CHAPTER 12
Soon we watched as conflicts overtook our lands, and a new God arose. He was Raios, the God of War. With him he brought death, Thaniel. Many fell at their feet as they triumphantly smiled down at us. War was not a failure of the gods, but a necessary correction for mortal excess.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Lyra tossed and turned, the rough cotton sheets scratching against her skin.
The morning sun, a blinding sliver of gold, pierced through a crack in her window, casting a sharp line across the dusty floorboards.
Her mind, a tempest of gnawing self-doubt and cold fear, echoed with the unanswered questions, a cacophony that drowned out any hope of sleep.
The sharp scent of stale air did little to soothe her.
No matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to muffle the insistent thoughts, they kept her awake.
Staring at that unforgiving crack of light, she knew, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that rest would not come.
With a sudden burst of energy, she sprang from her bed.
She yanked open the closet door; her fingers brushed past soft cottons and silks, finally closing around a pair of worn, dark jeans, a faded t-shirt, and a hoodie.
She pulled them on, a second skin against her body.
Her feet slipped easily into a pair of old tennis shoes.
Sunlight glinted off the multitude of camera lenses as she peeked out the window.
Through the pane, she saw them—a sea of faces, a relentless, and unwavering stare.
They were back, their collective gaze like a hawk’s, fixed on the house with unnerving intensity.
Are there any in the back? She wandered.
Walking into the hallway, she strained to hear any telltale sound from her parents’ room.
Silence. The hallway felt vast and dim as she crept down its length.
The morning air, carrying the faint scent of damp earth from the garden, kissed her face as she slipped through the back door.
It groaned softly, a tiny protest swallowed by the quiet.
Her eyes scanned the backyard, taking in the riot of color from her mom and dad’s meticulously tended gardens.
Crimson roses, sunny marigolds, and vibrant purple petunias burst with life, their sweet, intoxicating perfume heavy in the still morning air.
No camera flashes popped, no angry shouted questions disturbed the peace, only the soft chirping of birds accompanied her quiet ascent towards the wooden fence.
With a determined grasp, she climbed over the edge, landing with a soft thud on the dewy grass in the alley.
Her breath hitched in her chest as she cautiously surveyed her new surroundings; the silence and solitude stretched out unbroken.
She ran down the alley, the morning air cool and crisp against her skin.
She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she couldn’t stay.
Her feet pounded the ground, a rhythmic echo of the anxiety thrumming in her chest. Goddess?
The title felt heavy, a beautiful crown made of lead.
I need to talk to someone. To just see how they navigate all this mess.
She paused when she realized where she was going.
I am going to talk to him. He’s the only one who doesn’t treat me like a delicate artifact or a failure.
She took a sharp left, heading toward the main street where she could catch a tram to the temple district.
She got on the tram, pulling her hoodie down to hide her face, attempting to look like any other early morning commuter.
The feeling of being watched was a persistent itch now, a consequence of her newfound notoriety.
She kept her head down, avoiding the eyes of the few people who were already out.
Disembarking at the temple plaza, the sound of sweeping brushes broke the early morning silence. She headed straight for the black basalt temple. It was unadorned, imposing, and felt like utterly the right place to go.
The main hall was dim, filled with the sharp, metallic scent of leather and parchment.
A lone priestess was polishing a black marble slab near the entrance.
The woman, whose face was lined with a perpetual expression of focused strain, looked up, and her eyes widened in an instant of pure recognition.
"I need to speak to Alaios. Please,” Lyra stated, her voice tight but firm.
The priestess hesitated for only a second, then seemed to weigh the inevitable conflict of denying the rumored new goddess against the wrath of the God of Strife. She inclined her head stiffly. “Follow me."
Lyra was guided through corridors that echoed with their footsteps, the air biting with a chilling cold that seeped into her bones.
The stone walls, stark and unadorned, stretched into the dimness.
They arrived at the God’s office, a heavy, imposing door.
The priestess rapped once, a sharp, dry sound that cut through the stillness, and then she was gone, melting back into the shadows before Alaios could even utter a word, leaving Lyra alone in the hush.
"Enter," his voice commanded, a low, grinding sound that matched the stone of the hallway.
He stood at his desk, not seated, but braced against its edge.
A thick stack of papers clutched in his hand.
His simple, tight black button-up shirt stretched taut across his broad chest, and his pants hugged the coiled power in his legs.
His dark eyes, like polished obsidian, swept over her.
They paused, catching the subtle smudge of dirt on her elbow; her hand darted to it to brush it off.
A ghost of a smirk, a barely there twitch, played on the corner of his lips.
"Lyra Nymphaea. What disaster has brought you here this time?” His question hung in the air, the words laced with a bitter, metallic taste of sarcasm, a sharp edge that pricked at her.
For a fleeting moment, her skin prickled with indignation, a hot flush rising.
Then, the defiant storm in her eyes softened, and the pent-up feelings spilled out in a rush of hurried words, a cascade tumbling from her lips.
“Let’s see, I am being stalked by monsters with cameras and tons of questions.
