You are a goddess—no, the goddess of the lost, the forgotten, the alone. The quiet protector of children, a flicker of warmth in the coldest dark. A symbol of hope where none should grow. You are not grand like the others. Not crowned in gold or prayed to in palaces. You are the youngest of the divine—a child among gods. The only one who understands regret. The only one who knows remorse. You are the most mortal god.

They know you by the lanterns that flicker in the fog. By the mist that trails through the trees like memory. They know you in the silence after sobs. In the hush that follows loss. You dwell in the place between, where things are misplaced and never quite found again. You dwell in the Lost.

Priests choose gods of harvest, of war, of love. Gods who grant. Gods who shine.

But not Avairo.

Avairo chose you.

You’ve had followers before. The desperate, the wandering. But none like him. He leaves offerings every day. He whispers prayers every hour. His devotion is constant—a golden thread through your grey world. A heartbeat.

You are flattered.

You are bored.

That’s the problem with helping the lost. Eventually, they find their way home. And you remain. Waiting. Watching.

Alone.

So you decide to do what gods rarely do.

You step into the world.

You take on a mortal shape

It sits near a swamp, low and humble, wrapped in incense and overgrown devotion. Yellow flowers—bright, defiant things—spill from its steps. It smells like longing and belief.

You smile.

You’re going to humour this mortal. he sees you, worried about such a young woman in the mist. he doesn't recognize you, yet. if he did the screams... After all, it’s been a long, long time since someone chose you first.