CHAPTER 11
In the wake of flame, famine became law.
As the fires waned and the land lay stripped bare, God of Famine, Virel Ashborne, descended, and we learned that hunger was not a punishment, but a lesson meant to humble those who had taken too much.
The fires took our crops, and the God of Famine took what remained of our certainty.
When he descended without spectacle, for hunger requires no display to command obedience.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Lyra blinked, the sudden transition from the ethereal Hall of Ascendance back to the gritty reality of her front porch leaving her disoriented.
Her borrowed gown shimmered under the orange glow of the porch lights, and the noise—the frantic, hungry clicking of cameras and the shouted questions of the assembled press—was an immediate, brutal sensory assault.
“Lyra, how does it feel knowing you will ascend to be with the Gods?” A male voice yelled.
“Are you and God Asmodeus a couple?” A female voice screamed. “Everyone is dying to know your status.”
“Can you guys turn left so I can get a shot?” Another voice screeched.
"Lyra, do you have a divine dominion yet, and if so, what is it?"
"What was it like meeting the gods and goddesses? Who was your favorite one? What were they wearing?"
“Do you think you will be as popular as the other gods?”
The cacophony of voices, sharp and demanding, felt like a physical assault; their questions were like tiny barbs carried across the lawn.
She buried her face into Asmodeus’s chest, trying to hide.
She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the darkness behind her lids could somehow shield her from the piercing gazes, as if closing her eyes could silence the relentless barrage of sound.
Asmodeus, however, seemed entirely unfazed, calm amidst the noise of the mob. He pushed her aside, his movement smooth as polished obsidian. He took one silent, effortless step toward the restless, murmuring throng gathered just past the sidewalk, their faces a blur in the dimming light.
Lyra felt the sudden absence of his protection like a jolt of cold reality.
The cameras’ relentless flashing felt like a physical invasion, seizing her image over and over.
She stood rooted to the spot, adrift in the sea of frantic faces, all eyes darting from her to Asmodeus and back again, measuring their combined spectacle.
She wanted to scream into the noise, to rage at the audacity of their collective scrutiny, but the urge was immediately crushed by a desperate, paralyzing need to simply hide and not be seen.
How do you get used to this? The question burned in her mind, aimed at the effortless composure of the God of Lust beside her, but she did not give it voice.
The ease he projected was the complete opposite of the chaos churning in her stomach.
A reporter, a young male with an aggressively cheerful demeanor, shouted above the din, “Lyra, can you please smile for the camera?"
The command felt like an unbearable weight. She couldn’t move. She wanted to yell back, ‘I’m not a doll! I’m not a performer!’ but instead, she just clenched her jaw, her gaze locked on the ground, praying for the earth to swallow her whole.
Asmodeus’s indulgent smile bloomed brighter.
He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, full sound that was genuine in its arrogance.
“Favorite god? Well, we all know who her favorite one is, don’t we?
” He winked at the press, and the crowd, momentarily put at ease by his casual charm, let out a wave of laughter.
"God Asmodeus! Is Lyra going to be your new consort? How long do you plan on keeping her all to yourself?” a female reporter asked, her voice oozing playful innuendo.
Heat crawled up Lyra’s neck, blooming crimson across her cheeks. The reporter’s question, sharp and laced with knowing innuendo, replayed in her mind like a broken record.
Am I just a new plaything for him? The thought was a searing stab of insecurity.
Sadness warred with a building, hot rage.
She wasn’t a script to be read, memorized, and then tossed aside when the next novel spectacle came along.
She wanted to yell that she was a person, not a passing fancy for a bored god.
The anger coiled tight, a desperate, silent refusal to be used again, especially not by someone as magnificent and terrifying as the God of Lust. Her lips parted, then snapped shut as she pictured the gawking faces and social posts.
The air seemed to thicken around her, a heavy, suffocating blanket.
Do I let them believe whatever they are thinking, or do I yell the truth?
Asmodeus turned his head toward the voice, his blue eyes flashing with an unholy mix of amusement and ownership. “A gentleman never tells,” he purred, the answer coy and utterly dismissive, yet serving only to fuel the frenzy further. “And neither will the pretty little goddess."
The reporters unleashed a barrage of questions, their voices a cacophony of overlapping shouts, a desperate clamor to be heard above the din.
"The show is over,” he announced, his voice dropping to a low, carrying register that cut through the noise with chilling finality. “She is home. Disperse."
With a casual flick of his hand—a movement so slight it was barely perceptible—a quiet swoosh seemed to wash over the crowd.
