CHAPTER 17
Under Alaios’s influence, conflict ceased to be random and became purposeful.
Challenges were set, rivalries sanctified, and struggle given meaning.
The faithful learned that obedience alone could not protect them; some lessons must be earned through confrontation, sacrifice, and choice.
In Strife, mortals discovered not how to destroy one another—but how to decide who they truly were when harmony failed.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Lyra stood in the kitchen, leaning against the cold granite counter, slowly sipping a glass of water.
The quiet coolness of the room was a temporary reprieve from the suffocating pressure of her family’s collective ‘goddess preparation’.
Her mother had taken the entire week off work—a sacrificial act Lyra knew was meant to be appreciated, but which had instead become a week-long, relentless course in forced perfection that felt more like fakeness.
Every action, every outfit, every word Lyra uttered had been subjected to fierce critique, even down to how she walked.
Her casual clothes had been replaced by ‘reverent’ garments, her phone time was ‘unprofessional,’ and the simple act of drinking water was met with a sigh about ‘posture.’ The most maddening addition was the stack of note cards her mother kept presenting: a ready-made script of simple, non-committal answers for the press and—more terrifyingly—the gods themselves.
For the past week, the air in the house had felt thick and stale.
The walls seemed to press in, a constant reminder of her confinement.
The only faces she saw were the ones that peered at her, their words like tiny, sharp pebbles, chipping away at her spirit under the guise of affection and doing what’s right.
I am a goddess-to-be, not a trained seal, Lyra thought, running a hand through her hair, resisting the urge to actually pull it out. I can’t even be comfortable at home anymore. My whole life is a performance, and I am not going to get an award for my acting anytime soon.
A sharp, insistent rap on the front door startled her. Lyra watched as her mother, who had been hovering near the table, moved with the speed and tension of a coiled spring.
A moment later, Diane returned, her face a carefully constructed mask of deference and pride. She was holding a heavy, rolled scroll, identical in size to the one that had summoned Lyra to the High Council before. A knot formed in her stomach, wondering what new torture they had planned for her.
"It's another summons, darling,” Diane whispered, practically shoving the parchment into Lyra’s hands. “A high priestess from Elio’s temple dropped it off.”
Lyra’s fingers, slick with nervous sweat, unfurled the parchment.
A faint scent of aged paper rose to meet her as her mother’s breath, warm and anxious, ghosted over her shoulder.
The elegant script on the scroll seemed to shimmer under the overhead light, and Lyra’s eyes traced the words, a cold knot tightening in her stomach.
"Lyra Nymphaea, the Unaligned. You are cordially invited to attend the Annual High Council Ball, to be held one week hence at the Hall of Ceremonies. Formal attire is required."
It was signed with the symbols of Elio, Mira, and Petro. An invitation—but with the unspoken compulsion of a command.
"They're including you in the pantheon’s events! This is an excellent sign, Lyra!” Diane snatched the scroll back, her eyes quickly scanning the details.
Her momentary triumph instantly dissolved into panicked agitation.
“Now we will have to ramp up our training. Oh, there is so much more we need to do to get you ready. I hope we have enough time.”
Diane quietly paced back and forth, one finger tapping her lip. Lyra could practically see the cogs turning in her mind as Diane was making a mental list. She glanced around the kitchen, looking for an escape as she tried to plan an exit strategy. I cannot do one more week of this.
"One week until the ball! The Annual High Council Ball! Lyra, this is a major event! Everyone who is important will be there! And you have nothing to wear!” Diane wrung her hands together, already pacing the kitchen floor.
“Anya’s gown is too modest for a social event, and it’s only a week!
Plus, they saw you in it once, and it is unacceptable to wear it again.
We need a dress, Lyra! A proper ball gown!
Something that screams ‘future goddess’ without offending the Gods!
Maybe something in brown to show your heritage of being raised under Petro’s watchful eye.
We’ll have to call a tailor, but they’re always so busy!
Oh, this is a disaster! There is no way they can make a custom gown in a week. We will have to go shopping."
Lyra tuned out the rapid-fire fretting, focusing on the simple, cool feel of the water in her glass.
A ball. Another performance. Another chance to disappoint and be looked down upon.
Lovely. She exhaled deeply. Now Mom has more things to ‘train’ me on.
I hope they will not try to teach me to dance.
I draw the line at waltzing with my father or brothers.
Lyra's shoulders sagged as more thoughts crowded her brain.
She kept thinking of all the training and prep her mother was going to put her through—the etiquette lessons, the wardrobe critiques, the memorizing of those ridiculous note cards for the press, and now, the inevitable, frantic preparation for the High Council Ball.
