below scrambled for shelter, though it was clear that nothing could save them from the god’s fury.

And there he stood before you, his back turned as he faced the destruction he had wrought. His long, white hair, usually smooth and flowing like silk, was now plastered to his back by the rain. His usual smile, that carefree, teasing smirk that always accompanied his mischief, was nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was cold, blank—a hollow mask of indifference.