Page 15 of Lies Among Gods

Lyra just gave a tight nod. She knew the sarcastic retort that was already sitting on the tip of her tongue—Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be as phony and submissive as I was for the last eighteen years’—would just upset her mother, ruining this manufactured moment. Her stomach, however, was already in knots, twisting with a sickening mix of dread and mounting panic.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Lyra walked out of her room. The living room was a tight, silent crowd. Her father, Pollo, stood rigid by the archway. Her mother hovered nearby, beaming with a terrifying, nervous energy. Anya looked as if she might swoon at any moment as she looked at their guest. And in the center of the room, standing like a flawless sculpture, was Asmodeus Hedone.

He was even more handsome than she remembered, his dirty blonde hair perfectly disheveled, his baby blue eyes holding a possessive glint. His presence set her heart racing, a frantic, desperate rhythm against her ribs. He was wearing a tunic of shimmering, dark blue silk that looked impossibly soft.

A slow, indulgent smile, like warm honey, spread across his lips. He extended a hand toward her, the smooth skin of his palm held up.

“Ready, little goddess?” he purred, his voice a low, intimate invitation.

The decision was no decision at all. Lyra walked toward him, her footsteps muffled by the carpet, and placed her trembling hand into his. His skin was warm, and the moment their fingers interlaced, she instantly felt the familiar, terrifying shift—the pressure, the weightlessness, the dull roar in her ears.

A sudden, profound silence descended, broken only by the sharp, bright glare of a light. She squeezed her eyes shut; the intense brightness was a physical force against her lids.

Lyra gasped, her eyes snapping open. She was no longer in her family’s living room, but in the center of a vast, etherealchamber. The air was cool and silent. Her eyes were drawn immediately upward to the fifteen enormous, empty thrones that lined the far wall. Each one was carved from a different material—gold, marble, driftwood, obsidian—and above each floated a glowing, distinct symbol, marking the dominion of the gods.

Her gaze swept past the sunburst of Elio, the wave of Mira, the flame of Rhaziel, and locked instantly on the seat near the corner: the throne of black basalt, above which hovered a single, stylized, jagged crack.

Alaios Tugadóir, the God of Strife, was already seated. He was dressed in simple black leather, his scar catching the ambient light, and his dark chocolate eyes were fixed on her with a piercing, cold intensity. A shocking, unexpected flutter—part recognition, part fear, and part reckless desire—erupted in Lyra’s stomach.

But before she could process the look, Asmodeus gave a gentle, possessive tug on her hand, drawing her attention back to him. He leaned down, his sensual scent displacing the cool air of the hall.

“Eyes on me, Lyra,” he murmured, his smile all-consuming. “Your audience awaits.”

Chapter fifteen

CHAPTER 10

Where Rhaziel walked, the old world smoldered, and we learned that survival required a willingness to change—or be reduced to ash. The fires burned cleanly, precisely, leaving behind only what the God of Fire deemed worthy to remain. Rhaziel showed us that fire need not be wild to be merciless.

Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran

Lyra’s gaze swept over the immense, shimmering Hall of Ascendance. The room was not simply large; it was limitless, stretching out in an ethereal wash of white light and moving, flowing architecture that defied mortal geometry. Walls, if they could be called that, shimmered and reformed, not with solid materials but with shifting planes of luminescence, creating alcoves that winked into and out of existence. The floor was polished obsidian that reflected the impossible vistas above, giving the impression of an infinite abyss beneath one’s feet.

Her eyes immediately began tracing the line of thrones. Fifteen seats, each a proclamation of power, lined the arc of the chamber, and seven of them were occupied. The gods seatedthere were not the polished, distant figures of temple murals or devotional statues. They were raw, vivid, and profoundly unsettling in person.

Elio, the Sun God, sat at the center, radiating a subtle, contained heat that felt like a permanent, golden summer. He was clean-shaven, his posture immaculate, wearing robes of pure, blinding gold. His presence filled the room, a perfectly sculpted architectural detail demanding all eyes. Long, blonde hair cascaded around him, catching the light. His piercing blue gaze swept over her, a silent, sharp appraisal.

To his right, Mira, the Ocean Goddess, was draped in shifting, midnight-blue silk that looked perpetually wet, clinging to her with the grace of sea foam. Her black hair flowed around her, catching the light like polished obsidian, and her dark blue eyes held the dark, immeasurable depth of the open sea.

Beside her, Petro, the Earth God, was a study in grounded strength. His frame was broad and unmoving, dressed in garments the color of fertile soil and deep moss. He didn’t move so much as settle, his presence a quiet, undeniable weight. His brown hair was a spiky fringe that covered one chestnut eye. He had a soft smile on his face as he spoke to Mira.

Lyra’s breath hitched as her gaze fell on Rhaziel, the God of Fire. He was a stark, compelling contrast to Elio’s golden light; Rhaziel’s dark, close-cropped hair was edged with a faint, flickering red, and the rough-spun tunic he wore was the color of volcanic rock. His eyes, fixed coolly on her, seemed to hold the precise, disciplined heat of a forge, not wildfire.

Further down, the remaining Gods—the quiet power of Nymera, Goddess of the Moon, whose skin seemed to catch and reflect all the hall’s light. Her white hair shimmering in the light and her soft grey eyes seemed to be appraising her quietly.

The solemn, hooded presence of Tenebris, God of Shadow, who looked less like a person and more like an absence of lightin the corner. His hood was down, making it hard to see his features.

The serene, almost bored expression of Seren, Goddess of Peace—baby blue eyes seeming to stare through her. Dirty blonde hair swept up into a topknot.

Each one was distinct, larger than life, a perfect crystallization of their domain as they sat in their chairs. Lyra’s eyes, still trying to process the sheer weight of the divine presence, slid cautiously to the group huddled together; they formed a silent, judgmental panel.

Raios, the God of War, stood slightly apart, his presence a blade of pure discipline. His short, dark hair was precise, and he wore practical, dark leather armor over a simple tunic. His gaze, sharp and assessing, felt like a military inspection—measuring her strengths and finding her lacking.

Beside him, Thaniel, the God of Death, was a figure of quiet dread. He was robed in deep, unadorned black, and his face was impassive, his features obscured in the deep shadows of his hood. He radiated an absolute, cold stillness, the silent promise of finality.

Virel, the God of Famine, was surprisingly slight, dressed in robes of pale linen. His dark, deep-set eyes held a perpetual hollowness, and his expression was one of profound, yet calm, emptiness. He looked at her not with malice, but with a detached sense of measurement, as if calculating how long it would take for her to be consumed.

The Goddess of Wind, Zephryn Vale, was draped in a gossamer fabric that seemed to perpetually flutter even in the still air of the hall. Her blonde hair was a wild, beautiful tangle, and her pale blue eyes seemed constantly in motion, restless and evaluating everything.