The crushing weight of her imminent responsibilities, the knowledge that every minute spent here was a minute her mother would spend inventing a new way to polish away her rough edges and get rid of the things that made her herself was destroying the small amount of peace she had clung to.
Diane stopped fluttering around the kitchen and turned to look at Lyra. “You will need to be on your best behavior. This is a very important night. Oh, and maybe you can talk with God Petro.” Her mother let out a small, sharp squeal, a sound like a startled bird, as she resumed her restless pacing.
Lyra replied, “I doubt he wants to have a one-on-one conversation with me. Take a breather, Mom."
Diane’s eyes flared with a sudden, sharp glint, like flint striking steel, and a cold, precise calculation settled behind them. “You know how happy your father would be if you put in a good word for us. His birthday is coming up."
Lyra’s breath hitched as a sigh escaped her lips. Her fingers massaged her temples, the dull throb a persistent rhythm behind her eyes.
"I can draft a statement for you to talk to him and put in a good word for us,” Diane continued, completely missing the look of distress on Lyra’s face.
“Having Petro show us favor and provide an audience would bring us great reverence. Can’t you see how happy your father would be?
And the social bump it would give us. I have—"
“Mom,” Lyra interrupted. “Do you ever actually hear me?”
Diane stared at Lyra, her eyes wide and reflecting the light like polished smoky quartz.
A deep furrow creased her brow, a visible knot of frustration tightening her features.
She opened her mouth to reply when the ringing of the front doorbell—a cheerful, insistent chime that completely broke through Diane’s monologue—interrupted the spiral of anxiety and ass-kissing.
Diane threw her hands up, her eyes wide with frustration.
“Who is that now? We don’t have time for more press, Lyra!
If you had just answered some of their questions as you’ve been told to, maybe they wouldn’t be camped outside for all eternity!
” Diane hurried down the hall, muttering under her breath about the insensitivity of the media.
Lyra, still rooted in the kitchen, heard the front door open, followed by a moment of shocked silence, then her mother’s voice, hushed and almost entirely reverent.
"Oh! And you are?” Diane asked. Lyra couldn’t hear whoever it was responding.
After a few moments and some inaudible words, Diane came back to the kitchen, placing a big red box with a gold ribbon bow on the table.
Diane sighed, touching the ribbon, and said, “It was one of Asmodeus’s priestesses who dropped this off for you.
Are you going to ever tell me what’s going on there? "
"What did she want?” Lyra asked, pushing off the counter, ignoring the question.
"She just dropped this off,” Diane said, her eyes wide as she indicated with a wave of her hand towards the box. “It’s a gift… for you. From him, I suppose.” Diane urged Lyra, a wild gesture of her hand slicing the air, to tear into the box.
Lyra walked to the table, taking her time.
The box was heavy, and the ribbon was luxurious.
She slid the ribbon off; the bow unraveling with a soft shush, and lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in crisp white tissue paper, was a beautiful emerald-green velvet gown.
It was a decadent shock of color against the tissue’s paleness, the fabric rich and deep.
Her fingers brushed against it. Thinking it was the softest thing she had ever touched.
Tucked into the folds was a small, cream-colored card. Lyra pulled it out. The script was elegant, penned in dark red ink. She read the note silently: ‘You’re not just hot. You’re the reason my innocent thoughts keep getting corrupted. I can’t wait to see you in this dress.’
A slow smile touched Lyra’s lips, and a familiar, chaotic flutter erupted in her chest. The note was utterly him—charming, arrogant, and perfectly designed to appeal to her sense of mischief.
Sunlight glinted off the velvety folds as she carefully lifted the dress from the box.
Her eyes drank in the sight of the gown—a cascade of shimmering emerald, its intricate beadwork catching the light like a thousand tiny stars.
It was, she realized with a hushed breath, the most breathtaking dress she had ever laid eyes upon.
Her mother craned her neck, her eyes wide as she took in the gown, a soft sigh escaping her lips, filled with genuine, awestruck wonder.
“Oh, Lyra. The velvet! And that color... it will make your eyes pop like emeralds. You have to wear it. You absolutely must. Now we just need to plan your makeup and hair.” Diane fluttered around the kitchen.
“I know the perfect necklace that will go with that. So much I need to do. I have to make a list.” She fluttered around the kitchen, opening drawers. “Where is my notepad and pen?”
Lyra pulled the gown to her chest, trying to envision what she would look like. It was undeniably perfect. The God of Lust certainly knew how to dress a woman for a night of being on display.