A Prayer to No God (The Godless World #1)

Prologue

Lyssena loved to sit beneath her favorite tree.

There was only one like it. It was just past the edge of the fields where the grass grew tall and golden, and the air always smelled like sun-warmed soil and something green.

The tree bent slightly to one side, its branches reaching out as if trying to hold the sky.

Beneath its shade, the world grew softer.

Not many people ever came there. It wasn’t a place for chores or errands, and it stood too far from the path to be convenient. So, it became hers.

In that quiet patch of earth, Lyssena could simply be.

She didn’t have to speak, kneel, or make herself smaller.

She didn’t have to listen to rules or carry baskets or pray beneath anyone’s watchful eye.

Alone, there was no one to impress, no one to disappoint.

She could stretch her legs out in the dirt, trace circles in the dust with her fingers, and hum to herself without worrying if her voice was proper.

There was no need to bow when no one stood above her.

To Lyssena, it was as simple as that. You don’t make yourself smaller for someone who isn’t there.

She learned that early. Not from pain exactly, but from presence. Or the lack of it.

Often, little Lyssena would find herself alone for reasons she didn’t always understand.

Her five brothers were loud and full of movement, always together, always pushing and pulling, wrestling and teasing each other with the kind of rough affection boys were allowed to show.

They had their own orbit, and she wasn’t part of it.

When she wasn’t cooking or mending, her mother was always near Father. She existed in the quiet space between his words and moods, holding things together. There was love there, Lyssena could see that. But it was a love that left little room for her to step into.

So Lyssena learned to love her own company.

She would walk the village paths at odd hours, pick flowers she’d never name, and arrange stones in patterns only she would see. She knew how to braid her hair without help, how to patch a hem in silence, and how to swallow questions she didn’t know who to ask.

She was never hungry. Her father made sure of that.

She never went without shoes or shawls or sweets when the festival came.

Her family loved her—of this, she was certain—but it was the kind of love that sometimes felt like looking at a warm house from outside the window.

You could see it glowing. You knew it was there. But you weren’t always invited inside.

Still. . . she was happy.

Not the kind of happiness that bursts out in laughter or dances around a fire, but a quieter thing.

A soft, enduring contentment that lived in small rituals of the day: the way her father ruffled her hair when she passed him, the rare times her brothers invited her to watch them spar or play in the new cave they found, and the way her mother gently combed her hair before bed, even when distracted.

These were not grand gestures. But they were enough to convince a little girl that she was wanted, even if not always understood.

A family of eight, all appearing happy, would have seemed like a lie if you weren’t wealthy—and they were not.

They had meat, but not often. They had coin, but not enough to waste. Her dresses were worn, but mended. The blankets were thin, but warm. There was love, but sometimes it was tired.

Still, Lyssena grew up believing she was loved. For a child, that was enough.

Maybe that’s why the betrayal hurt the way it did: not like a strike on the face, but like a soft erasure.

Because love that teaches you how to be alone is not the kind that teaches you how to be safe.