Page 43 of Lies Among Gods

The invisible weight of failure pressed in. Lyra felt the disappointment radiating not just from her mother, but from her father, who was offering forced, strained congratulations, and from her older brothers, whose expressions were a mix of pity and detached embarrassment. Even on this day that should have been happy, filled with congratulations, the day she graduated high school and was supposed to launch into adult life, she still felt the crushing weight of not being good enough, not even for her own family’s carefully curated narrative. The memory lingered: a small, dark cloud hovering over what should have been a bright, hopeful future.

A vivid memory flashed. She saw herself in her boss’s office, eighteen-years-old, the harsh fluorescent lights glinting off the cheap, faux-wood paneling. The air hung thick with the faint, greasy smell of the hot dog stand where she worked, a smell clinging stubbornly to the polyester of her uniform. Her boss, an old man with a face etched like worn leather, looked up. His tired, grey eyes fixed on her. “Did you get accepted by God Threxus?” he rasped, his voice dry like rustling leaves. She could feel the coarse fabric of her uniform scratch against her skin as she shook her head, the movement causing her hair to brush her cheek. A deep frown creased his brow. “I am sorry, then I am going to have to let you go,” he stated, the words a dull thud in the quiet room. A cold wave washed over her: the sharp sting of rejection for her first job, the crushing weight of not knowinghow she’d gain financial freedom, or any freedom at all. It would ever be within her grasp

The air warmed suddenly, laced with a faint, intoxicating scent of musk and champagne. A projection of Asmodeus’s temptation formed beside her: his playful eyes, his possessive touch, the intoxicating ease of choosing the beautiful lie he offered. A sweet, seductive voice echoed, “Choose the pleasure, Lyra. It requires no struggle.”

The vision swirled and twirled. She watched the ghost of herself on the dance floor with Asmodeus, the emerald velvet of her dress catching the ghostly light. He leaned down, his charming smirk promising everything, his baby-blue eyes locked on hers. He was so close, his lips almost brushing her own, a moment suspended in intoxicating, reckless anticipation, but he didn’t quite reach her lips. The image fractured, spinning in a dizzying circle, a beautiful, unfulfilled promise that left her perpetually wanting more, the essence of his lure.

Then, the cold, grounding presence of Alaios’s loyalty and honesty. His dark, intense eyes met hers in the reflection, a fleeting moment of fierce certainty—a vision of his hand in hers, the raw, possessive kiss on his desk, the unspoken demand for her to be the chaos, not flee it.

Lyra’s hand reached down to try to touch Alaios but was only met with cold water. She watched as his eyes softened as he lifted her up and headed toward his private chamber. Alaios’s dark eyes, momentarily unguarded, filled with a fierce, possessive love as he carried her into the secret room—a crystalline memory projected onto the water’s surface, haunting and beautiful. It was a moment of respite from the world, and her hand was drawn to it, yearning for the solid reality of his warmth. But where his broad, powerful chest should have been, there was only dampness. The last clear image of his retreat into privacy, the hidden door sliding shut with silent finality,left a profound ache in her chest, a sudden sharp loneliness in the sterile light of Aetherfall. Even the phantom rain of her memories, still defying gravity, seemed to weep for the distance between them.

The swirling storm intensified, and the reflections fractured, pulling the internal conflict out of her mind and casting it into tangible forms. Three figures materialized ahead, shimmering, distorted echo-versions of herself cast in mercurial glass.

The first was Obedient Lyra, dressed in an immaculate white gown, her posture stiff, and her face serene and utterly hollow. She was the one who would have married Adrian, the one who would have kept her mouth shut and her head bowed, earning the pantheon’s shallow approval. Letting others decide her path, her wants, her likes. The easy path.

The second was Reckless Lyra, dressed in emerald velvet, a glass of champagne in her hand and Asmodeus's hand in the other, her eyes blazing with careless defiance and abandoned passion. The version who chased every high, choosing desire over dominion, the one who would burn brightly and briefly under Asmodeus’s careless ownership.

The third was Broken Lyra, the mercurial glass riddled with cracks, dressed in the simple gray hoodie she wore to the temple, her shoulders hunched, her hands stained with the metaphorical blood of all her failures. She was the sum of every humiliation, every tear, and the wreckage of her mortal life. The true, honest self that she had seen in the mirror for years when she looked at herself.

