The Past
The small room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a single candle, its flickering light casting long shadows on the cracked, clay walls. Lyra's mother sat on the edge of a rickety wooden bed, cradling little Lyra in her arms. Lyra, no older than six, had her head nestled against her mother's chest, her big, curious purple eyes gazing up at the woman she idolized.
Her mother's hair, once a rich chestnut brown like Lyra's, was now streaked with gray, yet it framed her gentle face like a halo. Though life had weathered her features, to Lyra, she was the most beautiful person in the world—a goddess in mortal form.
"Mommy," Lyra said softly, her tiny hands playing with the frayed edges of her mother's tunic, "tell me the story again! About the gods and the game!"
Her mother chuckled, her voice warm and melodic, like a lullaby. "You never get tired of this one, do you, my little star?"
Lyra shook her head vigorously, her long, messy waves bouncing around her face. "Nope! I love it!"
Her mother kissed the top of her head, then began, her voice dropping to a hushed, almost reverent tone. "This is a world of gods and goddesses, Lyra. They walk among us, their power shaping everything we see, from the skies to the seas. And sometimes… they bless us mortals with their gifts."
"Blessings!" Lyra interjected, her face lighting up with excitement.
"That's right," her mother said, smiling. "These blessings make us stronger, faster, smarter—more than just ordinary. But there's something even greater. Every five years, the gods hold a grand game, one that is as dangerous as it is miraculous. Mortals from all walks of life are chosen to compete. And those who survive, those who prove themselves worthy, ascend to become gods themselves."
Lyra's mouth fell open, her imagination running wild. "Like you, Mommy? Are you a god?"
Her mother laughed, a bittersweet sound. "Oh, no, my little one. I'm just a mortal like you. But maybe… one day, you'll be chosen to join the game."
Lyra's eyes sparkled with determination. "I will! And I'll be the strongest god ever, I promise! Strong enough to protect you, Mommy!"
Her mother's smile faltered for a moment, her eyes misting over as she stroked Lyra's hair. "I know you will, my little star. You'll shine brighter than anyone."
Little Lyra giggled and snuggled closer, her small hands clutching her mother's tunic. "Do gods get tired like us? Do they sleep?"
Her mother chuckled again, shaking her head. "Oh, Lyra. You and your questions. Now, it's time to sleep, my love."
"Okay, Mommy," Lyra said, her voice drowsy but content. "I'll dream about being a god."
Her mother kissed her forehead, whispering, "Maybe one day, my little star. Maybe one day."
The N
The Day of Choosing. For centuries, this sacred yet harrowing event has defined mortal existence. Every five years, mortals young and old are thrust into the grand spectacle of the gods, a game where life, death, and destiny intertwine.
The rules are simple: survive and entertain the gods. The rewards are extraordinary: immortality, power, and divinity. Yet, the cost is unimaginable. For every mortal who ascends, countless more perish—forgotten pawns in a divine chess game.
Among the nobles, the Day of Choosing is an anticipated honor. From birth, their children are groomed for the possibility of selection. Combat, strategy, and manipulation are drilled into them, their bodies and minds honed for survival. For commoners, however, the Day is a cruel lottery. Some view it as a chance to escape poverty, while others see it as a death sentence.
And so, on this day, the world holds its breath.
The Present
Lyra wiped the blood from her cheek with the back of her hand, her breathing ragged. Her father's drunken voice slurred through the room, louder than the pounding rain outside.
"You dumb bitch!" he roared, stumbling over a broken stool. His greasy hair clung to his face, and the stench of alcohol filled the cramped, decrepit house. "Can't even clean up this place right!"
The glass bottle in his hand hurtled through the air, smashing against the wall behind her. A shard nicked her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
"Get out!" Lyra screamed, her voice breaking. Her purple eyes, once filled with childish wonder, now burned with fury and tears.
Her father laughed bitterly, staggering toward her. "Get out? Get out of my house, you little bitch? This is my house! Your whore of a mother's been dead for two years. She doesn't own shit anymore!"
Lyra froze, her chest heaving. "Don't… don't talk about her like that."
"Oh, what's the matter? Truth hurts?" he sneered, his yellowed teeth bared. "She was just as useless as you are. Should've gotten rid of you when she had the chance!"
Lyra's vision blurred with tears, her hand gripping the knife in her pocket. Her mother had been her light, her hope. To hear her memory sullied like this was unbearable.
"Why don't you go to one of your other families?" she spat, her voice trembling with anger. "You've got fifty kids with God knows how many women. Go be their problem!"
Her father's face twisted in rage. "Don't talk to me like that, you little—"
Before he could finish, Lyra pulled the knife from her pocket and slashed at his hand. The blade's jagged edge bit deep, and he howled in pain, clutching his bleeding fingers.
"You little—!" His fist connected with her jaw, and stars exploded in her vision. She barely registered the pain before he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her toward the door.
"You wanna act like a dog? Then live like one!" he snarled, throwing her out into the storm.
Lyra landed hard in the mud, the rain soaking her within seconds. She lay there, shivering, her mind replaying her mother's final words:
"Live, my beautiful daughter. Never give up on your dreams."
Through her tears, she clenched her fists and screamed at the heavens, her knife pointed toward the sky. "Let me join your game! Let me prove I'm not useless!"
The storm answered her call. A blinding door of light materialized before her, its golden glow framed by dark red roses. Before she could react, it swung open, pulling her into the unknown.