Page 45 of Lies Among Gods

As devotion guided prosperity, society took shape in tiers under the gaze of the gods. The elite, radiant in their favor, aligned themselves with Elio, the Sun God, and their wealth, influence, and authority marked them as exemplars of divine blessing. The workers, humble and steadfast, devoted themselves to Petro, the Earth God, their labor sustaining both city and harvest in quiet obedience. Each class found its place not by chance, but by the deity they honored, and from this alignment arose a new order: a world in which social standing, opportunity, and even friendship were reflections of the gods’ will.

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

Lyra looked between Eldric and the door. She said, “Any more cryptic words of wisdom I get before this door?"

He paused, a flicker of thought crossing his face as if weighing the very decrees of destiny. “Rain,” he declared, his voice a low rumble against the rising wind, “is not gentle by nature. It is disciplined."

She paused as she tried to decipher the weight of his words, searching for their hidden meaning. Her mind flashed back to the reversed rain in the previous trial, the way the ascending drops had brought forth memory and pain.There is no god of rain. Is this a theme, or am I reading too much into it?

She said, “Rain? Is that what I am?"

He smiled at her softly and waved to the door.

“Are you not answering my question because you don’t know or because you can’t?” Her laugh was a harsh, dry bark, devoid of warmth; it echoed for a moment in the silence, a sharp, bitter sound.

“I cannot tell you your destiny; you must forge it yourself.”

She hesitated, fear gripping her, wondering if this would be more emotional turmoil again. She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to feel all her past heartbreaks come back at her again. It had all felt so real, as if it was happening in her heart anew. She didn’t know what kind of broken truth awaited her behind the ominous mahogany door, only that the next challenge bore a name—Want—that felt far more dangerous than reflection.

"What if I choose wrong?” She whispered, the question not for him, but for herself, since she knew he would not answer her.

Eldric’s voice was a quiet current that cut through her fear. “Lyra, you are now standing at the confluence of what you crave and what you must command. Want is the easiest road to walk, but the steepest path to fall from. The power you are destined for belongs to no one. It touches every corner of the earth, just like rain. It is inevitable. But for it to be a force of renewal, not destruction, it must be contained by the will of its master. That discipline—that is the only thing that separates the flood from the field, the tempest from the blessing."

He stepped back from the door, allowing the strange, oily sheen of the dark wood to dominate her vision. “Enter and donot let your desire for easy happiness drown your dominion,” he said softly.

The door had no doorknob, so she placed her hand on the dark mahogany door—smooth, dense, and unnervingly warm. It seemed to yield at the slightest touch, swinging inward with a soft sigh. She stepped across the threshold, and the air immediately changed. The cool light of Aetherfall vanished, replaced by an encompassing golden warmth.

She was standing in a gentle, shimmering rain, but this rain was utterly unlike the ascending drops of the Trial of Reflection. These drops weren’t heavy. They were light, falling soft and slow, each one a miniature lens projecting a perfect, seductive vision of an unlived future. They didn’t sting with memory; they pulsed with promise.

The moisture kissed her skin, and as it did, the visions began to coalesce around her, vivid and impossibly real. Even the surrounding air seemed to change; she could smell vetiver and jasmine.

In one direction, a projection of blinding peace formed: a life where the rejection letter never arrived, where her parents’ strained smiles became genuine pride, where Adrian never rejected her, and the temple doors of Elio’s domain were flung wide open. She saw a polished, effortless existence, where she belonged without question, her path paved and secure.

To her right, a throne materialized, forged of polished emerald and gold. She was seated upon it, draped in silks, an undisputed queen of hedonism. Beside her, Asmodeus’s image, rendered in breathtaking detail, reclined with a possessive, adoring smirk. This was a world of eternal, reckless pleasure, where desire was the only law and Lyra commanded the attention of the pantheon’s most seductive god.

A third vision, darker and more profoundly unsettling, shimmered into existence: a future where Alaios had neverintervened on the steps of his temple. The Strife God remained a distant, necessary friction, never the reckless lover. In this life, she was safe from the pain of losing him, choosing a quieter, less challenged existence that promised longevity as a mortal.

The rain intensified; the drops were no longer visions, but the very substance of reality. Splashes of color exploded around her as the world shifted and changed. A sharp, insistent pain *stabbed* through her throbbing brain. Her hands pressed against her temples, feeling the heat of her skin, as she squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel memories slipping away—Aetherfall, Eldric, the memory of Tavian Creed’s knife—shimmering and fading until only the exquisite illusion remained. Lyra stood in the center of a life of immediate, effortless belonging, and she was utterly confused.

She stepped forward, trying to find shelter from the rain. A door came into view; her hand reached out and touched the doorknob. The door opened with a soft whoosh. Startled, she jumped back before throwing caution to the wind and walking in, a warmth surrounding her, chasing away any chill of fear. The air was thick with the scent of velvet, champagne, and the warm, floral fragrance of contented domesticity.

Her gaze drifted towards the foyer table, her eyes landing on a magnificent bouquet of crimson roses, their velvety petals unfurling like secrets. The surrounding walls, painted a bold red. She tried to remember if she had ever been here before, but no sense of recognition hit her.

Strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind, warm and possessive. She smiled, already knowing who it was, and the last sliver of Aetherfall’s chill vanished. She inhaled a scent that was pure, intoxicating lust—a mix of musk, aged brandy, and the male holding her. It was the irresistible aroma of temptation made real.

"Well, darling,” Asmodeus purred, his voice dropping into the low, intimate register she remembered, “you didn’t think I’d let you standalone in a storm, did you? You look utterly divine when you’re wet. Let me dry you off."

Memories of Alaios’s rough hands, the cold granite of his desk, and the fear in her own heart from the first trial seemed to become dull and distant, like pages torn from a book she no longer cared to read. She tilted her head back; her smile soft and unguarded, entirely focused on the handsome god holding her.

He nuzzled the soft skin just beneath her ear, sending a pleasant, electric shiver down her neck. “And you’re completely drenched. Let’s go up to our room and I’ll make sure to warm you up.” He then swung her easily in his arms, his effortless strength comforting and intoxicating.

A bubbly giggle, light and airy, escaped her lips.

His breath fluttered across her hair. “I had a vision of our afternoon, and it involved a chaise lounge, several silk scarves, quite a bit of wine, and a distinct lack of clothes. Shall we make my prophecy a reality?"

Before Lyra could answer, he released her, her feet landing on the soft carpet. Two small figures—mirror images of a perfectly happy childhood—bolted into the foyer. Two little boys, both with Lyra’s auburn hair and Asmodeus’s bright, baby-blue eyes, slammed into her legs, yelling, “Mommy! Mommy! Play with us!"

Lyra looked down at the sheer, unexpected domesticity. A soft, unfamiliar warmth spread through her chest. She reached down, her hands instinctively resting on their shoulders, and she smiled, a genuine, if slightly strained, curve of her lips. But as she watched them, a tiny, insistent crease formed between her brows.