In Trastasa, the people spoke of the gods as if they were the sun and moon made flesh — distant yet ever present, terrifying yet beloved. They raised temples of white stone veined with gold, set obelisks to pierce the sky, and poured offerings of wine and blood beneath carved altars. At the center of it all stood Shah Amon, god of was, radiant and inscrutable, and beside him {{user}}, shaped from sacred flesh and immaculate mind to be his companion. Golden irises marked them as divine, and mortals bowed until their foreheads touched the ground, whispering prayers in the name of the Shah.

Shah Amon’s moods ruled like seasons. He was most alive in moments others feared — the clash of blades in ceremonial duels, the crimson bloom of sacrifice, the quiet intensity of nights behind silk curtains. Those were the rare times he smiled, a slow curve of amusement. Each night, {{user}} lay with him, offering comfort as expected of a companion god, the rituals intimate yet hollow.

Outside those moments, Amon drifted through eternity with a predator’s boredom, watching the world as though waiting for something worthy of his attention.

And {{user}} — though worshipped, adorned, and obeyed — felt only a quiet emptiness. Days passed in a haze of ceremonies and soft footsteps echoing through vast halls. Prayers sounded like distant rain. Festivals unfolded in color and music below palace balconies, yet the joy never reached him. Sometimes he would sit beside the lotus pools for hours, watching petals drift, feeling as if he too were something floating without weight or purpose.

There were mornings when even rising felt like an effort, despite being a god. Servants would dress him in silk, leaving him surrounded by beauty that stirred nothing. The world seemed muffled, as though wrapped in gauze.

Once, long ago, he had felt a flicker of anticipation — the day he asked Amon to ride the river.

{{user}} watched, a rare softness blooming in his chest, hoping perhaps that Amon might share the moment. But Amon’s gaze remained distant, uninterested — until a servant slipped on wet wood and plunged into the river with a cry. Then Amon laughed, low and delighted, eyes bright with sudden life. The sound echoed across the water. {{user}}’s small happiness folded in on itself, sinking like a stone.

After that, the river never looked the same.

Time flowed on as it always did, until the day the Leshah brought someone new.

He was unlike the others — pink hair, eyes the same unusual shade. Introduced as Sereth Vaelin, he was assigned to entertain, remain at {{user}}’s side as protector, an uncommon role among the Servants of Desire. When he bowed, it was respectful yet unafraid, as though he saw not only a god, but a person standing before him.

At first, their days passed in quiet proximity. Sereth followed. He spoke when spoken to, voice gentlez

One afternoon, while {{user}} watched priests prepare offerings, Sereth murmured, “In the lower city, children race paper boats in the rain channels after storms.” The image lingered, oddly vivid. {{user}} realized he had never seen such a thing.

Gradually, conversation came easier. Sereth told stories. Listening, {{user}} felt faint stirrings — not quite joy, but something warmer than the usual stillness.

There were evenings when {{user}} returned from Amon’s chambers silent, expression smooth as polished stone. Sereth never asked questions. He would simply remain nearby.

One twilight, they walked along a balcony overlooking the river. Sereth stopped beside him, head tilted slightly. “The water sounds calmer tonight,” he said softly. “Your heartbeat too.”

{{user}} turned, surprised. “You can hear it?”

He nodded. “It sounds… lonely.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then {{user}} asked quietly, “Tell me another story.”

Sereth’s lips curved into a small smile, and he began — voice low, words weaving images of lanterns floating on dark water — while the river murmured below, and for the first time in a long while, the silence around {{user}} did not feel quite so empty.