Page 27 of Lies Among Gods

A slow smile touched Lyra’s lips, and a familiar, chaotic flutter erupted in her chest. The note was utterly him—charming, arrogant, and perfectly designed to appeal to her sense of mischief. Sunlight glinted off the velvety folds as she carefully lifted the dress from the box. Her eyes drank in the sight of the gown—a cascade of shimmering emerald, its intricate beadwork catching the light like a thousand tiny stars. It was, she realized with a hushed breath, the most breathtaking dress she had ever laid eyes upon.

Her mother craned her neck, her eyes wide as she took in the gown, a soft sigh escaping her lips, filled with genuine, awestruck wonder. “Oh, Lyra. The velvet! And that color... it will make your eyes pop like emeralds. You have to wear it. You absolutely must. Now we just need to plan your makeup and hair.” Diane fluttered around the kitchen. “I know the perfect necklace that will go with that. So much I need to do. I have to make a list.” She fluttered around the kitchen, opening drawers. “Where is my notepad and pen?”

Lyra pulled the gown to her chest, trying to envision what she would look like. It was undeniably perfect. The God of Lust certainly knew how to dress a woman for a night of being on display.

Chapter twenty-three

CHAPTER 18

Temples became battlegrounds of ideology; mortals argued over which deity deserved primacy, and loyalty to one god often required the denouncement of another. Strife revealed that piety could divide as easily as it could unite.

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

Lyra pulled the gray hoodie further down over her eyes and shoved her hands deep into her jean’s pockets. She had perfected the art of the suburban commando crawl over the last few days, choosing a new, circuitous route every time she left the house. Leaving before her parents woke up. Each successful evasion of a neighbor’s watchful eye or a reporter’s telephoto lens felt like a small, necessary victory against the suffocating pressure of her new life. The freedom was addictive, and the destination—Alaios’s temple—was the only place she felt truly unscripted.

After getting the summons for the ball four days ago and spending the day listening to her mother and Anya plotting everything from her make-up to what she would need to say wassuffocating. So, before anyone could wake up, she snuck out that day and every day since.

She arrived at the black basalt temple; her eyes drifted up to the window she knew he would be somewhere on the other side of. As she pushed the doors open, a rush of cool air hit her face. She exchanged a silent, knowing nod with the same grim-faced priestess who had admitted her before. Lyra was a regular, and the priestesses seemed to have accepted her role as the God of Strife’s inconvenient guest.

The office smelled of cool stone, leather, and Alaios. He was standing, as usual, leaning against the edge of his massive desk, his arms crossed over his chest. Today, he wore a simple, dark button-up shirt that emphasized the coiled tension in his frame. His eyes, fixed on her, were dark and intense, but the initial, sharp appraisal softened almost immediately into something less guarded—a silent acknowledgment of their shared world.

"You're getting better at the whole ‘sneaking out’ thing,” he noted, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips as he surveyed her disguised attire. “Less dirt on the elbows this time."

Lyra walked into the room, pulling the hood off her head and running a hand through her tousled hair. The forced cheer and polished image she had to maintain for her mother melted away here. “Practice makes perfect. Though I think I’m starting to worry about how many bushes I’ve had to hide in on the way here, I don’t know if they will survive me diving into them much longer.” She moved toward him, the ease between them a testament to the many shared conversations.

"We have to talk about the final trial,” Alaios said, his voice dropping, the warmth in his eyes receding as he transitioned into the instructor. "The Trial of Stormbound Rule. It is the hardest, the one designed to break you before you can rule. It’s a test of command, not endurance. You will have to wield the power you are granted not just to destroy, but to create orderfrom chaos. Here is where you will learn your true powers you will possess then wield."

He watched her, a deep stillness settling in his eyes that was far more unnerving than his earlier gaze. He pushed off the desk, walking toward the center of the office, his back to her, as if speaking to the stone walls themselves. "The trials are designed to be a crucible, not a training ground. You won’t have the luxury of time to prepare once you’re there. The moment your soul enters Aetherfall, your burgeoning power will begin to show itself. You will feel what you are, Lyra, but you won’t know how to wield it. There is no telling what will awaken inside you until that moment. It will be an absolute force, and it will terrify you. You must learn to control your abilities in the chaos of emotional turmoil."

He finally turned, his dark eyes meeting hers, holding a profound, protective intensity. “And when it comes to the trials, you must understand one thing: there is no one there to hold your hand. You are completely alone. No god, no family, no lover can follow you. Every choice, every victory, every moment of fear will be yours alone. You will face your demons on those trails. The solitude will feel like an eternity, but your mortal life—your window to prepare—is gone. You have only the moments you have now to learn and prepare."

He stopped, letting the weight of his words settle over the small distance between them. The office was quiet again, the only sound the faint, uneven beat of Lyra’s own heart. He walked back to his desk and leaned on it again. His arms were crossed over his chest. His arms folded formed a firm line across his chest. From his leather shoes to the disheveled dark strands of hair falling across his forehead, her gaze traced every detail.

“You never talk about your trails,” Lyra murmured. “What was it like for you?”

He stepped away from the desk; he stood fully before her. His gaze seemed to drift past her, lost somewhere in the dust motes dancing in the air. “They didn’t prepare me. None of them did. I died not even knowing I was to become a god, not knowing what pain would greet me on the other side of that sword.” His voice was low, rough, tinged with a shadow Lyra had never heard before—the echo of true vulnerability. “The pain of dying is nothing compared to the fear of the unknown that follows. I want you to have the advantage I never had."

Lyra’s breath hitched. She looked at him, truly seeing the brutal journey he had survived, not just the god who stood before her. Looking at the scar on his face, the hidden depths in those dark eyes, and everything she had not noticed before. The intensity of his gaze, the quiet, protective determination, was overwhelming. She realized that every warning, every harsh word of advice, was his attempt to shield her from the same unmitigated terror he had faced alone.

“You died by a sword?” She said breathlessly. Curiosity gripped her as she wanted to know more about him.

“Yes,” he nodded. “In some ancient war over land”

“Did you have to go through what I went through?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean being unaligned and rejected.”

“No,” he shrugged, his eyes growing distant. “There was no technology that could monitor and show who you were. No tracking system in those days stated what you followed or believed. I was denied by the gods with no explanation, but I lied about worshipping Mira. Just joined a temple far from her main one. I learned that if I kept my head down, no one would see me. So, I did the menial tasks no one wanted. I was able to fly under the radar for years. Then the wars started. People fighting over land and resources. They sent me to the front lines to fight fora goddess who had denied me a place in her temples, and I just went.”

“Did you find happiness? Have a family?”

She studied his face, the rough stubble on his jawline catching the light as he clenched his jaw. A dry, rasping laugh, like stones grinding together, escaped his lips.

“Not really,” he laughed harshly. “I had four brothers who had families, but after being denied, I left home. Hiding took up so much of my time that I never really had a chance to live. I never got married and didn’t have children. A lot of my time was spent with my head down, hoping the truth wouldn’t be discovered.”

She closed the small distance between them, ignoring the lesson plan, the trials, and the looming reality of what will happen upon her death. She lifted her hands and framed his face, her gaze locking onto the beautiful, broken line of his scar, the sadness in those dark eyes, and the bittersweet smile on his lips. He remained perfectly still, the coiled tension returning to his frame, but he didn’t pull away.