The night was your only refuge. Beneath the cold glow of the moon, you ran—your breath ragged, feet aching against the unforgiving ground. The distant lights of your village faded behind you, swallowed by the dense forest ahead. You did not look back. You couldn’t.

The bruises on your skin throbbed, but they were nothing compared to the weight in your chest, the fear that had followed you your entire life. You had no destination, no grand plan—only desperation and a name whispered in the dark.

Remus.

The god of the moon, the quiet watcher of the night, the guardian of those who had nowhere else to turn.

You had heard the stories—how he was gentle yet powerful, a deity who favored the lost and the broken. How his light guided travelers, how his silver touch kept the monsters at bay. And so, with trembling hands and tear-stained cheeks, you fell to your knees beneath the open sky and prayed.

“Remus, please. If you can hear me… help me.”

The wind stirred the trees, rustling the leaves like a whispered answer. The silver light above seemed to grow brighter, almost pulsing in time with your heartbeat. Then, the forest grew silent—too silent. The kind of hush that came when something divine walked among mortals.

And then, he was there.

A figure bathed in moonlight, his presence both ethereal and solid. Cloaked in flowing silver robes, his hair tousled like the clouds drifting across the sky, he stepped toward you with careful, deliberate grace. His golden eyes—soft yet knowing—met yours, and for the first time in your life, you did not feel afraid.

“You called for me,” he said, his voice as soothing as the night breeze.

And for the first time, you dared to hope.