CHAPTER 4
Love came not as chaos, but as structure, and under the Goddess of Love, Lyrion Heartbane, blessing bonds were formed to serve harmony rather than desire. Love was granted to us in measured portions, bound by ritual and law, lest it lead us astray.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Lyra had managed to hold the lie for the last five days. No one seemed to question it, just assuming she would get accepted into worship for the god of strife. Maybe I can lie and say they accepted me. Then if anyone looks it up on the online registry, I’m screwed.
They were even getting her job applications to apply for.
She looked down at the stack her mother had handed her and flipped through the pages.
There was Strainhand—general laborer for stress crews; Reinforcement Apprentice—assists impact masons; Load Runner—moves heavy materials between sites; Torque hand—junior forge worker, and so on.
All jobs she was pretty sure she was physically incapable of doing at her current strength level.
“These are all just starting points and can lead to much better jobs if you work hard and worship well,” Diane sighed as she pushed the applications towards Lyra.
Lyra’s gaze met her mother’s, but the words caught in her throat. The dim light cast long shadows across her mother’s tired face, and Lyra felt a heavy weight settle in her chest, crushing any flicker of a smile or the energy to speak.
“I expect these to be filled out and ready to submit as soon as you are approved,” Diane swiped at an imaginary speck of dust on the counter. “When are you scheduled to go back for your approval letter?”
A lump formed in her throat, a dry, rasping sensation as she turned her head.
It was always simpler to lie to her dad; his gaze was often distant, unlike her mom’s sharp, knowing eyes that seemed to pierce through any deception.
She couldn’t afford to let even a hint of the truth escape.
“I am scheduled to go back on Wednesday, like I told you a dozen times before, Mom.”
“I am just making sure,” Diane sighed. “You can be so forgetful sometimes. As your mother, it’s my duty to make sure you keep up on your responsibilities.”
Lyra glanced out the window and felt herself deflate. I need to get out of the house, out of the neighborhood. Be anywhere but here.
“I was invited out to the club to hang with some new friends,” she murmured, looking down at the forms. “I am just going to go get dressed to meet everyone.”
“Okay, little pebble,” Diane laughed. “I hope they are friends you made at the Temple of Strife.”
“They are,” Lyra lied. “I met them outside the temple, and we exchanged contact info.”
“Oh, how lovely!” Diane came up behind her and wrapped her in a bear hug. “Do you need some spending credits? Of course you do; you have no job. Let me send you some so you can buy a round of drinks.”
Lyra’s cheeks flared with heat, a visible blush creeping up her neck as she watched her mom’s fingers dance across her phone screen, a soft click-click-click accompanying each tap.
Suddenly, a low vibration hummed through Lyra’s own device.
She fumbled to pull it out, her fingertips brushing against the cool glass.
The screen lit up, a notification flashing: Diane Nymphaea has sent you credits.
“You can pay me back after you get your first paycheck.” Diane smoothed her hair down. “Go wash your hair; you look like a ragamuffin.”
Lyra smiled through gritted teeth. “Of course, Mother.”
Her sneakers whispered a soft thud with each angry step. The click of the bathroom door was a sharp punctuation mark to her exit.
Turning on the shower, she jumped in once the water was hot, mumbling to herself.
“Wow, a club? Now I have to get dressed up and find a way to pay my mother back.” She grabbed shampoo and applied too much to her hair.
“Why couldn’t I say something like going for a run or working out?
That doesn’t require getting dressed up to go be alone somewhere.
” A glob of shampoo dribbled down her forehead a bit, getting in her eye.
“Dammit!” She twisted, feeling the spray of the showerhead hot on her face as she tried to rinse out the burning shampoo.
Once her eye stopped burning, she tried to quiet her thoughts and finish showering.
She shut off the water; the steam dissipated to reveal her reflection in the fogged mirror.
Her skin was flushed, and her hair dripped, but the burn in her eye was finally gone, replaced by a cold, calculating resolve.
New friends, huh? I haven’t had a friend in years.
I don’t know how she bought that one, she thought, a dry laugh catching in her throat. How about a temporary distraction?
Her mother’s money—the spending credits for the club—was still in her account.
She would not spend it on fake friends or an evening of forced cheer.
She was going to spend it on an evening of controlled illusions.
A flickering thought sparked in her mind, an idea tinged with the tang of uncertainty.
She couldn’t discern if it would erupt in a cacophony of chaos or settle into a dull thud of disappointment, but she didn’t care.
Lyra grabbed her phone and opened PantheiaMatch, the dating app.
She hadn’t used it since her last dismal attempt six months ago.
She scrolled past the endless profiles of smiling, divinely aligned people.
Elio-worshippers seeking a partner for their next power brunch; Petro-followers looking for “stable foundations”; Mira-aligned singles wanting a co-captain for life’s voyages and so on.
Her own profile was a blank, embarrassing wasteland, marked only by the chilling label: Unaligned (Seeking Guidance). It was a guaranteed swipe-left.
But not tonight.
She opened the edit menu. When it came to ‘Deity Alignment,’ she paused.
Which lie was the most plausible, yet gave her the most reason to be out alone and desperate for company?
Not Elio—too high-profile, too many questions.
Not Petro—too boring, too close to home. She settled on Asmodeus, God of Lust.
