CHAPTER 19
Even families were not spared; brothers and sisters debated whose god was just, whose path was true, and whose devotion was insufficient. The land, once harmonious under the guidance of Sun, Ocean, and Earth, began to show cracks, subtle yet persistent, in every village and city.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Lyra stood still, the emerald-green velvet dress a heavy sheath against her skin.
It fit like a second skin, the rich fabric draping perfectly, emphasizing curves she hadn’t known she possessed.
The bodice dipped dramatically low, a bold plunge that revealed a shocking amount of cleavage, and the high slit in the skirt ascended to mid-thigh, offering a tantalizing view of her leg with every slight movement.
Shimmering like a constellation, the tiny jewels sewn into the dress winked and flashed, scattering pinpricks of light that danced across the fabric.
Her mother and Anya moved around her in a frantic ballet of final preparations. Diane fussed with the intricate braids Anya had woven into Lyra’s dark brown hair, securing a few shimmering pins.
"Perfect, darling! Absolute perfection. The Gods will see exactly what a triumph you are,” Diane whispered, her hands shaking slightly with nervous excitement as she smoothed the skirt.
Anya, equally breathless, dabbed a final touch of gloss on Lyra’s lips, stepping back to admire her work. “The color is divine on you. It makes your eyes look like jewels, Lyra."
Lyra’s gaze met her own reflection in the full-length mirror.
She didn’t recognize the woman looking back.
The anxious, slightly slumping girl who hid in hoodies was gone, replaced by a confident, almost dangerous figure whose poise seemed born of the dress itself.
The person in the mirror was certainly Lyra Nymphaea, but she looked like a queen dressed for battle—or seduction.
It was her reflection, yet it felt like a glimpse into the formidable woman she was supposed to become, not the person she was.
A chime of the doorbell echoed through the house, immediately followed by the sound of her father, Pollo, opening the door.
Diane straightened instantly, her eyes blazing. “That must be Asmodeus. We can’t keep him waiting! Come, Lyra, we must make an entrance."
Anya sighed, a mix of envy and devotion coloring her tone. “You are so lucky, Lyra, being pursued by a handsome god like him."
Lyra side-eyed Anya, unsure if that was a compliment to herself or an insult towards her brother.
Diane gently took her hand. Lyra locked eyes with her. Noticing for the first time in a long time, pride shimmered in her mother’s eyes. They flanked her, carefully guiding her toward the entryway.
As they reached the archway, Lyra saw him.
Asmodeus Hedone was a breathtaking sight, leaning casually against the doorframe.
He wore a tuxedo jacket the color of rich emerald velvet, the exact shade as her dress, paired with a crisp black button-up shirt and matching black slacks.
He was immaculate, a vision of confident power
His baby-blue eyes swept over Lyra, and the slow, knowing smile that spread across his face felt like a physical caress.
"You walked in and I swear my brain said, ‘Say something dirty or regret it forever’. So… here we are,” he purred, his voice dropping to a seductive register.
Lyra laughed, a genuine, delighted sound that felt free and easy.
He always managed to make her laugh, to make her feel impossibly beautiful, but the ever-present question rattled beneath her amusement: Did he truly mean it, or am I just a new, amusing plaything, a prized conquest he would eventually discard when the novelty wore off?
“Hey,” Pollo laughed. “That’s my daughter you’re talking about.”
“Forgive me—reflex. Happens when something stunning walks in.” Asmodeus straightened his silk green tie and winked.
“Let me get a picture of you two,” Diane sighed. “You both look so beautiful.”
Asmodeus grinned, pulling Lyra to his side with an effortless grace that felt both possessive and utterly natural. His hand settled low on her hip, the pressure firm enough to convey ownership but gentle enough to be an elegant accessory to his smile.
Diane, humming with excitement, held her phone up.
The camera flashed once, twice, three times, capturing the image.
For a moment, Lyra felt like she was going to prom.
Reliving a moment she never got the chance to experience, since no one invited her and she didn’t want to go alone and watch people as she sat.
Asmodeus swirled her around, turning her toward the door. “May the gods ever be with you,” he said over his shoulder.
Pollo bowed, replying, “May the gods ever be with you.”
