Page 55 of Lies Among Gods

“And I you,” he responded.

She took a final, shaky breath against his white robe, inhaling the clean, cool scent of Aetherfall before releasing him. She nodded, her mossy green eyes wet but determined, and turned toward the crystalline white light. With a deep inhale, Lyra stepped into the light.

A sensation of profound weightlessness enveloped her. It wasn’t the dizzying spin of the fall into the last trial, but a gentle, upward lift, a suspension between gravity and grace. She was a breath held in the vast emptiness. As she ascended, a soft, intoxicating scent of petrichor—earth after rain—surrounded her, an aroma that felt instantly familiar, like the scent of her own soul.

She felt herself lift; the light surrounding her like a shroud, then the motion reversed, and she felt as if she was gliding down, descending through the heavens toward Elyndra.

She could see the world beneath her, slowly growing bigger and bigger. The sprawling Celestial Ward, the structured temples, the winding streets—all looked like perfect, miniaturized dollhouses nestled in the geometry of the city. The sheer scale of the world, viewed from her impossible height, was breathtaking.

As she descended, the air whirled around her, growing sharp and cold. A burgeoning storm brewed; the clouds coiling into a protective, dark helix around her descent. Yet, the blindingwhite light still shone through, a brilliant column that guided her down.

She landed softly, silently, her feet touching the bricks of the Celestial Ward’s main courtyard. The moment her feet met the ground, the great white light vanished, the storm’s power contained, leaving only a soft, persistent rain falling around her—a cleansing, gentle deluge that seemed to quiet the entire city.

She heard the sound of the mortals first: a collective, stunned murmur that rose and fell like a tide. Her eyes darted outward, past the pristine temple architecture, and she saw them—hundreds of mortal citizens lining the boundaries of the Ward, their faces upturned, their phones and cameras raised, their flashes recording and taking pictures of the spectacle. But it no longer made her feel scared. A quiet acceptance that this was the path she would have to walk settled on her.

Lyra stood there, utterly still, a woman carved from white silk and water, unsure of what to do. The quiet murmurs of the mortals were deafening, punctuated only by the soft hush of the rain.

Then, the doors of the great temple towers slid open. One by one, the gods emerged from their domains, brushing past the mortals and walked to stand before her. Elio, radiant and golden; Petro, solid as stone; Seren, cloaked in dove-gray; and the rest of the pantheon, arrayed in a semicircle. The hush continued as the cameras continued to record.

Elio stepped forward, his eyes blazing with potent, undeniable approval. The rain did not touch his form. He gave a single, measured nod of his head; his voice a profound, echoing pronouncement that seemed to carry over the entire city. “Welcome, Lyra Nymphaea, Goddess of Rain."

Lyra’s breath hitched. Goddess of Rain. The weight of the title, the truth of her domain, settled instantly. Her eyes, now fiercely alight with her new, terrifying power, darted across thepantheon. They skipped past every familiar face, every imposing form, until they landed on the one she sought.

Alaios.

He stood slightly apart from the others; his dark suit was imposing, his features a granite mask of control. His dark eyes met hers across the distance—a fleeting, intense connection that promised everything. But then, without a single change in expression, without a word, a movement, or a nod of recognition, he simply turned away.

He advanced with slow, deliberate steps toward the Strife Temple. His broad back, a stark silhouette against the temple’s shadowed facade, was a final, cold statement, a wall of indifference as unyielding as granite. Lyra felt the cacophony of the jostling crowd pressing in, their eager chatter a buzzing distraction, yet their faces blurred, a riot of colors and fleeting expressions.

Her heart felt as if someone had reached into her chest and grabbed it, squeezing the life out of the fierce joy of her survival. The triumph of the trials vanished in a cold, terrible wave of abandonment.He’s walking away. After everything, he’s just walking away.

Before she had time to process the devastating rejection, a warm, possessive presence was instantly at her side. Asmodeus, handsome in red velvet, swept her up in a light, casual embrace.

"Well, well, little goddess,” Asmodeus purred, his voice full of amusement and a familiar, intoxicating charm. He held her close, a calculated gesture of ownership for the cameras. “Welcome to the gang. We were starting to think you’d run off with the old man."

Lyra barely heard him. Her eyes were fixed on Alaios’s retreating figure, watching as he disappeared into the shadow of his temple door, closing her out of his life as silently and definitively as the hidden chamber door had closed them in.

Chapter forty-six

CHAPTER 40

For hundreds of years, no new god had risen. The balance endured, fixed and unquestioned, its order recorded and revered as complete. We believed the pantheon finished, the scales forever set.

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

The following pages are unattributed to High Priest Aurelius Venn

The collective exclamation of the mortals outside the Celestial Ward was a dull, distant roar compared to the overwhelming silence of the gods. Lyra stood in the courtyard, her white silk dress—now impossibly dry and pristine—clinging to her, her body vibrating with the contained power of a newly formed storm. The devastation of Alaios’s silent rejection had left a profound, hollow ache in her chest, stealing the triumph of her survival.

Asmodeus's warm, possessive presence at her side felt like a calculated move, a performance for the mortals’ cameras, but she was too numb to pull away. She looked up into those blueeyes and saw the calculation she had feared would be there. Elio, after his pronouncement, had simply nodded to a trio of priestesses, who glided toward Lyra with perfect, deferential grace.

"Goddess Lyra,” the priestess at the front murmured, her voice smooth, polished as she bowed. The sight of her, head lowered in reverence, was a stark contrast from what she was used to. “The Council has prepared private quarters for you within the Ward. They will serve as your residence while the designs for your temple are finalized and construction begins."

Lyra nodded mutely, her eyes still fixed on the empty shadow where Alaios had vanished. The priestesses ushered her away from the pantheon and the watching crowds towards the building where meetings were held, leading her through a maze of pristine marble corridors until they arrived at a secluded wing of the Ward’s administrative buildings.

The quarters were a study in luxury. The room was spacious; the walls paneled in pale, sandy white oak wood; the floors covered in thick, dove-gray carpet. A massive, canopied bed dominated the space, draped in white linen and rich indigo velvet. Sunlight glinted off the polished, sandy oak of the small bar tucked into the corner. A subtle, sweet aroma of aged spirits mingled with the faint scent of wood polish. Meticulously arranged on a high shelf was a collection of jewel-toned decanters filled with expensive alcohol. A plush chair sat on the opposite side of the bed. A window wall overlooked a manicured, quiet garden—a vision of unnatural calm—filled with bushes, a small tree, and a bench. It was beautiful, sterile, and utterly without soul, designed not for comfort but for aesthetics.

The priestesses left with a final bow, promising a full staff and a stream of council updates once she was settled. When Lyra turned, expecting a moment of solitude, she found Asmodeus leaning casually against the doorframe, his red velvet suit ajarring splash of color against the pale wood. He looked utterly at home, radiating an easy, intoxicating confidence.