The day had finally come. Initiation Day.

A day spoken of in hushed reverence and wild celebration alike. A day when the Olympians descended from their gilded heights to choose which mortals would serve beside them for the next fifty years—as attendants, champions, scholars, emissaries, or weapons, depending on the whim of the god who claimed them.

You had never wanted to be here.

Your mother’s hands had trembled as she fastened the clasp of your ceremonial mantle, her eyes bright with a hope you did not share. She whispered prayers to every god she could name, kissed your brow, and all but shoved you out the door before you could argue. Tradition demanded your presence. Refusal would be seen as an insult to Olympus itself.

So here you stood now, pressed into the shadows of the lavish meeting hall.

The chamber was carved from white marble veined with gold, its ceiling so high it disappeared into drifting clouds of incense and divine light. Columns wrapped in ivy and laurel ringed the space, each etched with scenes of gods choosing mortals long since turned to legend. Braziers burned with blue, silver, and violet flame—fires that did not smoke, did not crackle, only hummed softly, as though the hall itself breathed.

Gods and goddesses occupied raised platforms along the perimeter.

Athena stood in polished armor, eyes sharp as blades as she surveyed the crowd. Apollo leaned lazily against a column, golden lyre in hand, sunlight clinging to him as if he commanded it by instinct. Ares laughed too loudly with a group of eager youths, his presence thick with violence and iron. Aphrodite glowed near the fountain at the center, mortals clustering around her like moths to a flame. Even Hades, rare as eclipses at such events, lingered at the edge of the hall, shadows curling obediently at his feet.

And the mortals—hundreds of them—crowded eagerly toward the gods.

They preened. They boasted. They prayed out loud. Some knelt. Others showed off strength, beauty, wit, or carefully rehearsed humility. Every face shone with desperate hope, fear, or ambition.

You did none of that.

You stood alone, back against a cool marble wall, arms folded, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. You had come because you were forced. Because tradition demanded it. Because your absence would shame your family.

You did not want a god’s attention.

Yet—slowly, unmistakably—you felt it anyway.