CHAPTER 13
Under Raios’ gaze, cities trembled and borders shifted, and even the most devout learned that survival required more than prayer, more than faith.
Armies rose at the command of gods, and those who resisted were reminded that courage without obedience was folly.
War was no longer an event—it was instruction, and we, the living, were its pupils.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Lyra boarded the tram; the seats cool beneath her as she headed home.
A prickling sensation, like unseen needles, traced her skin as she sensed eyes on her.
Turning, she saw a man, his eyes fixed on her.
His gaze was intense, a dark fixation that never wavered, making the hum of the tram and the distant city noise fade.
She felt his eyes like a physical touch, a prickling sensation across her skin, as if she’d just walked into a sticky, unseen spider web.
He looked just like so many other males on the tram: brown hair, brown eyes, normal height and weight—the kind of male who blends in.
But the look in his eyes sent a shiver down her spine.
She pulled her hoodie down, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her.
Hoping he was looking past her and not at her.
The tram’s metal wheels hummed a low, monotonous tune on the tracks, a sound that seemed to stretch time.
Sunlight, thick with dust motes, streamed through the grimy windows, painting hazy stripes across the worn seats.
Each time she met his gaze, the clatter of the tram faded, replaced by the sharp, unnerving intensity of his stare, a silent current passing between them.
Great, hopefully he doesn’t recognize me.
I just want a quiet moment of not being noticed.
At least he doesn’t have his phone out. So, maybe he doesn’t recognize me and it’s all in my head.
The tram ride continued its slow crawl through the city.
Lyra tried to distract herself, pulling out her phone and opening Pantheia up.
The glowing screen was usually a reliable escape, a place where she could lose herself in the trivialities of other people’s lives.
But today, the algorithm was ruthless. Every third post, it seemed, was about her.
There was a photo, clearly taken by a long-lens camera from outside her dining-room window, of her family dinner. The caption beneath it, from a popular gossip blog, was incendiary: “Future Goddess Proves She’s Still a Reject.” It then went on to poke fun at how much she ate.
Another post featured a grainy, zoomed in shot of her coffee order from the diner with Adrian. The caption: “Is Lyra Nymphaea’s Sweet Tooth a Sign of Her Inner Weakness? Goddess-to-Be Prefers Sugary Caffeinated Drinks Over Divine Discipline."
Why do they care so much about what I eat? She stifled a groan as she slid the screen, hoping for something not focused on herself.
Then came the style critiques. A full analysis of the track suit she had worn. “The Divine Downgrade: Is Lyra Too Casual to be a Goddess?"
The echo of her mother’s voice, a grating sound in her mind, replayed instructions: how to dress, how to act, all while a suffocating pressure, like a heavy velvet cloak, bore down, urging her to be anything but her own self.
Her finger slid up, trying to block her mother’s words out.
The commentary was a relentless tidal wave.
Some users tore her apart, detailing her flaws, speculating on her divine domain, and questioning her suitability.
Others defended her with fervent, almost desperate zeal, proclaiming her the ‘Goddess of the Unaligned’ or the ‘Patron of the Rejects.’ But the volume of it all—the sheer, unblinking focus on every minute detail of her existence—was crushing and overwhelmed her.
Lyra scrolled faster, the stream of opinions blurring into an incomprehensible mosaic of judgment. She finally pressed the power button, plunging the screen into darkness.
Closing her eyes, the criticism didn’t vanish; it settled like a physical weight in her stomach. The voices—her mother’s, Adrian’s, the gods, the screams of the reporters, the stream of headlines—merged into a single, insistent drone: You are not enough. You are a disappointment and a failure.
She opened her eyes, and her gaze shot up, connecting instantly with the male commuter. He was still staring, his eyes holding that unnerving, wild intensity still. But this time, Lyra saw the flash of recognition there—not just of the famous face, but of her.
A cold knot formed in her chest. He knew. He knew who she was, and the look he gave her was not the hungry curiosity of a fan or a reporter, but something darker, possessive, and terrifying.
The certainty hit her with the force of a physical blow: he wasn’t just observing the spectacle; it felt like he was hunting the girl. Is he a reporter looking for a new story? Could he be one of my detractors online? Or is he something else?
Finally, the tram stopped at her destination.
She got off the tram and saw him stand up.
Fear gripped her that he was going to follow her home.
Her feet hit the ground at full sprint, directing her towards home.
She ran through the streets, through the media.
Cameras clicking, lights flashing, and yells of constant questions she had no answer to.
Their hunger for footage overcame any residual divine command Asmodeus had given them as they were back in full force.
Lyra felt the immediate, suffocating press of the crowd.
Microphones, cameras, and blinding flashes created an impenetrable, chaotic wall she was having trouble pushing through.
She tucked her face into her hoodie, shoving her way forward, her shoulder bumping against a solid lens.
A microphone was aggressively shoved in her face, and she reacted instinctively, batting it away with a sharp slap of her hand.
The questions were a bombardment, a rapid-fire assault.
"Lyra, is grunge coming back in style this season?” a voice cut through the noise. Lyra risked a glance at the source—a perfectly dressed, impossibly elegant woman whose makeup was flawless, clearly viewing the potential goddess as a walking fashion headline.
"What kind of food do you eat to stay slim?” another woman shrieked, the question so invasive and loud it felt like a punch.
"Are you and God Asmodeus a couple or is it just a fling?” a male voice yelled, the flash of his camera momentarily blinding her as she flinched.
The relentless pressure became too much.
Lyra lowered her head and broke into a full sprint, pushing past the final line of reporters.
She almost lost her balance on the curb, stumbling onto the grass of her front lawn, her feet desperately seeking purchase as she raced toward the safety of the front door.
She knew her mom would be upset when she saw the pictures, but something in that male’s eyes made her not want to sneak back in. She burst through the front door, slamming it shut behind her, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Diane was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed, her eyes immediately sweeping over Lyra’s disheveled state—the jeans, the pulled-up hoodie, and the old tennies. The look of disapproval was immediate and cutting, momentarily eclipsing her own fear.
"Lyra Nymphaea! Where have you been, and look at you! You look like you’ve been fighting a stray dog!
” her mother hissed, her voice a low, furious whisper so the reporters outside wouldn’t hear.
“A goddess-to-be does not wear dirt on her clothes! And ratty jeans! After I spent all morning trying to spin the story to our prayer group about what a blessing you are, you go out looking like that! Do you have any idea how much this appearance hurts the family’s—"
Lyra held up a hand, cutting off the inevitable lecture. “Mom, please. Not now."
"Not now?” Diane gasped before her voice rose, “Lyra, always now! You are on a global stage; every second is a performance! You need to go to your room, take off that ridiculous hoodie, and put on something presentable! We have standards, Lyra! And you will start presenting those standards!"
Lyra sagged against the door, closing her eyes for a brief moment; the image of the male’s unsettling gaze still burned behind her eyelids. The flash of cameras, the invasive questions making her stomach twist in knots. “I’m fine, Mom, thanks for asking. Just tired."
"I don’t care if you’re tired! I care that you’re disrespecting the gods who are about to welcome you into their pantheon!
” Diane took a step forward, her voice dropping in pitch.
“Now, go change before your father sees you. You will not leave this house again looking like a low-level petition clerk who lost her temple pass again. Do you understand me? And for the love of the gods, wipe that frantic look off your face! You’re a goddess, not a scared little girl! "