CHAPTER 5
Though marriage bound hearts and homes, desire lingered in the spaces between vows, untamed and unanswered. Even under sacred union, temptation found its way into mortal hearts, and whispers of excess began to spread.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Lyra watched, a flicker of mischievous light igniting in Asmodeus’s eyes. The air seemed to crackle with unspoken mischief as a sly, knowing grin stretched across his lips, hinting at plans yet to unfold.
“Is that a challenge, little goddess?” Asmodeus said, his voice was like silk gliding across her skin.
“I’m no goddess,” Lyra scoffed, a dismissive flick of her eyes.
Lyra felt Marcus stiffen next to her, a small, involuntary movement that sent a shiver of dread down her spine.
The easy, carefree atmosphere of her invented night out evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, hard certainty that her performance was over.
The reality of the divine presence had shattered the comfortable, small lie she’d constructed to have a night of carefree fun.
Marcus’s voice was a husky whisper, a faint rasp, “You know Asmodeus?”
Marcus’s grip on her thigh tightened, a panicked vice rather than an intimate touch, his fingers digging into the soft flesh just below her dress.
Frowning, she reached down, the cool, smooth fabric of her dress a contrast to the rough denim of his jeans as she pried his hands off her thigh, knowing the imprint would linger as a dull ache, a bruise blooming beneath the surface.
Her eyes darted around the bar to see that all the people were staring at them, or to be more exact, Asmodeus. Several figures scattered throughout the bar were holding up their devices. They’re recording this, recording us.
Lyra felt a fresh wave of ice-cold dread flood her system.
Her failure, her shock, her every involuntary reaction, would be immortalized, judged, and dissected by throngs of people on social media.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and no one I know will see this and it’ll get buried in their feeds.
Maybe my humiliation won’t go viral across Pantheia.
Even as the thought formed in her mind, she knew it was a lie; the God was a magnet for attention, his presence pulling every eye in the room and every camera. Marcus, Lyra noted, looked utterly star struck, his former confidence had completely evaporated.
"He’ll take that as a yes,” Asmodeus purred. He looked pointedly at Marcus, who still hadn’t moved. “Run along, fire boy. Your kind burns going down, but she needs something that is a little stronger to drink."
Marcus stammered, scrambling out of the booth, his eyes fixed on the God of Lust. “Of course, God Asmodeus. Forgive my presumption. I didn’t realize…
” He grabbed his jacket and jumped up with the urgency of a mortal who had just realized he was standing before a God.
“May the gods ever be with you. I’m an idiot, you’re a god. I’m sorry.”
“I said leave,” Asmodeus snorted, his cocky smirk widening like a predatory grin.
Marcus scrambled out of the booth.
Lyra looked at him, trying to figure out what was going on.
She had spent her whole life never meeting a god, being rejected by all of them, having few friends and even fewer opportunities after all the gods denied her.
Now, in the span of a week, she met two gods.
Is what the God of Strife said actually true?
Or are they all in on the prank, and the joke is on me?
She studied Asmodeus’s face, unsure of what was true and what wasn’t.
She just knew that she couldn’t back down now.
Asmodeus extended his hand to her. The fingers long and lean, no calluses on that soft-looking palm, as if he had never worked a day in his life.
This is a prank. There is no way I could be a goddess.
It has been hundreds of years since the last god descended.
They have gotten together to make me the butt of a joke, and I will not play along.
"Are you always this pushy, or is this just your godly charm?” Lyra asked, folding her arms across her chest, the fabric of her tight black dress rustling with the movement. The pose was meant to be defiant, but instead, the constricting material pressed her breasts upward.
Asmodeus chuckled, a low, rich sound that promised both luxury and ruin as his eyes went to her cleavage.
He let his hand drop slowly, his baby-blue eyes coming back to hers.
“I just wanted to meet the future goddess, presenting her with my seraphic presence. And here I find a woman who doesn’t want to admit she will soon join us as one of the divine.
It’s a terrible waste to deny both.” He slid into the booth and took Marcus’s vacated seat, settling in with a grace that felt entirely too intimate for the dingy bar.
The scent of vetiver and jasmine, clean yet deeply sensual, displaced the stale beer smell.
