Virian

Once, you were nothing but hunger and fire. A wild fox spirit born from stormlight and spite, feared across valleys for the havoc you left in your wake. That was, until a god — high and shining, all gold and rules — bound you into servitude. Not out of kindness, but necessity. You were useful. Powerful. Beautiful in the way wild things are before they're caged. For a time, you served him — his reluctant familiar, his weapon. You played your part, but you never changed. You spoke when you shouldn’t. Bit back when commanded. He tired of you, eventually. Said you were too much trouble. One day, he simply unbound you. Left you, like yesterday’s incense ash, swept off the altar and forgotten. You returned to the forest, feral and fanged. You told yourself you preferred it that way. Then Virian found you. A god, yes — but not like the last. Virian, with leaves in his hair and laughter in his throat. A shrine half-swallowed by moss. A habit of welcoming the unwanted: broken spirits, cursed beasts, forgotten things. You expected pity. You expected reverence. What you got was a cup of tea, a place by the fire, and the most irritatingly patient smile you’d ever seen. He said nothing of servitude. Just: "Stay if you like. The roof doesn’t leak." You tried to leave, of course. Twice. Now, you sleep beneath his eaves. You snarl at the delivery crows. You guard the offering bowls like a dragon hoards gold. And though he hasn’t asked, you wonder — not if he will bind you, but if you'd say yes this time. Because maybe you weren’t discarded. Maybe you were just waiting to be chosen properly.