It was a bold, utterly ridiculous lie. Worshippers of Lust were known for being open-door, spontaneous, and above all, wanted. They were the city’s glamorous, complicated population, and a God of Lust worshipper would never be a twenty-eight-year-old living in her childhood bedroom.
But for tonight, it worked.
She posted a new profile picture—one taken a year ago where the light caught her eyes just right—and within an hour, her phone was buzzing with notifications. Most were simply looking for a quick hookup; the casual nature of Lust-worship attracted a specific audience.
She scrolled through the match requests until she found a profile that sounded fun: Marcus, twenty-nine, aligned with Rhaziel, the God of Fire.
An artisan. He was conventionally handsome, not overtly muscular like the Strife God, and his profile mentioned a love for late-night forging and “burning away the mundane. "
Her thoughts drifted back to the god of strife and those dark eyes. Thinking about the differences between the two males. She shook her head and looked back down at her phone, swiping right on Marcus.
Perfect. Plausible alignment for a quick, passionate date night.
She typed out a quick message: “Your profile mentions a desire for transformation. My God loves a good spark. Drinks tonight?” She almost giggled at how lame she felt typing out the response.
His reply was instantaneous: “I know a bar downtown called The Crucible. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late."
A shiver, as sharp and cold as ice, traced its way down her spine.
She could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, a potent mix of fear and exhilaration.
She was doing it. She was stepping out of her assigned failure and into a night entirely of her own making, built on a single, audacious lie.
After carefully blow-drying her hair and applying a touch more makeup than usual, Lyra pulled on a sleek, black dress—one she’d kept hidden from her mother, who favored earth-toned modesty. It was short, a little tight, and she felt a small, wicked surge of confidence.
A slick swipe of fruity gloss coated her lips, the faint shimmer catching the light as she turned to face the mirror.
Her reflection stared back, eyes sparkling.
A slow smile spread across her face, a warmth blooming in her chest – the exhilarating rush of feeling both beautiful and, even better, confident.
As long as no one looks to close then I can get away with having just a little bit of fun tonight.
As she stepped out the front door, she called back to the house, “I’m meeting my new friends now!"
"May the gods ever be with you!” her mother called back.
Lyra walked away, the lie already hardening into something real, something that gave her power. The God of Lust is with me tonight, she thought, walking towards the tram. And hopefully he helps me have a good time.
The Crucible was a moody, subterranean bar that had an atmosphere that exuded a certain dark allure.
Descending into its depths, a moody, subterranean ambiance immediately enveloped her.
Exposed copper piping snaked across the rough-hewn walls and ceiling, glinting dully under the dim, amber lighting.
This pervasive glow cast long shadows, creating an intimate and slightly mysterious environment—the kind of place Rhaziel-worshippers would favor, a mix of heat and metal.
Marcus was already seated in a dark booth, a glass of something fiery looking in front of him. He stood up when he saw her, his smile bright and appreciative. “Lyra? You clean up well for a follower of Lust. I expected something... more chaotic."
"Chaos is for amateurs,” she replied smoothly, sliding into the booth. “My devotion is controlled. Precise.” She knew that was a blatant lie, but he just smiled, taking her confidence at face value.
The conversation flowed easily, fueled by her desperate desire to be someone else for the night.
She spoke vaguely about her ‘devotion’ to Asmodeus—the pursuit of pleasure, the rejection of limits, the constant need for experience.
Marcus, in turn, talked about the disciplined intensity of fire, the need to burn hot but steady, and his work crafting high-end metal sculptures.
An hour in, and she felt genuinely happy for the first time in months. She wasn’t the godless reject; she was the alluring lust-worshipper, the one who commanded attention.
"You're not just beautiful,” Marcus said, leaning in, his breath warm and smoky with expensive liquor. “There’s an... an intensity to you. A hunger. I like it."
Lyra smiled, raising her glass. “Then I think this night is just getting off to a good start."
A shadow, far darker than the dim, amber glow of the bar, fell over their booth, its immense presence muffling the low murmur of conversations and the clinking of glasses, as if a heavy velvet curtain had been drawn.
Lyra looked up. Standing there was a male, his form imposing, dressed in a suit of dark, supple red.
He had dirty blonde hair that fell perfectly across his forehead, and his baby blue eyes, usually associated with innocence, held a devastating, practiced heat.
He was classically handsome, the kind of beauty that demanded and received attention without effort.
Asmodeus Hedone, the God of Lust. The god she claimed to worship stood before her, a stark silhouette against the grimy, amber-lit backdrop of the dive bar.
She’d seen his face plastered across screens, splashed across vibrant social media feeds, yet the reality of him, here and now, was a jolt that prickled her skin.
His gaze locked onto her, a slow, widening smirk blooming on his lips, a sight that held no judgment, only the raw, palpable heat of unadulterated, boundless desire.
"A goddess never dates beneath her,” he purred, his voice like velvet and venom, as he reached out. His thumb brushed lightly across her bottom lip. The touch, feather-light yet possessive, sent a shiver through her, a tiny tremor.
Lyra's mind screamed—Run! Lie! Pretend he’s mistaken!
—but her voice was steady, defiant, and startlingly calm.
She met his gaze; the panic hidden behind her newly acquired false confidence.
“Is that your best pickup line?” She challenged him, daring to hold his attention.
If the gods are playing a game, then I can play as well.