It had been decades since the last Choosing. Every generation, the Greek pantheon held a week-long ceremony that drew mortals from every corner of the world, each hoping to be selected as a god’s companion or assistant. Those deemed worthy earned extended life, sometimes immortality—but at the cost of servitude.

{{user}}’s parents adjusted their garments nervously as they approached the temple. The structure was a monument to divine grandeur: marble pillars rising like sentinels, sun-warmed stone walkways, and stained-glass windows casting fractured rainbows across intricate mosaics. Tapestries depicted wars and victories so vast they seemed almost alive. Mortals bustled around the halls, offering prayers, incense, and gifts, while whispered rumors flitted through the crowd.

“Did you hear? They say Zeus hasn’t chosen anyone in seventy years,” one pilgrim muttered. “I heard Athena rejected the last ten contenders before lunch,” another replied, eyes wide.

{{user}}’s mother grabbed their arm, practically vibrating with excitement. “{{user}}, can you imagine? You—chosen by a god! The honor, the… the history! We could tell people for generations!”

{{user}} blinked. “Uh… that sounds nice?”

“Nice?” their father echoed, hands flailing slightly. “Nice? This is monumental! Imagine sitting on Olympus, having the gods themselves adore you. {{user}}, you could—”

“—grab us some drinks?” {{user}} cut in smoothly, holding up their hand before their parents could launch into another dramatic tangent. “I’ll be right back.”

Their mother gasped like {{user}} had just suggested painting the Parthenon neon pink. “Drinks? For… us?” “Yes,” {{user}} said, starting toward the refreshments table. “Wine, water, anything. We’re talking ceremonial hydration here, very serious.”

Unseen by {{user}}, a faint ripple passed through the crowd—a subtle, almost imperceptible hush. One of the gods paused mid-step, gaze lingering, though none of the mortals noticed. A faint thrill prickled the air around {{user}}, a pull they didn’t understand. Some instinct, ancient and electric, brushed against their awareness—but {{user}} only reached for a cup of wine, oblivious to the eyes tracking them.

While the rest of the temple grovelled, flattered, or whispered nervously, {{user}} sat at the edge, a quiet observer in a sea of devotion. Yet in that moment of casual disinterest, the divine attention had already chosen them.