The collective noise instantly vanished, replaced by an unnerving, absolute silence.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute.
Reporters, who minutes before had been jostling for position, simply backed away, their faces pale, their cameras lowering as if weighed down by an invisible force.
Within seconds, the street was silent save for the whirring of a retreating drone and the rev of engines growing dim.
The God of Lust had merely commanded the mundane to vanish, and they had obeyed.
Can he control everyone like that? Even me? A shiver trailed down her spine as she wondered if he had used that power on her already. Do I want him, or is it the power he exudes so effortlessly? The questions rattled around, no answers coming to her.
He turned back to Lyra, the golden light of the porch illuminating his dirty blonde hair and the dark blue silk of his tunic. His baby-blue eyes, now completely focused on her, held a depth of predatory desire that made her breath hitch.
He moved toward her slowly, gracefully. She could smell the crisp, clean scent of mint and vetiver—a scent that promised both luxury and a lack of moral restraint. He leaned in so close that his exhale made the delicate tendrils of hair near her temple flutter.
“Don’t flirt with me,” she whispered, her voice husky. Her voice, a husky whisper that seemed to cling to the air, vibrated against his ear.
"I don’t just want to flirt with you,” he purred, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “I want to hear how your voice changes when you’re completely undone."
Then he closed the distance. His lips were impossibly soft, yet the kiss was assertive, demanding an answer.
A dizzying rush—a thousand tiny, chaotic butterflies—erupted in Lyra’s stomach, a feeling so potent and unexpected it made her head spin.
It was desire, pure and simple, unburdened by guilt or consequence.
Confused by the intensity of the rush of emotions, Lyra pushed back, placing a trembling hand on his chest. She pushed him away. Is this real or his power? She looked into his eyes, trying to read the truth, but there was nothing to read.
"That's some lovely words, Asmodeus,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady, though it lacked the sassy bite she’d intended. “But tonight, I think I’ll stick to myself."
“Why are you denying what you so obviously want?” He leaned down, pressing her back against the door.
His fingertip drifted slowly down the sensitive curve of her neck.
She could hear the frantic, drumming beat of her own heart echoing in her ears, a frantic rhythm against the hushed quiet.
“I can show you emotions you’ve never dared to admit you were craving. ”
“You don’t get to decide what I want,” Lyra whispered, slipping her hand between them and pushing against his chest harder. “You’re saying things I know better than to believe.”
“Little goddess,” he whispered, his lips a breath away from hers. “Your eyes tell me those words are a lie.”
“Or you’re just so used to believing you’ll get what you want you only see what you want to see.”
He chuckled, a low, rich sound. “I am offering you a taste of the divine. Why deny yourself a sip?” His soft palm, warm against her skin, cradled her cheekbone. The gentle rasp of his stubble tickled her as his nose brushed softly against hers.
"You already proved with a word you can control a mortal,” Lyra retorted, holding his gaze. “You made the media vanish with a word. I know what you can do. Meaning, what if I don’t want to be charmed with a spell or whatever that was?"
His perfect smile didn’t waver, but a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps disappointment, perhaps amusement, perhaps anger—crossed his eyes.
“Meaning? Meaning is for mortals to show devotion and peace, little goddess.
I offer raw experience. And believe me, what we could have would leave a deeper mark than any mere mortal ever has or ever will. "
“Maybe I don’t want to be the one marked,” she whispered. “But the one who leaves the mark.”
Before he could respond, she fumbled with the cold brass knob, the sharp click echoing in the quiet. Rushing inside, the door slammed shut behind her with a solid thud. The heavy silk of the borrowed gown rustled softly, tangling around her ankles and almost causing her to stumble.
A fresh wave of dread immediately replaced the rush of adrenaline. Her mother was standing in the archway of the living room, her face a terrifying mask of anxious, barely contained excitement.
"Well?" Diane whispered, practically vibrating. “What did they say? What happened? Tell me everything, Lyra, now!"
Lyra leaned her back against the cool wood of the door, letting out a long, shaky breath. The weight of the evening—the Council, the trials, the kiss—crashed down on her.
"I'm exhausted, Mom,” Lyra sighed, pushing off the door. She managed a small, tired smile. “It was... a lot. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, promise."
Without waiting for a reply, she gathered the skirt of the heavy gold gown and ran as fast as the confining fabric would allow down the hall, seeking the familiar refuge of her closed bedroom door.
She collapsed onto the bed, the golden silk pooling around her, her heart still hammering from the adrenaline, a trapped bird desperate for escape.