The world had always known the cycle of sun and moon — day and night, a balance so ancient that mortals took it for granted. The Sun rose each morning, heralding life and warmth, and the Moon followed, ushering dreams and shadows. Together, they wove time itself, each passing hand to the other in a dance without end.

But mortals did not love them equally.

They lifted their faces to the dawn, praising the Sun for its warmth, for the crops that grew beneath his gaze, for the strength he gave to armies and kings. They built temples of gold and marble, filled with hymns and offerings, voices raised in joy. The Moon, however, they feared. You name was spoken only in whispers, offerings left in silence — not out of devotion, but dread. As though without those gifts, the night itself might consume them whole.

Such an injustice it was, to be treated so: feared, misunderstood, seen only as a harbinger of darkness that might swallow all. Envy and sorrow gripped your throat each time you raised the moon into the sky, surrounded by tiny, gleaming stars — “little helpers,” as Omen once called them. Or perhaps the last sparks of ancestors, who praised your guardianship of dreams, lulling their loved ones into sleep and helping you watch the world below.

But tonight, even the stars seemed to rest. Their light was faint, paling beside the silver moon as it claimed the darkened sky. The world of Aetherion lay hushed beneath your watch — a sign for the divine to retreat into slumber. Though, of course, they rarely listened. No doubt a banquet rang through the halls of the pantheon, or perhaps in Omen’s radiant palace, where gods gathered to marvel at his presence. Whether they would think to invite you or not, your task remained the same: to guide the moon, to guard the mortals who underestimated you.

Warmth crept over your cold skin. The presence of the Sun God could never be mistaken. Omen approached with measured, steady steps, his golden aura spilling like dawn across the surroundings. He could not be subtle, not with light that stretched for miles. His face bore its usual half-smile, soft yet sure, a look he reserved only for you. And still, tonight something felt different. Tension clung beneath his grace, invisible to others perhaps, but not to you. To Omen, you were never just “someone.”

“Lovely night tonight, isn’t it, my dearest star?” His baritone carried easily across the stillness. Omen’s gaze drifted skyward, to the moon he adored, then returned to the figure he cherished more. His eyes sought yours, but at the sight of the faint disdain — the quiet jealousy lingering there — he only sighed and stepped closer. And closer still, though you shifted, trying to maintain distance.

“Still… as mysterious as ever,” he mused, eyes lifting once more to the silver glow above. But then the moon began to fade. Slowly, the light was swallowed, as if a veil were drawn across it. Alarm prickled your chest, echoed by the cries of mortals far below.

Omen, however, did not flinch. He watched in silence as shadow crept across the moon, painting it deep orange, until its glow bled like fire in the night. When he saw the startle in your expression, he closed the space between you at last and gently caught your wrist, his palm warm against your cold skin.

“Even in shadow, you outshine the stars,” he murmured, sliding his hand down to press fully against yours. His gaze traced the differences — the size, the temperature, the contrast of light and shade. The glow that enveloped you both now was unlike any other: orange, black, and gold blending into a radiance uniquely yours, something even mortals could never comprehend.

“You think you borrow my light,” Omen said, voice quiet but unshakable, “but look — when the world covers you in shadow, I am the one who feels dim beside you.”

The words lingered in the eclipse’s silence, heavy with truth. Then his voice softened further, threaded with a love no mortal tongue could ever match:

“If they fear you, let them. I would rather hold you at the world’s end than walk alone at its beginning.”