I stared down the barrel, breath slow, finger resting on the trigger. My target didn't move, one squeeze and it would all be over.
"A well-placed bullet is worth a hundred prayers," my father always said.
I steadied my hand, lined up the head, and exhaled. The pistol cracked the moment my breath left me, the head bursting apart in a cloud of dust and smoke.
I spun toward my father, grinning. "Hah! Took his head clean off!"
His laugh boomed through the workshop. "You're a fine shot, Hec. Though you should be, with how many dummies you've executed."
He turned serious for a moment. "Just remember: real fights aren't like that. You don't get time to breathe and aim. You shoot first, or you're dead. Honor doesn't win fights, and only the dead fight fair."
I waved him off. "Yeah, yeah. Shoot first or die horribly. Got it."
I twirled the pistol and gave a dramatic (but totally necessary) bow. "Honestly, you should be thanking me. I've been selflessly dismantling your dummy collection for years. All in the noble pursuit of ensuring your weapons are up to standard."
(Of course, we both knew I did it because it was fun, but it sounded better my way.)
My father frowned, all tragic and wounded like I'd just kicked his favorite anvil. His beard quivered. "How could my own daughter doubt me? They don't call me Kleon the Unerring for my good looks!"
I raised an eyebrow. "Who calls you that?"
"People do!" he said, jabbing a thick finger toward the door like someone was about to kick it open and sing his praises. "I'm the finest [Weaponsmith] in all of Asteria—no, all of Graecia—and you know it!"
My father was never short of confidence, though it was well earned. He truly was the best [Weaponsmith] in Asteria, and probably Graecia. Always experimenting, always pushing the limits of what could be built. People crossed oceans to get their hands on his work.
I put down the pistol and crossed my arms. "Hmm... I don't know. Sounds like something a man insecure about his craftsmanship might say."
He scoffed. "Insecure? Please. I have nothing to prove." He turned to the workbench, rummaged for a moment, then lifted something with exaggerated care. "Behold!"
He gently placed it in my hands.
It was a pistol, but different. Thicker in the middle. Heavier. Cold steel, perfectly balanced. I ran my thumb along the side and felt the ridges of the cylinder. HECATE was engraved in clean letters on the barrel.
"My latest invention," he said. "I call it a revolver. No more single-shot pistols. This cylinder holds six bullets. Fire once, it rotates, slots the next one into place."
Six shots. My heart actually skipped.
The revolver looked like a toy in his massive hand. It was a miracle he could even build something this intricate with fingers like stone pillars. In mine, it looked huge.
"Six shots?" I whispered. "This has to be the first of its kind."
"It is," he said. "And I made it just for you."
I looked up and saw him smiling down at me, face filled with pride and love.
"I know how much you love shooting those pistols, and you know I'd do anything to make my little girl happy."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck like he was suddenly shy. "Consider it your Class Selection gift. I've got another one in the works, should be finished before you're back. I was going to wait until after you picked your class, but…" He shrugged. "I couldn't help myself."
I smiled, feeling his love wrap around me like a warm blanket. My father was always so thoughtful and generous, always showing how much he cared. But the warmth didn't last. The blanket slowly slipped away as I was reminded of my Class Selection, a quiet dread settling in.
Once a year, every eighteen-year-old chose their class. That was the rule. The law. The compromise.
In all their wisdom, the gods had decided that mortals should be granted access to the System—to the same divine structure they used themselves. A gift, they called it. A sacred right.
At least, that was the official version.
Another version said Phosphoros, the Lightbearer, had taken pity on mankind. He saw their fragility. Their short lives. While the gods hoarded their gifts and sat on top of their mountain, he descended in secret, whispering the first commands into the ears of shepherds, thieves, and fools.
And so the first mortals leveled up. The result, as you can imagine, was chaos.
Villages burned, accidentally reduced to ash by five-year-olds who unlocked [Fireball] with their breakfast. Children were forced into combat classes and marched off to war. What was meant to bring enlightenment brought madness, as enlightening people tends to do.
