CHAPTER 8
Even as the laws of Lust were proclaimed, whispers began among the faithful.
Some hearts faltered in secret, seeking what the High Council forbade, and in hidden chambers desire stirred where devotion should have reigned.
Though we recorded only obedience, the shadows of want spread quietly, a reminder that the God of Lust had awakened truths that could not be fully restrained.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Lyra glanced up, her eyes narrowing. The booth across from them, a young male sitting alone in it, was holding his phone up, clearly pointed right at her.
His face, partially hidden behind the glowing screen, was pale, and his eyes—which snapped away the second she looked—were wide with recognition.
He was recording her. I can’t even escape for one night.
She looked back at Adrian, then at the camera again. The male immediately averted his gaze, pretending to be utterly engrossed in his menu. Adrian’s eyes, dark and sharp, bored into her, a silent storm brewing in their depths.
She took a few steps towards him, the worn linoleum cool beneath her shoes.
Leaning forward, her voice, a low, clear bell, sliced through the diner’s gentle hum of clattering plates and hushed conversations.
Her gaze locked onto the recording phone, a challenging, defiant smile blooming on her lips, a spark of rebellion in her eyes.
“I hope you got all that. He dumped me for not being good enough when we were teens.
For being unaligned, and now he wants me back.
My answer was no. I have more self-respect than to be with an opportunist."
She looked back at Adrian and saw the flash of panic in Adrian’s eyes as he saw what she had seen: the unblinking lens of the camera.
The distant hum of fluorescent lights seemed to swell as she spun on her heel and headed towards the exit sign.
"Delete that now!” she heard Adrian scream at the male with the phone, the sound ringing out across the diner. “Delete the footage, you pathetic drone!"
Lyra shoved the door open, the cool air hitting her face as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
The blonde wig sat crooked on her head, tickling her ears.
With a quick, furtive gesture, she tugged at the synthetic strands, trying to pull the disguise back into place, to melt back into the anonymity of the street.
I should have noticed the wig slide. I can’t even hide properly.
She hurried to the tram stop, the sounds of Adrian’s furious yelling and the male’s startled protests fading behind her.
The tram ride back was quiet. She kept her face down, blending in with the other passengers.
When she disembarked near her street, she walked straight toward the press pack surrounding her house.
The flashes stuttered, then stopped. They were looking for the auburn-haired goddess-to-be, not the generic blonde in gray sweats.
She was a nobody again, and the anonymity was a balm.
The front door groaned softly as she pushed it open.
In the dim hallway, Clara stood a few feet away, leaning on the coat closet door.
The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of her finger against her phone screen as she scrolled.
She could almost feel the impatience radiating from Clara, a subtle tension in the air.
Lyra pulled off the itchy blonde wig and glasses, dropping them onto the hall table. Her mother, Diane, was already there, her expression a mix of relief and barely contained anxiety.
Lyra’s finger, rigid and accusing, jabbed towards Clara. Her voice, devoid of any warmth, cut through the air like shards of ice. “Get out. I’m not interested in being friends with social climbers."
Clara sputtered, her mouth opening to protest, “Lyra, I just—"
Diane’s voice, firm and unexpected, cut through the air like a sharp breeze. She stepped forward, a solid presence shielding Lyra, the fabric of her clothes rustling softly. “My daughter told you to leave.”
Clara snapped her mouth shut. A crimson flush spread across her face, visible even in the dim light. She pushed through the door as she left without another sound.
Diane turned to Lyra, her breath catching in a silent gasp, anxiety a palpable tightening of her features. “Lyra... do you want to talk about it?"
Lyra shook her head, running a hand through her disheveled hair.
“I don’t. And when you see the video online, I would prefer not to hear about it then as well.
I am not up for being lectured about this one thing, Mom, please.
" Lyra could feel the weight of the new impending media storm settling over her.
Diane nodded, her fingertips tugging at a knot in Lyra’s hair. “Understood, darling. Go get some rest.”
Lyra heard a sharp, insistent rap on the front door, followed by her father’s low grumble from the kitchen.
She tensed, certain it was another reporter, but didn’t move from the comfortable refuge of her bed.
Let them deal with it. After the disaster of last night’s misadventure, I am tired of dealing with people.
Adrian’s face as she left flashed in her mind; she got grim satisfaction from watching his face after she told him off.
She almost wished she had pulled her phone out and taken a picture.
Lyra, wrapped in the comfort of her duvet, had spent the morning a prisoner of her own dread, the phantom weight of looming headlines pressing down so she had refused to open Pantheia.
Random TV shows flickered silently on the screen, their artificial light painting fleeting colors across the dim room.
Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched squeal, a sound so pure and full of shocked delight that it hadn’t graced her mother’s voice in ages—sliced through the stillness. The squeal was instantly followed by the sound of furious, hurried footsteps charging down the hall.
The bedroom door exploded inward, a violent crash against the wall echoing.
Diane stood silhouetted, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes burning with an almost wild, dazzling excitement Lyra had never witnessed.
In her hands, clutched tight, was a rolled parchment, its tightly bound form emphasizing the slender, gleaming gold bar nestled within.