"You’re still on that ‘goddess’ lie?” Lyra scoffed. “What’s the endgame here? You and the God of Strife swapping notes on how to mess with the lonely, pathetic human? Is this how you guys keep yourselves entertained? I would have thought you both were a little too old for such childish antics."
Asmodeus leaned back, one arm resting along the top of the booth, his posture radiating careless power.
“Alaios is a bore. He prefers his suffering to be earned. My philosophy is far simpler: Why waste time on strife when you can luxuriate in pleasure?” He paused, his gaze sweeping down her body and back up, slow and thorough.
"He tells you the truth to inflict pain. I tell you the truth because it’s the most desirable thing you’ve heard all year. Not a single part of it is a lie.”
“The most desirable thing I’ve heard all year was that I’m not legally required to apologize for existing,” Lyra retorted. “So, if you’re trying to tempt me, you’re failing."
He laughed again, a genuine burst of amusement this time.
“You lie with the practiced ease of one of my dedicated worshippers, little goddess. But you’re not built for mediocrity, which is why they all rejected you.
You’re too much. Too vibrant for Peace, too bright for Shadow, too unruly for Sun or Earth.
” He gestured toward the eyes watching them.
“Too beautiful for this crowd of gawkers. And you’re certainly too much for a fire-artisan whose biggest fear is messing up his next sculpture. "
A hot flush crept up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks, a visible wave of warmth spreading across her skin.
“So, what do you want me to say? I lied about worshipping you. I’m a joke.
The one girl everyone denies, even the God of Strife.
I just wanted a night out without being hated. Happy? I confessed my sins."
"Ah, but you did call upon me tonight, didn’t you?
You wanted to escape, to be desired, to feel powerful.
You reached for Lust, and I answered.” He picked up her glass and held it, turning it slowly.
The light, a warm, golden hue, danced and glinted off the amber liquid within.
“I want to show you exactly why you were denied and why you are destined to be one of us.
And more importantly, I want to show you what it feels like to truly, utterly want and be wanted without consequence. "
He pushed the glass back toward her hand, her fingers locking around the cup of their own accord. As his fingers left the rim, she felt a lingering, electric warmth. “Finish your drink and let’s go, Lyra. I’m taking you somewhere you belong."
She stared deeply into those baby-blue eyes, feeling a pull as if they physically tugged at her. His eyes drifted to her lips, and for a moment she thought he would kiss her. She felt the heat rise and her core tighten.
His husky voice, like gravel shifting, urged, “Drink up.”
She lifted the cool glass, its condensation slick against her fingers, and swallowed. The amber liquid burned a fiery path down her throat.
He stood up, extending his hand once again. “Come,” he commanded.
She rested her hand in his, and he tugged her up, dragging her from the bar. He walked into the street without looking for traffic. Her eyes darted around, looking to see if a car was speeding towards them.
He didn’t break stride, simply pulling her hand and then swinging her up into his arms as they hit the middle of the road.
She let out a gasp of surprise, the city lights blurring as they spun once, twice, a giddy, dizzying rush that stole her breath.
When he set her down, her feet barely touched the pavement before a profound, startling stillness fell.
Every single hair on her body seemed to stand on end, a sudden, powerful charge arcing through her skin.
Then, a blinding, pure white light erupted around them, instantaneous and all-consuming.
It wasn’t painful, but overwhelming—a pressure that felt like being submerged in pure energy.
Lyra felt weightless, the sounds of the city vanishing entirely, replaced by a dull roar in her ears.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the disorientation.
When she dared to open them again, the world had been completely remade.
She was standing on solid, shimmering ground, but the air felt like liquid silk.
They were inside a vast cathedral of white—pure, unblemished white that somehow contained infinite depth and light without being harsh.
The walls didn’t look solid; they seemed to shimmer and move, flowing like heavy, illuminated water, their edges constantly reforming into vague arches and columns.
Everything was almost dreamy, ethereal, as if the entire structure were woven from moonlight and mist.
Asmodeus looked down at her, his baby-blue eyes blazing with a mix of triumph and indulgence. His perfect smile was the only thing that seemed truly stable in the fluid space.
“Welcome,” he murmured, his voice echoing softly despite the hall’s size, “to the Hall of Ascendance. Where the court of the gods is held.”