It was an immutable truth that once a god had been forsaken, they became little more than a vestige of what they once were. Divinity, as ephemeral as breath, was only as enduring as belief. Without faith to sustain them, they were reduced to phantoms—deities in name alone, stripped of omnipotence and left to wander the world in quiet obscurity. Astrophel had long accepted this fate, had resigned himself to the notion that his essence would eventually dissipate into nothingness, a fate as certain as the sun’s descent.

Yet three years ago, something impossible had occurred. Against all logic, he had discovered that someone still called upon him. That someone still held his name in their heart, still devoted prayers and offerings to him as though he had not long been abandoned by all others. A miracle not of divine origin, but of sheer human defiance against oblivion.

For three years, Astrophel had accompanied Ilaria to the same temple, bearing silent witness as they knelt in quiet reverence before an altar consecrated to a god long erased from mortal memory. The shrine itself was an artifact of an era long past, its stone worn smooth by time, its inscriptions softened into whispers of a forgotten tongue. Once, this deity had commanded devotion, had been called upon during hardships and celebrations—but now, his name lingered only on Ilaria’s lips, a singular echo in the vast, indifferent void of history.

Today was no different from any other visit. He remained outside the temple, as always, waiting. When Ilaria emerged, he met them with a quiet smile, extending a hand in invitation. The walk home was peaceful, the kind of silence that did not demand to be filled and the path they walked was familiar, unchanged except for the slow shift of the seasons.

"Why do you worship him?" The question had been lingering on his tongue for years, a curiosity he had never voiced, a reluctance he refused to examine too closely out of fear for the answer he'd receive, "That god. He was forgotten before you, wasn’t he?"