It was getting warm, hot, really. The sun was out in full form, and the stone beneath my feet had started radiating heat like it'd been baking since dawn. I could feel it through my sandals with every step. I guess Brother Philon wasn't the only one blessed by the sun today. Not that I was ungrateful, I just would've appreciated it more if Pyrion had blessed us a little less.
The amphitheater came into view as we walked on, the crowd thickening with every step.
The whole city was here. Garlands of olive and laurel hung from columns and doorways. Deep blue awnings stretched over white marble, gold ornaments caught the light, terracotta pots lined the steps. Somewhere in the crowd, incense burned sweet and sharp in the heat, and underneath it, the buttery scent of honey pastries and warm fig cakes drifted from the stalls. It was loud, bright, and alive.
Everyone was excited for the Class Selection. The biggest day of the year. Even the air felt tense, after all, dozens if not hundreds would decide their future today. The rest was eagerly awaiting the last name to be called so they could finally break into song and wine and dancing.
We passed through the outer columns and stepped into the shadow of Keraion's statue.
He towered over the crowd, a colossus of marble and bronze, carved with all the subtlety of a warning. Keraion, god of thunder, king of the sky… king of the gods, too. Well, of the gods in Graecia, at least. The rest of the world had their own opinions.
His beard rolled like sculpted stormclouds, thick and curling, etched with gilded cracks that caught the sun like veins of lightning. One hand gripped a thunderbolt, the other rested heavy at his side. Stern. Watchful.
Some prayed to him for rain. Others for victory. A few, maybe, just hoped he wasn't watching too closely.
Even gods couldn't escape hierarchy. Someone had to keep them in line—especially with types like Oinoros and Dolion around, who enjoyed stirring things up.
Perry slowed and placed a hand over his heart. "Great Keraion," he said quietly.
I didn't stop. I didn't meet the statue's eyes. Just kept walking and muttered, "Thank you for not striking me down."
We reached the amphitheater steps and joined the flow of people funneling in. At the entrance, the path split. Those selecting their class were directed through a side gate, while everyone else continued up toward the stands.
"Guess this is where we part," Perry said.
"Try not to cry," I replied.
He rolled his eyes. "I'll try to contain myself. Good luck, Hec."
"You too. Have fun baking in the sun for the next three hours. Try not to die from heatstroke."
He gave an exaggerated sigh and joined the crowd, already scanning for a good seat. I turned toward the side entrance and noticed a small group of people still trailing in behind me.
Punctual as always, I thought with a grin.
Perry snorted behind me like he'd heard it anyway. He knew me too well.
I passed through the side gate, away from the noise of the crowd. Two attendants stood waiting—one older, the other barely older than me. Both wore grey formal robes marked with the gold thread of civic service. Neither smiled.
Apparently I wasn't the only one less than ecstatic about the ceremony. Always nice to see someone who clearly loves their job though.
Neither of them said anything. Not even hello. They just turned and walked like I was supposed to know what came next, so I followed. What else was I supposed to do?
The hallway curved inward, and the sound of the festival faded with every step. The laughter, the drums, the chatter—it all drained away, swallowed by the stone walls.
At the end of the corridor, a third attendant waited beside a marble basin.
"Hands," she said.
Wow. A whole word. I wondered if they got fined for every extra syllable. Or maybe they just ran a competition to see who could be the most unwelcoming. Maybe the Class Selection was being held alongside the Regional Rudeness Trials, and this one was gunning for first place. Bonus points for managing to make a single syllable sound like an insult.
I held them out. She poured cool water from a silver pitcher, letting it run over my fingers and into the basin below.
"The gods see what is cleansed," she recited, "and what is hidden."
Was that... a full sentence? Gods help me, I wasn't prepared.
She stepped aside with a nod, and the other two led me forward, deeper into the sanctum.
We were under the amphitheater now. Beneath the crowd. Beneath the city. While the noise had faded, I could still feel the vibrations of thousands of feet shifting, stomping, bouncing with excitement above. The whole city, too restless to sit still.
They brought me into a chamber. It was plain—bare stone walls, no decorations. It smelled of resin and honey, perhaps a hint of something floral underneath. Vapors curled from cracks in the floor in thin threads, slowly drifting upward.
Two oracle-priestesses waited inside, seated on carved stone thrones. Their robes were almost translucent, flowing as if they were underwater. Their hair moved too, slow and smooth, like it hadn't realized the air was still. Their skin was pale, almost luminous in the dim light.
I guess Pyrion's blessing was not for everyone after all.
Wordlessly, they watched me enter. One of the oracles raised her hand and pointed to the low stone seat at the center of the room. I walked over and sat.
The other oracle leaned forward and took a long breath from the rising vapor. Her eyes stayed fixed on mine as she exhaled, then raised her hand and gestured for me to do the same.
The oracles started chanting—soft, rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Nothing I could understand. Probably not meant to.
I hesitated for a second, then breathed in. The vapor was warm, sticky with resin and honey. Thick enough to taste. It hit the back of my throat and climbed. My head started to float and the room started to blur.
For a moment all I could hear was the rhythmic chanting, but after some time I started hearing whispers. Faint at first, distant, as if they were coming from another room. But the more they chanted, and the more I breathed in the vapor, the closer they came.
They wrapped around each other, layered and echoing. I couldn't follow them. I tried to grab hold, tried to understand until suddenly it sounded like someone was whispering right into my ear.
"Hecaaaateee"
"Daughter of Kalliope. We see you."
Turned out even the gods knew my mother.
"The moon watches. The forge listens."
The forge? That made no sense. I'd spent my life honoring Mēnē. Why would Ambelios care about me? I'd never prayed to him, never so much as picked up a hammer. If he was listening, he must have been bored.
"Your mother speaks. Mēnē answers."
Well, that tracked. Mēnē and my mother were on speaking terms, apparently. No surprise there.
"Your father prays. Ambelios hears."
My father was far more outgoing than my mother, yet far more private about his devotion. Still, just because he didn't bring up Ambelios every five minutes like my mother did with Mēnē didn't mean he cared less. Or prayed less.
Now that I thought about it… he spent most of his days hammering away at the forge. That was worship, wasn't it? Ambelios was the god of blacksmiths, craftsmen, metalworking—everything my father poured his soul into. Seeing the things he created, it made sense Ambelios would listen.
"An unusual pair. Most choose one god, together. One path."
That much was true. Families usually worshipped the same deity—same god, same rituals, same expectations. My father once told me my mother's family had been furious when she chose him. Not just because he was a [Weaponsmith], but because he prayed to Ambelios instead of Mēnē. Her parents tried to forbid the marriage, said it was a betrayal of the goddess. It was hard to wrap my head around. My mother, who enforced every rule like it was divine law, who could silence a room with a look—breaking tradition, defying her elders, for love?
But she did. Because here I was.
"Now the child of that union stands before us."
"We see the path laid out for you."
"Katarologa. Like the mother."
"…But is that what you want?"
The question echoed, layered over itself in different tones—young, old, male, female—until it was impossible to tell where it had started.
Then the voices began to fade, the chanting stopped, and lines started to form in the space in front of my eyes. A glow, faint at first. Symbols unfolding themselves from nothing. Clean lines. Golden light.
[System initialization complete.]
[Accessing class options.]