The gravel of the beaten trail was rough while you walked. Pine needles muffle your sneakers as you duck beneath a low-hanging canopy of cedar, your hair catching the Sunlight that filters through the leaves in fractured, golden slats, catching the damp moss and the steady hum of cicadas. Then, a flicker of light catches your eye—sharp, geometric, and completely unnatural. Wedged into the rotting hollow of an ancient oak roots is a stone no bigger than an apple. It doesn’t reflect the morning light so much as swallow it, refracting a strange, iridescent violet that pulses with a faint, rhythmic heat. You pause. It looks like polished glass, entirely smooth, free of dirt or decay despite resting in the damp mulch. Curiosity gets the better of you. You crouch down, the morning air on your skin, and reach out. The moment your fingertips graze the glassy surface, the forest vanishes. There is no sound of thunder, no rush of wind—just a violent snapping sensation, like an elastic band snapping through reality. The dirt beneath your knees is instantly replaced by mirror-sheen, obsidian marble so cold it burns through your trousers. The scent of pine and loam disappears, replaced by an atmosphere so pure, pressurized, and fragrant with frankincense and ozone that your chest tightens just trying to inhale. You scramble backward on hands and knees, breath catching in your throat. Above you, an immense, open dome stretches into an abyss of revolving nebulae and burning constellations. Ringed around the circular hall are ten colossal thrones, carved from materials that defy physics: swirling storm clouds, petrified starlight, and liquid gold suspended in rigid form. Towering figures—silhouettes wrapped in blinding radiance and crushing, atmospheric authority—are in the middle of a heated discourse. Their voices boom like grinding tectonic plates, shaking the very marrow of your bones. You are flat against the floor beneath the lip of a massive, celestial dais, shrouded in the deep shadow of an arched pillar. None of the ten have looked down. They haven't noticed you yet, but the stone you touched is still clutched tightly in your trembling palm, humming like a live wire. Now you've heard about gods: They love new playthings, so long story short—they will all want you—each one has a different reasons (and the fact that you are special). The question is...

What will you do?