Page 47 of Lies Among Gods

“We didn't even have a body for a funeral,” she gasped. “There was nothing. He robbed us of our baby.”

He waited. Her raw sobs, ragged and tearing, clawed at the thin veneer of composure he’d pulled together, a fragile shield against the storm of his own grief.

When she finally looked up at him, he grumbled, “I did what I could.” He turned away, unable to look at her grief. “The mortal who did this is no more. He will never hurt another again.”

Swallowing, he willed himself to look back at them. To finish the conversation so that he could move on. “I have no further information than you have already.”

Pollo, his face pale and drawn, moved quickly to gather his weeping wife, holding her tightly. As he looked up at Alaios, his eyes were a shade of clear, mossy green, the exact color of Lyra’s, now swimming with unshed tears. Alaios felt a sudden, cold jolt. He was looking into Lyra’s eyes, and then, glancing at Diane’s profile, he saw the exact, delicate curve of Lyra’s nose. The resemblance, in their shared distress, was a physical punch.

"The Council does not appoint gods based on a vote or a whim,” Alaios said, forcing himself not to look away. “There are things that are kept out of your mortal books. A god must prove they can command their domain in trials. Right now, Lyra is facing those trials. I cannot tell you how long it will take, only that she is fighting now. If she succeeds, she will become the goddess she is meant to be.”

“If?” Diane lifted her tear-streaked face. “But why? Why does it have to be a trial? Couldn’t she just... become a goddess? What if she fails? Who is she fighting?” With each question, her voice became more hysterical. “Can we do anything to help her? Is she alone? Does she need us?”

Alaios closed his eyes, wishing he could take the words back. If not for Diane, but at least for himself. Saying one of his fears out loud created a knot in his stomach. Opening his eyes, he put hismask of cool indifference back on. “You will simply have to wait. There is nothing we can do but wait. Lyra must face this battle alone."

Diane let out a fresh wail, slipping from Pollo’s grasp to sink onto her knees on the stone floor. “Wait? God Alaios, we’ve lost her! She’s my baby! We just want her back. We only wanted her to be a goddess because we thought it would give her life purpose! But now she’s just… gone. My baby is gone!"

Pollo spoke again, his voice cracking with a desperate honesty. “God Alaios, what were the trials like for you?”

Alaios opened his mouth and closed it again. Pretty lies about it being easily touched the tip of his tongue but would not leave. He had no words of comfort to offer them, only bitter truths. So he decided on something in between. “It was not easy. I tried to prepare her as much as I could.”

Pollo pulled his wife tighter, his own tears finally falling unchecked. He looked directly at the God of Strife, his voice low and thick with paternal fear. “Will we be informed? When you hear something, anything, will you let us know?"

Alaios finally moved, pushing away from his desk. He walked to the edge of the granite, looking down at the two mortals consumed by their grief. He looked into Lyra’s identical eyes, full of despair, and his voice was rougher than intended. “Once I know she’s been confirmed as a goddess and has returned, I will ensure you are informed." He wasn’t sure he had enough room in his chest for his own grief and fear, let alone theirs.

Diane lifted her head, her face blotchy, her eyes shining with hope and terror. “Will she… will she remember us? When she’s a goddess, will she remember her family? Will she remember me?"

Alaios held her gaze, the weight of the question settling heavily on him. He knew the answer was yes—the core self did not change—but the fear that gnawed at him, the terror that Lyramight not pass the trials and would be forgotten entirely, was suddenly suffocating. He gave a curt nod, the fear eating at him: the fear that Lyra, his beautiful chaos, might not pass.

I should have been there. I should have stopped the fanatic before the man even reached her. Guards could have protected her if I had assigned them.The thought hammered against his skull, a cruel counterpoint to the quiet weeping of the mortals at his feet.I was too slow. I got caught up in my own selfish desire to see her, to prove she was mine. Because I broke protocol, she lost her final, precious moments of her mortal life.The cold, hard fact of his failure, of the power he had hesitated to use, was a profound, suffocating guilt. He was the God of Strife, the necessary friction, the consequence—and yet, he had failed the only mortal he had ever cared to protect.

Pollo stood, pulling his wife up gently, but he didn’t release her. “Thank you, God Alaios. For seeing us. For… for trying.” He gave a small, formal nod, the gesture one of respect for the power he faced, but not for the cold comfort he had received. “We will wait for your word. May the gods ever be with you."

“And with you.” Alaios said the words on autopilot, though they rang hollow to his own ears.

Chapter thirty-nine

CHAPTER 33

Once the gods aligned and devotion found its proper channels, harmony followed. Each god claimed their faithful, and in doing so, each mortal found their place in Elyndra. The people accepted their roles not as burdens, but as purpose—Sun-worshippers governed, Earth-worshippers built, Ocean-worshippers traveled and traded, Fire-worshippers crafted and refined, War-worshippers defended, and Shadow-worshippers kept to the margins where unseen work was required.

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

Lyra looked around the pretty bedroom. The walls were a rich burgundy, offset by heavy gold trim, and the massive four-poster bed was draped in sumptuous red velvet—a sanctuary of luxury and indulgence. It was all flawless, designed for effortless pleasure, yet a profound unease settled in her gut. The burgundy walls, the opulent gold trim, the heavy velvet of the bed—all of it felt unnervingly new. A disorienting sense of being a trespasser, a newly arrived guest in a space she was supposedly intimately familiar with, hit her with a strange, cold jolt. It felt less likea home and more like a stage set, meticulously crafted for maximum seduction but lacking the lived-in, anchoring weight of comfort. She looked around the floor where she knew she would have tossed yesterday’s clothes, but there was nothing. The perfection was too loud, too insistent, forcing out any memory of the life—the chaos, the struggle—she had lived before this moment. It wasn’t there. She closed her eyes, trying to think how she got here.

Her eyes were drawn to the window, where the rain was thrashing as the wind continued to howl. The large pane of glass seemed to bow inward with the force of the tempest outside, and the sound was a low, insistent roar that vibrated through the floorboards. The chaos felt strangely familiar, a distant echo of a storm she knew intimately.

Asmodeus's hand clamped gently but firmly onto her chin again, pulling her face towards his. “I asked you not to look away, Lyra,” he murmured, his voice a low, honeyed command that brooked no argument. His seductive smirk promised to drown the last of her doubts.

His mouth claimed hers, and his tongue entered her mouth, but something was missing. The kiss was technically perfect—possessive, demanding, steeped in the intoxicating promise of eternal pleasure—but the raw, visceral connection, the feeling of shared certainty and necessary friction she craved, was absent. It was smooth, soft, and utterly perfect. She felt ill at ease. The perfection of the moment was a lie, a gilded cage designed to trap her in beautiful compliance. His touch, though warm and possessive, felt suddenly too polished, too slick, lacking the rough, anchoring strength she craved.

She pulled back abruptly, her eyes wide, darting from the hypnotic blue of his to the tempest raging outside the window. “The storm,” she whispered, the word barely audible against the howl of the wind. “It’s getting worse."

A hand settled easily on her shoulder, the pressure of the touch more forceful. “Lyra, darling. You were staring.” His baby-blue eyes were gentle; his entire demeanor radiated a profound, domestic ease. He was perfection, the god of desire made into the ideal husband.

His hand clamped around hers, pulling her abruptly from the window. Lyra stumbled, her feet shuffling, her body protesting as she was yanked away. Her eyes looked over her shoulder at the slashes of water hitting the window. She felt a phantom anxiety, a subconscious expectation of turbulence that never arrived.

“But the storm,” she murmured, still looking over her shoulder. The sky seemed to grow darker.