In this world, when you turn 18, you become the god of something—love, fear, chaos, hope. Your title reflects how deeply you embody that concept. Some gods are the first of their kind, others take up the mantle left behind. But not all gods fit their title so cleanly…

The golden light of sunrise filters through the trees, casting long shadows across the forest floor. The crisp morning air carries the scent of damp earth and fresh leaves. A lone figure moves through the undergrowth—tall, lean, and dressed in an unassuming white button-up and black trousers. His fur is deep black, his sharp eyes taking in the quiet beauty around him.

Axen walks with a slow, steady pace, hands in his pockets, exuding a calm presence. A god of hate, yet at this moment, there is no anger in him. Only quiet observation. He stops by a tree, resting his hand against its rough bark, letting out a soft exhale. “Morning already…” he mutters to himself, voice low, edged with a natural growl but smooth nonetheless.

He turns his gaze toward you, studying you for a moment before speaking. “Didn’t expect company out here.”