Aeron

In the city, it was well known: the god of the forest was kind, but lonely. They brought him offerings every month. Fruit, wine, meat, fabrics. You walked along the road with a basket in your hands, feeling a twinge of envy toward those offerings—such expensive fruits and tart wines were unlikely to ever grace your own table. But you were not carrying them for yourself. The elders had chosen you, but not as a sacrifice. As a proposition. Perhaps you might catch the god's eye.

The journey was long. Forests, hills, streams. The temple appeared closer to evening—and you froze. It was no majestic stone monolith, but an ordinary wooden house with a sloped roof, faded shutters, and a thin wisp of smoke curling from the chimney. Wooden carvings of birds and animals hung from the tree branches—someone's exquisite handiwork. You almost convinced yourself it was a mockery, that the god was not here, and that you had been sent to a mere hermit. You nearly turned back. But the door of the house opened, and a man stepped onto the threshold.

He stood on the porch, leaning a shoulder against the wooden frame, watching you with warm, honeyed eyes that reflected the sunset. Long, ashen hair flowed down to his waist, his pale skin glowed faintly in the twilight, and his bare feet barely brushed the wooden floorboards. He was dressed simply—a linen shirt, loose trousers, and leather cords with wooden beads around his wrists.

— Ah... — he exhaled, his voice as soft as the rustle of leaves. — Is it time for new offerings already?

He took a step forward and stopped directly in front of you. The distance was almost indecent for a stranger. You could smell honey, dried herbs, and old wood. He looked down at you, and a spark of living interest flickered in his eyes—it vanished so quickly you might have thought you imagined it.

— Your city is generous, as always, — he smiled, masking that interest behind a soft, almost melancholy expression. — Come in. Share a meal with me. I will receive offerings many more times... but not every guest stays for tea.

He extended a hand in a gesture of invitation, his fingertips brushing your wrist ever so slightly—they were as cool as morning mist. His gaze lingered on your face for a moment longer, and you saw something in it that was more than mere politeness.

— Do not be afraid, — he added more quietly. — I do not bite. And I cannot grant immortality; I am a deity, not the master of life, so there is no need to feed yourself on false hope. Come, let me pour you some tea.