Divine Trials: The Rise of Mortal Deities

1

Mora burst into the room, frantic and flustered, clutching three of her most coveted gowns. The silk whispered against itself as she moved, each dress catching the late afternoon light that streamed through the latticed windows. A wide, beaming smile stretched from ear to ear as she met my puzzled gaze, her honey-colored eyes alight with an almost feverish excitement. I never understood why she got so giddily excited for the annual Harvesting ceremony. The word itself left a metallic taste in my mouth, like blood on my tongue.

As many times as she willingly entered her name into that archaic tradition each year – thirteen times this season alone, I'd counted – I remained baffled that her name had never once been drawn from the ornate bowls. They were beautiful things, those bowls: carved from ancient gold and inlaid with gold filigree that seemed to move in the torchlight. Personally, I saw no appeal in the entire barbaric spectacle - to essentially sign away your life, never to see your family again, all for the empty promise of attaining godhood. It seemed an unnecessarily cruel game, though I supposed that was fitting, given its architects.

Four unlucky souls, two men and two women, were chosen at random to represent our humble town of Maltbeth each year. The town itself was a study in contradictions – crude wooden hovels squatting in the shadow of elegant marble manors, beggars and merchants brushing shoulders in the narrow, cobblestone streets. The chosen ones would be whisked away to the soaring spires of Varloyus, the mythical kingdom where the great deities themselves once walked. Even now, I could see those impossible towers in my mind's eye, their crystalline peaks piercing the clouds like divine spears. There, the chosen few would be trained as elite warriors before being pitted against each other to the death in a brutal tournament of elimination. Only the last one standing would transcend their mortal flesh to become a full-fledged deity, blessed with immortality and unlimited power – assuming the stories were true.

The entire archaic practice harkened back to the cataclysmic rift between the primordial gods Kran and and his children centuries ago. The tale was etched into every child's memory from birth, whispered around hearth fires and carved into temple walls. Kran, the omnipotent creator, had grown weary as his celestial children were born carrying similar abilities. Thinking one day they will surpass  him and his siblings Jealousy festered in his immortal heart like a cancer, his hate growing until it consumed every spark of paternal love. One by one, the deranged deity methodically slaughtered his own offspring.

Sena had walked in on the grisly scene of Kran slitting their youngest daughter's throat, the child's lifeblood spattering across the silken sheets in golden streaks that glowed like dying stars. Sena's anguished screams – they say the echo of them still rings through the halls of Varloyus on quiet nights – awoke the remaining children, who raced in only to bear witness as their father repeatedly plunged a blade into their mother's trembling form. In that moment of abject horror and heartbreak, the eldest daughter Vixen was overwhelmed with a whiteblind rage. Arming herself and her siblings with any weapon they could grasp – ceremonial daggers, broken mirror shards, even their mother's jewelry turned to makeshift brass knuckles – they managed to overpower the mad god through sheer numbers alone. Though two were gravely injured, it was the ruthlessly determined Odessya who landed the killing blow against their own father, her obsidian blade finding the one vulnerable spot beneath his ribs.

The gruesome crime ignited the family's tradition of hosting annual Harvestings - tools to subjugate the mortal realms by bestowing select humans with divinity and recruiting them as devoted followers. Violent, arrogant, and utterly depraved...yet I could not deny the electric thrill of being chosen to take part in such a historic, glorified ritual. The very air seemed to crackle with possibility on Harvesting day, as if the barrier between mortal and divine grew just thin enough to slip through.

"Come now, the ceremonies will be starting soon!" Mora chided, snapping me back to reality with a wave of her delicate hand, silver bangles chiming like tiny bells. "We mustn't keep the gods waiting."

Mombi nodded in silent agreement, having scrutinized each iridescent gown with a critical eye that missed nothing. With a decisive nod, she pulled the shimmering champagne-colored silks from the pile and handed them to her sister. The fabric caught the light like liquid gold, making Mora's brown skin glow as if she were already touched by divinity.

Mora spun in a flurry of motion, the diaphanous skirts whirling around her ankles as she admired her svelte figure in the mirror. "The Harvesting is my night to shine!" she giggled, eternally the dramatic one. But beneath her effervescent exterior, I caught a glimpse of something harder in her eyes – a hunger that frightened me more than any tale of divine bloodshed.

I couldn't suppress an indulgent smirk as I observed her antics, forever the petite beauty queen of our family unit. Stepping over, I wrapped her in a tight embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of jasmine and clean linen that always clung to her skin.

"You look positively resplendent, as always big sister."

Releasing her with one final squeeze, I turned on my heel and strode across the chamber to my own wardrobe. My fingers caressed the soft, scarlet chiffon before tugging the garment free. I relished the sensation of the airy fabric pooling around my form in rivulets, the deep crimson hue richly enhancing my brown skin. Gathering my thick, ebon curls atop my crown, I twisted and pinned them in an elegant updo, allowing a few artful tendrils to frame my face. One final appraisal in the mirror, a slight cant of my head, and I was satisfied with my appearance. The woman staring back at me looked like someone who could catch a god's eye – whether that was a blessing or a curse remained to be seen.

Mombi and Mora hailed from the opulent part of town, where marble fountains sang day and night and every window sparkled with stained glass. Mombi father, a renowned farmer known far and wide for his prowess in cultivating the most magnificent crops, had built an empire from nothing but dirt and determination. He instilled in the girls a deep sense of hard work and dedication, though they manifested it in vastly different ways. While Mombi's heart resonated with the earth and its bounties, spending her days by her father's side caring for the animals and nurturing the land, her sister Mora harbored different aspirations that reached far beyond the fertile soil of Maltbeth.

What none of us knew then was that this Harvesting would be different. The gods had grown complacent over the centuries, drunk on power and worship. They'd forgotten about the darkness that slumbered beneath their golden kingdom – the same darkness that had driven Kran to murder his own blood. And on this night of all nights, that darkness was stirring, preparing to remind both gods and mortals alike of the true price of divinity.