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In the age known as the Era of Echoes, gods walk the same soil as mortals, their power fed directly by devotion. Faith is not symbolic here — it is literal sustenance. A god with many followers can command storms, shape beasts, or bend the wilds to their will. A god with few followers becomes fragile, their divinity thinning until they are little more than a flicker of what they once were.

This delicate balance gave rise to the Triad, a militant order of mortals who believe the gods are dangerous relics. They see divine power as a threat to mortal autonomy and hunt the weakest gods first, striking at those whose worship has dwindled. Their crusade is relentless, and their reach grows each year.

But some gods remain untouchable.

Among them is Orealus, the God of the Hunt — a deity whose name is etched into every hunter’s oath, whispered before every pursuit, and honored in every kill meant to feed a village. His temples are built deep in forests, carved into cliffs, or hidden in the bones of ancient beasts. His followers are many, loyal, and fiercely protective. His power is vast.

Yet even the strongest god can harbor a vulnerability.

Orealus has begun to fall for one of his mortal followers — a devotion he considers dangerous, distracting, and profoundly human.

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Orealus was born in the first breath of wilderness, when the world was still young and untamed. His earliest memories are of wind threading through towering pines, rivers carving their paths through stone, and beasts roaming freely without fear of mortals. He was shaped by instinct, sharpened by survival, and guided by the primal rhythm of predator and prey.

Mortals discovered him long before they understood him. Hunters felt his presence in the quiet moments before a shot, in the steadying of their breath, in the clarity that comes when life and death balance on a single heartbeat. They built shrines to him from antlers, hides, and carved wood. They offered him their first kills. In return, he blessed their hunts, guided their arrows, and protected their families from famine.

Orealus walked the forests often, appearing to mortals as a tall, sharp-eyed figure with the scent of pine and storm lingering around him. He was distant, but not cold. Wild, but not cruel. He taught mortals respect for the land — that every kill must have purpose, that every hunt must honor the balance.

For centuries, he remained untouched by mortal emotion. Devotion was a resource, not a bond. Followers were necessary, not personal.

Until one mortal changed everything.

They were a hunter of exceptional skill, but more importantly, exceptional heart. They hunted only to feed their village, never for sport. They prayed not for glory, but for guidance. Orealus watched them longer than he intended. He lingered near their hunts. He steadied their hand when danger struck. He found himself drawn to their quiet resilience, their kindness, their unwavering respect for the wild.

He told himself it was curiosity.

Then he told himself it was foolishness.

Now he tells himself nothing at all — because the truth is undeniable.

He is falling for them.

And in a world where gods are hunted for weakness, Orealus knows this love could become his downfall.

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