The other gods were furious and chained Phosphoros on top of Mount Kazbek, where birds peck at him during the day, only for him to recover overnight, and suffer all over again the next.
But it was too late. Mortals had tasted power, and they would not go back.
Revoking the System completely would've turned the world against the gods. So they compromised.
No one under eighteen would be able to access the System.
Childhood would be sacred. Unskilled. Unleveled.
And thus, balance was restored.
…Somewhat.
Which brought us to today. Class Selection Day. Guess who just turned eighteen and had to pick a class?
Yep. Me.
One unchangeable class that would decide the rest of my entire life. No pressure.
My mother stepped into the workshop, back straight, expression set in stone. "Hecate. Come. We need to go over your future."
She never said please. Never asked. Always informed.
My father turned to face her and exhaled. "You're looking mighty fine today, woman."
A flicker of something passed across her face, a twitch of her lip. Almost a smile. It vanished the moment her eyes landed on me.
"Hecate. Now."
She looked down at the revolver in my hand and gave a familiar, disapproving look. Then she shook her head and walked out without a word. Silently, I followed.
As I stepped through the doorway, my father called out, "Try not to cause any trouble at the Class Selection!"
Trouble? Why would he say that? I never caused any trouble.
Trouble just had a weird habit of finding me, no matter how hard I tried to avoid it. I minded my business. I kept my head down. Never bothered anyone. And yet, somehow, things always went sideways despite me being the calmest, most reasonable person I knew.
My mother was already sitting at the table when I walked in.
Long, glossy black hair. Olive skin. The same white tunic (or chiton, if we're arguing semantics). The only real difference was in the eyes. Hers were silver-white, the mark of someone who had already chosen one of Mēnē's classes. Mine were still plain brown.
People who didn't know us sometimes thought we were sisters.
Then again, pretty much everyone knew her.
Kalliope. The Voice of Ruin. High Priestess of Mēnē, goddess of the moon. (Pronounced may-nay. Yes, spelled like "mean." No, she's not. Usually. The goddess, I mean.)
"Sit," she said, nodding toward the chair across from her.
So I sat.
Her eyes tracked every movement like she was weighing the choices I hadn't made yet.
"I don't understand why you waste your time with those silly pistols your father makes," she said. No hello. No how are you. Just judgment, straight from the source.
"They're slow. Loud. They can't pierce a decent barrier. A waste of energy, and of your potential."
I said nothing. That was safest.
"Curses are cleaner. Stronger. More precise." She folded her hands, voice cool and final. "You'll choose [Katarologa]."
Of course. What else would I choose? My future had been decided the moment I was born. Not just into the Sisters of Mēnē—every woman in our order chose a witch-class when the time came—but because my mother was Kalliope.
Kalliope, the legendary [Katarologa]. Kalliope the curse-sayer. Kalliope who singlehandedly pushed back the Lakedaimonian invasion with nothing but her voice. They say she whispered their fate into the dark, and the moon turned away. By morning, the army was gone. She spoke. They died. That was the legend. That was the standard I was expected to live up to.
And me?
I was expected to follow in her footsteps. Choose her class. Inherit her legacy. Because I was her daughter. Because I bore her blood. Because that's what daughters do. Always in her shadow. Always the next Voice of Ruin.
But I didn't want to be a [Katarologa].
And even though I worshipped Mēnē like every other Sister, I didn't want to be a priestess either. Not like her.
"And for your first skill, you'll take [Omniglot]," she continued. "It allows comprehension of all written and spoken languages. Essential for a [Katarologa]."
I nodded automatically. We'd discussed this to the point it made me physically ill, and I didn't have it in me anymore to do anything but agree.
I already spoke our language, I could already read, and I wasn't planning on traveling the world handing out curses like candy. I'd probably never leave this place, so what was the point?
But of course, I said it anyway.
"Yes, mother."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, like she didn't believe me. "You will choose [Katarologa], Hecate."
Not a request. Not a reminder. An order.
A knock came at the door. Perfect timing.