Page 46 of Lies Among Gods

Something is wrong.

The memory was vague, a ghost-echo from a different life, a distinct feeling. Where did I just come from? Why do I feel like I’m supposed to be somewhere else?The thought was the thin, high whine of a distant alarm.Why don’t I know their names?

As if reading her mind, Asmodeus said, “Liam, Noah, go find your nanny. Mommy needs to warm up. She just came in from the rain.” Asmodeus ruffled one of the boys’ hair, pressing a possessive kiss to her cheek.

The icy tendril of unease tightened its grip, a cold knot forming in her stomach. She strained, trying to conjure the source of this disquiet.

Asmodeus reached up, his hand clamping gently but firmly onto her chin, turning her face toward his. His baby-blue eyes, usually so playful, were now intense, focused, and utterly arresting, drawing her in like a current. “Don’t look away, Lyra,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing command that promised to drown the last of her doubts. “Just look at me."

Lyra stared into the mesmerizing, crystalline blue of his eyes, feeling the cold, hard memory of a different pair of dark eyes struggling to surface, only to be crushed beneath the overwhelming, beautiful lie she was now living. The last threads of Aetherfall and the true world were dissolving, replaced entirely by the sweet, easy contentment of this perfect future.

The gentle rain outside the windows began to intensify, the drops striking the glass with a growing, insistent force. The wind started to howl and roar, causing the large panes to rattle ominously in their frames. Every time Lyra’s eyes darted toward the shaking windows, drawn by the increasing tempest that felt strangely familiar, Asmodeus’s hand would come up, clamping gently but firmly onto her chin, turning her head back toward his mesmerizing blue gaze.

"I asked you not to look away, Lyra,” he murmured, his smile only growing wider and more fixed, a beautiful mask designed to block out the rising noise.

He grabbed her hand, his palm smooth and warm against hers, and started to walk down a long, opulent hallway. Her gaze drifted to their clasped hands, a faint chill prickling her skin as a dissonance hummed within her, a silent question echoing, why this touch, so familiar, felt strangely off-key. The storm outside grew stronger still; the wind howled a low, persistent note of warning that vibrated through the plush carpet beneath her feet, yet Asmodeus remained utterly unconcerned, his focus absolute. He kept smiling, trying to pull her attention fully into the beautiful, easy life he offered, drowning out the escalating chaos and the distant, cold feeling of beingwrong.

Chapter thirty-eight

CHAPTER 32

Every citizen found their place beneath the gaze of a god. Sun-worshippers ruled with radiance; Earth-worshippers labored with steadfast strength; Ocean’s children sailed and traded; Fire’s artisans built and crafted; War’s disciples trained and protected; Shadow’s pupils moved unseen, influencing what others could not. Society became a reflection of divine favor, each role necessary, each path dictated by allegiance.

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

Alaios pushed the pending worshippers’ scroll across his desk, not able to focus on which worshippers to approve and which to deny. His concentration was a frayed thread, incapable of holding the complexities of political policies when his mind was a violent storm of worry. Two months. Sixty days since Lyra had vanished into Aetherfall. He had pestered Seren almost daily, visiting the Goddess of Peace only to be met with the same placid, unhelpful pronouncement:The veil remains closed. That same sad smile and soft, pitying eyes that told him nothing.

He pushed the scroll open again. He dragged his gaze across the names, but the ink blurred. All he saw was the ghost of Lyra’s face, the image of her mossy green eyes, fierce and defiant.If she is struggling in the trials, it is my fault. I didn’t have enough time to prepare her properly. It was my responsibility to ensure she remained focused, and I failed. I should have protected her.The thought was a relentless, self-inflicted punishment.

A soft, hesitant tap-tap echoed at his door, a sound gentle yet still criminally intrusive.

"Enter," Alaios commanded, the word a low growl that felt more natural than the forced calm he wore.

One of his priestesses, Anwen, entered, her expression one of respectful, controlled discomfort as she bowed down. “My God, Lyra Nymphaea’s parents, Pollo and Diane, are requesting an urgent audience. They refuse to leave the receiving area and, well…”

“Well, what?” Alaios sighed. He leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing softly under his weight. His eyes, dry and tired, drifted upwards, tracing the tiny dust motes dancing in the slivers of light that pierced the gloom.

“Mrs. Nymphaea is well,” Anwen paused. “She is causing a… a scene.”

“A scene?” he asked, unsure if he actually wanted to know what was happening.

“Umm,” Anwen murmured. “Yes. A lot of worshippers are watching. She is crying. Crying very loudly. It is making worshippers uncomfortable.”

Alaios huffed a breath, the debate immediate and internal. He could easily tell her to send them away, to cite divine protocol and dismiss their mortal wants. But the image of Lyra, of the sheer vulnerability he’d glimpsed in her when they were alone, stayed his tongue. He had seen the way her family had bothloved and tried to cage her. He wondered if they were feeling the same gut-deep fear that was currently consuming him or if they thought they were owed something for being of her blood. A flicker of intense curiosity sparked in his eyes, a silent question forming about their true intentions for appearing in his place.

The air hung thick and expectant, and he responded with a sharp, curt nod. “Let them in."

The door opened moments later, and Diane Nymphaea swept in, followed closely by her husband, Pollo. But the usual polished facade Lyra had spoken of was gone. Diane’s cheeks were stained with dry, shiny tracks of tears, and her immaculate dress looked slightly rumpled, as if she had been wearing the same thing for days. Pollo looked utterly defeated as his hands fretted.

"God Alaios,” Diane began, her voice cracking on his title. “Thank you for seeing us. We… We just came from the Lust Temple. Asmodeus wouldn’t even grant us an audience. His priestess said he was too busy with his new… new conquests. They won’t tell us anything."

“It is hard to gain an audience with us,” Alaios stated. “Since we have many mortals, we have to watch out for. I have granted this as a one-time favor.”

“I understand, God Alaios. I just wanted… No need to know about my pebble… my Lyra.” She wrung her hands, her eyes frantic as a fresh wave of tears fell. “It’s been two months. Two months, and we just need to know something. Please tell us anything about our daughter."

“There’s nothing to tell,” Alaios whispered.

The dam broke. Diane pitched forward, the last of her composure shattering into raw, ragged sobs that racked her body. Alaios watched, feeling an intense, alien discomfort. He was the God of Strife; he commanded conflict and friction, not this messy, uncontrolled emotion. He had no protocol for tears.