Page 16 of Lies Among Gods

Lyrion Heartbane, the Goddess of Love, stood nearby, a stark contrast to Asmodeus’s casual sensuality. Lyrion was theembodiment of controlled passion, wearing a gown of rich crimson velvet that was elegant and binding. Her dark brown hair was intricately braided, falling over one shoulder, and her face held a perfect, cool beauty; her violet eyes conveying a detachment that gave her an air of indifference.

Finally, Threxus Sated, the God of Abundance, was a figure of comfortable, almost decadent wealth. He was broad, handsome, and clad in robes woven with threads of deep forest green and gold. His smile was generous, but his dark eyes seemed to look past her, already weighing her as not worth the effort.

Lyra felt every flaw, every fear, and every lie she had ever told exposed under their collective scrutiny. The air thickened with unspoken expectations that she already feared she’d never meet. They were not portraits; they were forces of nature given form, and they were all staring at her, the Reject. But it was the seat near the corner that drew her attention back.

Alaios sat on the black basalt rock, leaning forward, not grandly enthroned but merely seated, a study in coiled tension. His scar was a brutal line against his face, and his dark eyes—the ones she felt she knew, the ones that had pinned her to a bench—were the only things in the hall that felt truly real and unpolished. That dangerous familiarity was a lifeline in the absurdity, but it was also the most terrifying thing she had ever seen.

The pictures lied. The stories failed. They were more than beautiful; they were even more terrifying. They were the immovable foundations of her world. Lyra felt the golden silk of her dress—the armor of a supplicant—suddenly feel thin and insignificant. She was the only mortal present, a small, fragile thing exposed to the judgment of the divine, and every look told her she was lacking.

Her fingers, cool and slightly damp, fumbled with the fabric of her skirt, smoothing it down with a shaky, almost franticmotion. The silk rustled under her touch, a soft whisper against the nervous thrumming in her chest.

Elio, dead center, raised a golden hand, and the low hum of conversation and movement among the gods instantly ceased. His voice, rich and resonant, filled the limitless hall, a gentle boom that nevertheless made Lyra feel infinitesimally small.

"Be seated, brothers and sisters. Let us proceed."

Every seated god settled deeper into their thrones, and the standing deities—Raios, Thaniel, Virel, Zephryn, Lyrion, and Threxus—glided silently to their designated, empty seats along the arc.

Lyra’s eyes remained fixed on Elio. His blue gaze, sharp and unwavering, appraised her, and then he gave a slow, deliberate tilt of his head and beckoned her forward with a slight curve of his finger.

She took the necessary steps, the golden silk whispering a soft melody against the mirrored, shimmering floor, and stopped a few feet from the foot of his throne. She could feel the intense, combined weight of the pantheon’s silent, piercing gaze pressing down on her, a palpable heat on her skin, but her eyes stayed focused on Elio, the first god's sandals. The air crackled with an almost visible tension, and a fine tremor ran through her hands, betraying the ragged state of her nerves.

"It has been centuries,” Elio began, his voice echoing in the vast space, “since a new life was destined to join our ranks. The balance has endured, fixed and completed.” He paused, his focus softening slightly as he looked past her to the seated deities. “But then, a prophecy was revealed to us, a glimpse into the weaving of the Fates, shown by Seren that you, Lyra Nymphaea, would one day ascend to this Hall."

Elio turned his head to Seren, who offered a quiet, almost bored nod, her baby-blue eyes betraying nothing. Her silvery-grey hair shimmered in the light as she brushed her braid behindher back. Elio then returned his attention to Lyra, the golden light of his presence seeming to intensify.

"We decided, in our collective wisdom, that you should live your mortal life unburdened by this knowledge. Free from expectation. Unfortunately, certain rules were broken, and the truth was prematurely revealed.” His voice held a note of contained displeasure, though he did not look at either Alaios or Asmodeus. “Now that the path has been made public, we have convened to inform you of what you will face."

Lyra managed a tight, almost imperceptible nod, her gaze locked on his perfectly sandaled feet. She couldn’t trust herself to speak, the words catching like burrs in her throat, or to look up, fear, an icy knot tightening in her stomach.

"When it is your time to leave your mortal coil,” he continued, the simple words carrying the authority of law, “you will be sent to Aetherfall. In that realm, you will be required to go through three trials—three distinct journeys that will determine your worthiness to take your place among us."

Elio leaned back slightly on his golden throne, his posture easing from formal pronouncement to instruction. “The first trial is the Trial of Reflection: The Truth of the Self. Its purpose is simple: to force you to confront who you truly are. You will be stripped of the identities built by society, by your family, by your lovers, and even by the gods who have tried to shape you. You must see the core of Lyra Nymphaea without the external armor you have worn your entire mortal life. Only once you accept the self you reveal can you pass to the next stage."

He paused, letting the weight of the requirement settle over her. Lyra felt a chill; the idea of being truly exposed—mentally, emotionally—was more terrifying than any physical threat. The first trail seemed more daunting, and she did not know how it could get worse, but she knew it would.

"The second is the Trial of Want: Desire versus Dominion. This trial will test the strength of your heart and your will. You will be presented with what you most desperately desire and what you fear most to lose. This test is to measure your capacity for control. Can you master your hunger, or will you allow it to master you? A goddess must be a force of dominion, not a slave to want. We earn the things we want with hard work and not giving in to temptation. The life we deserve is the one we fight for."

“Speak for yourself,” Asmodeus laughed.

Elio’s gaze, sharp as a thrown dagger, pierced Asmodeus. The air crackled with unspoken animosity. Asmodeus, his chest puffed out with a familiar, booming arrogance, responded with a slow, confident smirk that dared Elio.

She watched the tense exchange, the air thick with unspoken threats. She doubted she’d ever muster the courage to face a god. Then, Elio’s words, light as a whisper, echoed in her thoughts. A vivid image of Adrian flashed before her eyes, the memory of the fleeting, intoxicating rush of power she’d experienced with Asmodeus, the unnerving intensity of Alaios’s dark eyes on her, and the bitter, stomach-churning certainty that her deepest longings were already a tangled mess.

Elio’s gaze snapped back to her. “Finally, you will face the Trial of Stormbound Rule: Power Through Conflict. This is the ultimate test of your fitness to stand in this hall. It will prepare you to rule and will determine if you are worthy of eternal power that is granted to those who pass. Divinity is not granted for passive beauty; it is earned through strength forged in the crucible of conflict."

Lyra’s head snapped up, the fear momentarily overriding her paralysis. She finally met Elio’s gaze, her own green eyes wide and trembling. “And what… what happens if I fail?” Thequestion was a whisper, a stark tremble against the vast silence of the hall.

Elio’s perfect lips curved into a smile—a slow, practiced, yet utterly indifferent expression that chilled Lyra to the bone.

"I guess you’ll find out, mortal."

Her heart hammered against the silk of her borrowed gown, a frantic, desperate drum. In that moment, she realized with crushing clarity that the Sun God did not believe she would pass. His smile was not one of encouragement, but of cold, simple dismissal of her fate.

Chapter sixteen

CHAPTER 11

In the wake of flame, famine became law. As the fires waned and the land lay stripped bare, God of Famine, Virel Ashborne, descended, and we learned that hunger was not a punishment, but a lesson meant to humble those who had taken too much. The fires took our crops, and the God of Famine took what remained of our certainty. When he descended without spectacle, for hunger requires no display to command obedience.