CHAPTER 26
Society itself bent to the will of the gods, and each mortal’s path was shaped by the deity they served.
Careers were granted to the faithful; families aligned themselves by shared devotion, and friendships blossomed only among those who honored the same divine hand.
To choose a god was to choose one’s place in the world, and the unchosen learned quickly that wandering without allegiance was to walk in shadow, observed but unblessed, rewarded by neither prosperity nor respect.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Lyra woke with a rush of adrenaline and excitement; the memory of Alaios and yesterday’s adventures left a warm, potent energy thrumming beneath her skin.
She stretched languidly, a contented smile curving her lips.
Today. She was going to see him today. The thought alone made her heart race, eclipsing all the stress of the past few weeks—the temple gossip, the fight with Asmodeus, and the family drama. Today was for Alaios.
She was halfway out of bed, planning her rapid escape to the tram, when a tap-tap echoed at her bedroom door. She rolled her eyes, a wave of exasperation washing over her.
Diane then pushed the door open and whispered, “You have company. Dress accordingly.”
Lyra sighed, letting the comment about her clothing hang in the air, choosing to ignore the familiar lecture.
She tossed the soft terrycloth robe over her pajamas, tying the belt loosely.
Who on earth would be at our house this early?
She wondered, the icy panic of a potential public relations crisis replacing the warmth of her recent memories.
She entered the living room to see a male she vaguely remembered meeting at the ball, but couldn’t recall his name. So many of the priests blended together with their matching garb and haircuts. He wore robes of pristine white and gold, and held a scroll of parchment that glowed faintly.
"Goddess-to-be Lyra? A summons has arrived from the Temple of the Sun,” the male said in a monotone voice.
She nodded in response. A summons from Elio. The vibrant energy that had pulsed through her moments before vanished, leaving behind a cold dread that clung to her skin like a chill mist.
"Goddess-to-be Lyra,” the priest said, bowing low with a deference that felt more like duty than respect. “I have been instructed to deliver this immediately and escort you to the Great Hall of the Council."
Lyra took the scroll. The parchment was thick and cool against her palm, sealed with the unmistakable, authoritative crest of the Sun. She broke the seal and unrolled it. The language was formal, demanding, and left no room for refusal:
By order of the Pantheon Council, you are hereby mandated to attend the monthly Council proceedings, effective immediately. Your presence is required this day in the Great Hall. Compliance is mandatory.
Her jaw tightened. Her morning with Alaios had just been summarily canceled.
A chill of disappointment, sharp and unwelcome, prickled her skin.
The hope that had bloomed moments before withered, leaving a hollow ache in its place.
Is this why he asked me to come by after lunch? At least I can see him at the meeting.
She dressed quickly, choosing one of the few items her mother had deemed ‘suitable for divine company’—a delicate white silk dress. It was flowy and simple, hanging from thin spaghetti straps. She grabbed a soft green shawl to toss on her shoulders.
As she swung her door open, a wave of annoyance washed over her when she caught sight of what was waiting on the other side of the door: the priest. A hot wave of annoyance surged through her, prickling her skin. He couldn’t just wait in the living room; he had to stalk me to my bedroom?
The priest turned and walked back down the hallway. “I am here to escort you, Goddess-to-be. We must not keep the Council waiting."
“Forgive me,” Lyra said. “I know nothing tests divine patience quite like a woman getting dressed.”
A grimace creased his brow, a taut line mirroring the tension in his jaw.
The sound of his footsteps, a muffled thud against the floorboards, receded as he turned his back.
As they stepped outside, the air was cool and heavy.
A soft, steady rain was falling, a quiet, insistent drumming on the pavement.
The media stayed quiet; no questions today, just took pictures.
It was almost weird not hearing them yelling questions today.
Are they showing Elio’s priest reverence, or are they bored with me?
Lyra paused beneath the patio, tilting her head back to look up at the gray, swirling clouds. They were deep, full, and heavy with promise. Instead of finding the sight depressing, Lyra felt a profound sense of connection.
How pretty, she thought, watching the drops fall, as if the world is being cleansed. The rain belonged to no one, and yet it touched everything.
“God Elio is waiting,” the priest huffed.
She lowered her gaze from the sky, pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders. She turned to the waiting priest. “Shall we, then?"
With the Sun God’s priest leading the way, Lyra walked out into the drizzle toward the car.
They rode in silence heading to the temple district.
The car pulled to a silent stop before the Celestial Ward.
Lyra raised her head, her mossy green eyes lifting to behold the sight.
Fifteen colossal temples ringed the Celestial Ward, each a monument of stone and light, their towers piercing the low, churning clouds.