They post everything I say and everything I don’t say.
I even saw one that speculated on what I eat to maintain my figure.
I’ve spent my whole life being rejected by practically everyone, and now everyone wants a piece of me.
Even my childhood boyfriend. My mom keeps telling me everything I need to change about myself so I can be presentable. Then—”
“Slow down and take a breath,” he laughed softly.
“You think this is a joke?” she growled.
“No, I think you are speaking so fast that I can’t keep up with you.”
“I have this constant feeling that I am being watched,” she said, taking a deep breath. “The paparazzi are constantly outside the house. Even when they aren’t there, I feel like I am being watched.”
"There is always going to be eyes on you from here on out,” he stated. “There are very few places that we aren’t monitored. My office is one of the few places I can hide from the world and not be scrutinized."
“Do you get used to the feeling?”
He shrugged, his eyes surveying her. “It bothers you less over time. You just get… used to it.”
“I feel like I am going to disappoint everyone,” she whispered, looking down at her sneakers. “That I will fail.”
Alaios pushed off the desk and took a step toward her, the floor creaking faintly beneath his feet as he closed the distance.
The air between them seemed to sharpen. Her eyes, wide like saucers, darted up toward his face.
The intense, icy chill of his gaze was back, a familiar, unsettling sensation, but now it held a subtle, almost imperceptible flicker of something she couldn’t quite name—a spark of interest, or perhaps even a hint of concern, like a warm ember briefly glowing in a cold fireplace.
"The Sun God is afraid of what you will be,” he stated simply.
“And the God of Lust only cares for what he can take from you now. The other gods are watching to see if you’ll conform or shake up the status quo.
As for your parents... they are just mortals, trying to make sense of a world that is spinning out of their control.
The media wants to answer all the questions the world has just to get views. ”
“What do you want?” she whispered.
His lips curved into a smile, a fleeting warmth blooming in his eyes, chasing away their usual frosty chill. “Nothing.”
Her gaze locked onto his, a visible current of warmth blooming within her core. Her mind raced as she tried to form a coherent thought. “What should I do?”
His hands were a blur of motion as they reached over. The hoodie slid off her head, a fleeting brush against her skin. “What you should do, Lyra, is what you have always done. Fight. You fight the expectations, you fight the lies, you fight the speculation, and you fight the fear inside you.”
“You make it sound so easy,” she scoffed.
“The trials… life itself isn’t designed to test your obedience; it’s designed to test your will. And you, little storm, have nothing but will.”
The confidence in his words was a solid, comforting weight. She felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude, a desire to anchor herself to his unyielding reality. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in the warmth of his chest.
"Thank you,” she mumbled against his chest, the words thick with relief. “I just... needed to hear that. I think with my mother’s constant poise and my lack thereof, it just makes me feel so much more… less."
His body stiffened, then a large, calloused hand landed with a comforting weight on the back of her head. His thick fingers gently wove through the strands of her hair. The other hand rested on the small of her back, the heat from his skin seeped through her sweatshirt, a radiating warmth.
"Did you see the video of me in the diner with my ex?” Lyra muttered, her face still buried in his chest.
He hesitated before replying, “Yes."
Lyra listened to his chest, the steady, resonant thump-thump of his heart. She wondered if he’d cyber-stalked her or if the video was simply playing on blast so much no one could miss it.
"Did I make a fool of myself?” she asked.
"No, he made a fool of himself,” Alaios responded, his voice low and firm. “Lyra, you need to watch out for those that will use you, try to be a part of your circle just so they can be friends or more with a future goddess. You will need to be careful who you let in."
“Nothing in life could just be easy,” she grumbled.
“If everything were easy, it would hold no merit.”
Exhaling deeply, she thought about all the changes in her life. The knowledge that she would never know for sure if someone wanted to know her or wanted the attention knowing her brought.
“I guess you’re right,” she murmured.
His chest, a solid wall beneath her ear, offered no spoken words, but the rhythmic thrum of his heart, a steady, comforting drum, was the only reassurance she needed.
As she drew away, a glint of joy danced in her eyes, and a wide, uninhibited smile, as bright as sunlight, stretched across her face.
The video is probably all over the place; there was no way he would cyber-stalk me.
"I need to get out of here before they catch my way of sneaking out. Thank you, Alaios."
She spun on her heel and took a step toward the door, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.
"Lyra."
The low, sudden command stopped her dead. She turned back.
Alaios was standing where she left him, but his posture was different now—tense, alert, like a predator who had just spotted its prey. His dark eyes were fixed on her with an expression that was no longer detached, but raw and demanding.
"You’re not safe around me,” he repeated, his voice barely a breath, rough as sand. “I don’t do innocent well."
He walked back behind his desk, turning his back to her, dismissing her with the absolute finality of a closing door. Lyra swallowed, the innocent gratitude of a moment ago replaced by a dizzying rush of recklessness.
She left the office; the coolness of the hallway was unable to extinguish the unexpected heat that now pulsed beneath her skin.