"Lyra, look!” her mother gasped, practically vibrating with tension. She lunged forward, thrusting the scroll against Lyra’s chest. “Open it! Open it now! We need to know what this is about! It’s official, darling, completely official! From the gods themselves!"
Lyra blinked, pushing herself up against the headboard. She took the scroll, its weight surprisingly substantial. The golden bar was warm from her mother’s frantic grip, and the parchment felt impossibly old and expensive beneath her fingers.
"Where did this even come from?” Lyra asked, her voice a soft whisper, tinged with the fuzzy uncertainty of a dream. “Is this a joke? Some kind of prank?"
Diane snatched her hands back as she wrung them together, a nervous, rhythmic motion.
“A Priestess! From Elio’s temple! She dropped it off at the door—she didn’t even ring the bell, just left it and walked away!
A priestess from the Sun God himself, Lyra!
They never come to just anyone’s house! Open it, open it! "
Lyra stared at the scroll, the heavy parchment contrasting sharply with the fine, textured gold bar that bound it.
Her fingers traced the intricate, raised seal—a stylized sunburst, the undeniable mark of Elio, the Sun God, the highest authority in the pantheon.
She felt a tremor run through her hands, but not of fear, more of stark, unnerving realization.
"Open it! Lyra, open it. What are you waiting for? This is it, darling! This is an official invitation! It has to be!” Diane practically vibrated with anticipation as she hopped from one foot to the other.
Her face, flushed and taut, was a canvas of conflicting emotions: a bright, almost blinding pride warred with a gnawing, shadowy anxiety; her eyes wide and gleaming like a trapped bird’s.
Taking a deep breath, Lyra slid the gold bar free. It clinked softly as it fell onto the pink comforter. She unrolled the parchment. The script inside was elegant, formal, and written in an ink that shimmered faintly in the bedroom light. It wasn’t an acceptance to a temple; it was a summons.
"Lyra Nymphaea, the Unaligned. You are requested to attend the High Council in the Hall of Ascendance at the hour of twilight tomorrow. Attendance is compulsory. A transport will be provided at your domicile."
The message was signed with the symbols of the Sun God, the Ocean Goddess, and the Earth God—the three high-ruling deities.
Lyra finished reading and slowly lowered the parchment, her gaze meeting her mother’s expectant eyes. The look of sheer joy and relief. I’m no longer the disappointment in her eyes. A weird feeling bubbled in her stomach.
"Well? What does it say? Are they offering you a position? A temple?” Diane fired the questions like a burst of machine-gun fire.
"They… they want me to attend a meeting,” Lyra murmured, the words feeling flat and alien. “Tomorrow. In the Hall of Ascendance."
Diane gasped again, this time a sound of pure, unadulterated awe. “The Hall of Ascendance! The court of the gods! Oh, Lyra, this is wonderful! This is the highest honor! We need to prepare!"
The frenzy began instantly. Diane swept toward the closet, flinging open the doors with dramatic force. The sound of hangers scraping as she shoved one after another aside.
"The green dress? No, too Petro. Too humble. The black one? Too lust-like, no, no, not for the High Council! We can’t have the Sun God thinking you’re…
too much of a spectacle. You need something dignified, something worthy of a future goddess!
” Diane yanked out a collection of Lyra’s clothes, dismissing them with sharp, disgusted snorts as she tossed them onto the ground.
“None of these will do! They’re all too young, too casual, and too…
human! Oh, I know! I’ll call Anya—she has that lovely, subtle gold gown she wore for their tenth anniversary.
It has just the right amount of reverence, it says, ‘I respect your hierarchy, but I’m clearly better than everyone here! ’"
As Diane pulled out her phone, already dialing and launching into a breathless, rapid-fire monologue about the ‘High Council Summons,’ Lyra finally tuned her out.
The noise faded to a distant buzz, and a profound, bone-deep stillness settled over her.
She looked down at the scroll, then out the window at the reporters still huddled on the lawn.
It wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t a stunt. It wasn’t a mistake. Goddess.
Alaios was right. Asmodeus was right. She wasn’t failing at this life; she was designed to be rejected by it.
This miserable, scrutinized existence—the firings, all the rejections, the forced cheer, the public humiliation, the constant eyes—this was her new norm.
The invisible, unwanted girl was now the focus of the entire world, and she would be for the rest of her life and beyond.
A turbulent swirl of emotions churned within her—a dizzying mix of anxiety and a sliver of determination.
She could almost feel the knot tightening in her stomach as she grappled with the overwhelming thought of how she would somehow, impossibly, find a way to navigate this.
A few months ago, all she had wanted was belonging and to stop being a disappointment.
Now, she had neither. She was loved by her parents only because she was apparently destined for divine elevation.
People she hadn’t spoken to in years wanted to be her friend again, but none of them actually wanted her; they wanted the goddess.
She was constantly visible to the entire world, and the scrutiny felt like a crushing physical weight.
The anxiety of being watched, of having every move judged by an invisible divine and a very visible mortal audience, filled the space where her desperate hope used to be.
Lyra carefully re-rolled the scroll. This wasn’t a reward; it was a cage. And tomorrow, she was required to step inside.