A powerful gravitational tug pulled Lyra toward the Obedient and Reckless echoes—the easy version, the reckless one with no abandon. But she knew that version was not right. The storm demanded a choice as the wind picked up and howled around her. The true test was not in choosing a perfect future, but inaccepting the messy, broken truth. She knew this, but a part of her still wanted to choose the easy paths.

Taking a deep breath, she fought the urge for the easy way out. Lyra reached up, her hand passing through the mirrored rain. With a slow, deliberate movement, she pressed her palm against the shattered, trembling image of the Broken Lyra.

The moment her hand made contact, the reflected storm scape imploded. The mirror shattered into hundreds of pieces. She flinched, blocking her face from the shattered pieces, but none cut her. The three echoes dissolved, and the ascending rain reversed, now falling with the heavy, cleansing force of a final downpour. Washing away the silence and the lies, the sound was a deafening roar.

Then the sound faded. Lyra was alone, standing once more in the crystal-clear waters of the Aetherfall pool into which she had first fallen. She turned, wondering what was next, but then the rain slowly stopped. She looked to the sky above, and the clouds slowly faded into a great big nothingness of inky black.

She looked down at herself and realized she was dry. The white silk dress, though stained moments ago in her memory, was now pristine, the fabric cool against her skin.

Then she heard a soft cough. She looked up at Eldric. He smiled and said, “You have passed the first trial."

She looked at him and halfheartedly laughed, saying, “That wasn’t so bad."

He shook his head, his ancient eyes solemn beneath his flowing white brows. “That was just the first. Wait before you decide this is easy."

She opened her mouth to sayeasywasn’t what she meant—it had been agonizing, a deep, soul-shaking confrontation—but then she closed it, not saying the words. She knew there was no point arguing the nuances of fear and self-loathing with a god.

He swiped his hand through the air, and the shimmering pool of Aetherfall retreated, pulling back like a curtain. In its place, a massive archway formed, leading to a door forged of polished, dark wood—rich mahogany, but with a strange, oily sheen that seemed to absorb the light. The door was framed in delicate veins of gold.

“Do you think we can take a small break before going through the next door?” A shaky sigh escaped her lips; her gaze locked on the imposing door. A cold dread, like ice water in her veins, washed over her as she stared.

He shook his head in response.

Eldric stood at the edge of the new path, his gentle smile returned. “You chose your truth, Lyra. The Trial of Reflection is complete.” He walked toward the door, pausing just before its ominous threshold. He looked back at her and stated, with an unsettling mix of kindness and warning, “Want is easy. Sovereignty is not. Now, let us begin the Trial of Want."

Chapter thirty-six

CHAPTER 30

Others, whose worship went unnoticed or whose devotion faltered, labored quietly, observing the rewards of the favored and learning that to prosper was to choose wisely which god to serve. Soon, allegiance became not only faith but strategy, and devotion shaped every corner of life—from careers to families, friendships to fortune.

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

Alaios paced in the reception area outside Seren’s office, the thick soles of his boots muffled by the plush, silvery-gray carpet. Every element of the room was an act of aggressive tranquility. The walls were painted a pale, soothing lavender; the furniture upholstered in a dove-gray linen; and soft, indirect lighting emanated from alabaster sconces. A delicate, crystalline fountain murmured in the corner, its gentle spill the only sound, designed to ease the most restless soul into repose. He knew it was engineered to make him feel at peace, a reflection of the Goddess of Peace’s domain, but it wasn’t working. He was atightly coiled spring of raw strife: restless, angry, and consumed by worry.

It had been a month since Lyra started the trials, and the silence from Aetherfall was agonizing. He knew the trials could last months—sometimes even a mortal year—but he couldn’t take the suspense anymore. Unable to eat or sleep, the most recent scroll of Pending Strife Requisitions and Grievances sat still, untouched on his desk. He thought since Seren was the one who had visions of those to join their ranks, maybe she would have an insight into Lyra’s current struggle and where she was in the trials.

After what felt like a millennium, the massive, pearlescent door slid silently open.