Elio’s shining gold, Mira’s flowing blue glass, the black basalt of Alaios and the others’ domains all converged, forming a council of giants beneath the heavy, pregnant sky.
A fine mist, more than a downpour, kissed her face, each droplet catching the diffused light and tracing a cool path down her cheeks.
The buildings seemed to loom, silent and eternal, their presence both oppressive and magnificent against the backdrop of swirling gray and white.
It struck her as she noticed a profound silence, a silence that felt less like peace and more like a held breath.
A palpable feeling of being intensely watched settled over Lyra, raising the fine hairs on her arms. It wasn’t the clamor of the media; it was deeper, colder, like dozens of unseen eyes were fixed on her every move.
She spun slowly, scanning the expanse of the courtyard, the reflective windows of the towers, the great oak trees, and the shadowed corners of the colonnades.
She saw nothing—no figures lingering, no movement. Just the rain falling steadily.
Just the constant scrutiny of the media playing with my nerves, she told herself, shaking off the cold, unnerving sensation. Everyone knows I’m here. It’s just the gods watching their new toy, nothing sinister.
She pulled the thin shawl tighter around her shoulders, steeling her nerves, and continued to follow the priest. The cleric, pristine in his white and gold, moved with a rigid, hurried pace that discouraged conversation.
Lyra took a step forward, following the priest, when she heard a low, shuffling noise directly behind her. She spun around, her thin shawl swirling with the movement.
Standing barely ten feet away, concealed partially by a tree, was the creepy guy from the tram.
He was a mess: his clothes were disheveled, and his eyes, usually just unsettling, were now wide and wild, gleaming with a fanatical intensity that sent a primal bolt of terror through her.
"I knew you were special the first time I saw you on the tram,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, cutting through the drumming rain. It was a declaration, not a compliment, and it made her skin crawl.
"Umm… alright, Mr….” Lyra paused, her mind scrambling for his name, and realizing she didn’t know it.
"I am Tavian Creed,” he whispered, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. His hands were hidden beneath a ragged, oversized jacket, and his body was tense, coiled like a spring.
Her breath hitched as instinct screamed at her to retreat.
She recoiled, a desperate attempt to widen the space between them.
But it was a futile effort. With a chilling, silent fluidity, he mirrored her every backward step, closing the distance with unnerving precision.
She scanned the area. The priest’s footsteps echoed softly as he retreated.
Her gaze, drawn by an unseen force, settled back on the man whose unnerving presence seemed to chill the very air around her.
"Alright, Mr. Creed,” Lyra said, forcing a calm tone she didn’t feel, slowly stepping back toward the temple.
She desperately scanned for the priest, who had moved ahead, now oblivious to her.
“I really need to leave now. The gods are waiting for me. May the gods ever be with you.” She took another step backward.
"I’ve had visions of this day for months now. I am the chosen hand to make you a goddess,” he said, his voice rising to a frantic pitch. “When I saw you on the tram those times, I knew it was true.”
Fear clawed at Lyra, sharp and cold, overriding her composure. “I need to leave,” she managed, turning her back on him, intending to bolt.
She went to run, but Tavian moved with shocking speed. He lunged, his right hand whipping out from his jacket, and in it, a glint of silver: a knife. It plunged into her chest; the point finding her heart with savage precision.
Pain, blinding and all-consuming, gripped her.
It was a white-hot spear of agony that stole her breath and shattered her world into a thousand fragments.
She felt the sickening, wet sensation of the blade tearing through skin and muscle.
As she was stabbed in the heart, her body seized up, her knees buckled, and she fell backwards, bracing for the impact of the hard, cold pavement.
The colossal temples around her began to spin and blur.
The fall felt like an agonizing eternity; the world around her smeared into a suffocating darkness. Suddenly, she hit the ground, but instead of stone, she felt the cold, immediate shock of water. She wasn’t just on the ground; she was submerged in water.
She was swimming, then sinking, then swimming again, fighting with every ounce of strength to get to the surface.
Her lungs ached, burning with the desperate, raw need for air; her hands and legs were heavy and tired, failing her.
I can’t swim anymore. She was drowning, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision.
The world shifted. The suffocating pressure vanished, and she was falling—not through air, but out of the water to land in another pool, this one shallower and utterly still.
Lyra gasped, scrambling to push herself up, her vision clearing. She was in a vast, ethereal chamber; the water she sat in was crystal-clear, bordered by a soft, glowing light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
She looked up. Standing at the edge of the pool was an old man. He was ancient; his white beard flowed like a waterfall over simple, pale robes. He looked at her with eyes the lightest shade of blue that held the depth of millennia, and a gentle, knowing smile on his lips.
"Finally, she has arrived,” he stated, his voice a low, resonant chime. “And it is time for the trials to begin."