As Diane and Anya murmured the same farewell, their voices a soft, indistinguishable hum, they bowed.
Asmodeus opened the front door. Flashes blinded her for a moment as picture after picture was taken.
Voices rose as questions were shouted out.
Asmodeus, a smirk playing on his lips, reveled in the flashbulbs popping like tiny firecrackers.
He pulled her in, their shadows stretching long and distorted as the camera shutters clicked.
Asmodeus raised a hand. “No questions tonight, darlings. Tonight’s reserved for temptation, good company, and a woman who deserves my full attention.” He guided her forward. “So, put the cameras down.”
He guided her towards the waiting black limo, slipping inside the plush confines of the back seat as the privacy screen immediately rose, sealing them away from the clamor of the world. The limo pulled away, gliding smoothly toward the temple district.
The city lights blurred into streaks of color outside the tinted windows, but Lyra only saw the flickering reflection of her own face—pale and wide-eyed.
Asmodeus, by contrast, was a vision of perfect, relaxed ease. He lounged against the seat, one arm stretched along the top of the cushion, his gaze fixed on her with that familiar, appreciative intensity.
"Nervous, little goddess?” he purred, his voice a low, melodic rumble.
Lyra jumped slightly at the sound, then managed a jerky nod. “A little,” she admitted, her voice a reedy whisper. “It’s the High Council Ball. Everyone who is anyone will be there. I feel like an untrained kitten walking into a den of lions."
He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that did little to ease her anxiety. “That’s precisely why you’ll be the most fascinating person in the room. Every god there is an ancient, predictable beast. You, my dear, are the beautiful, unpredictable storm they didn’t see coming."
He reached toward a hidden compartment and smoothly produced a chilled bottle of champagne and two flutes. The pop of the cork was a loud noise before he filled the flutes with the bubbly liquid.
"You look like you need a moment of decadence before you face the pride of lions,” he said as he presented the glass to her. “Drink this. It will settle those nerves. I find that a little hedonism always improves one’s poise"
Lyra took the glass; the cold crystal was a welcome anchor in her trembling hand. She raised it to her lips and took a long, grateful sip. The effervescence was a shock, followed by a sweet warmth that instantly began to melt the ice in her veins.
"Thank you,” she murmured, meeting his eyes over the rim of the glass. “It helps."
"Anything for a beautiful woman,” he teased, taking a slow sip from his own flute, his eyes never leaving hers.
“I assume you love the dress. I had it designed to make you unforgettable, Lyra, and you are wearing it exactly as intended. Though I must admit, I was planning on you being a little more comfortable in it.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I had imagined a grander introduction to my personal compartment, one involving less anxiety and more… exploration of the fabric."
Lyra felt heat rise to her cheeks, but the champagne gave her a tiny flicker of her usual defiance. “I’m not entirely sure I want to live up to your… intentions, God Asmodeus."
He grinned, the look of pure, delighted devilry.
“Sweet defiance. Even better, I always love the chase. But know this: you are walking into that hall on my arm. Tonight, every eye will be on you and me.” He paused for a second, his smile growing.
“Can you say my name again, little goddess? I love to watch the word roll off that sweet tongue of yours.”
"You are incorrigible,” she shook her head, a snorting laugh escaping her lips. The anxiety creeping back in as the thought of Elio’s cold appraisal resurfaced. “Will all the gods be there?"
Asmodeus waved a dismissive hand. “Elio and the others will be there, boring everyone as per usual. So, you need not worry, little goddess. I will make sure your night is filled with laughter and passion. And passion is my domain. The true power is in being the one everyone wants to watch—and the one everyone wants to touch. Tonight, Lyra, that’s you. "
He lifted his glass in a silent toast, his eyes holding a promise of delightful mischief and pure, focused desire.
Lyra took another sip of champagne, choosing to focus on the immediate, intoxicating promise of his presence rather than the terrifying reality that awaited them.
Each charming word seemed to melt her worries away.
The limo glided to a hushed halt before the Hall of Ceremonies, a colossal building of polished white marble that shimmered with an ethereal, subtle light. Asmodeus emerged first and offered Lyra a hand.
Asmodeus led her up a wide, sweeping staircase and into the main ballroom.
Her eyes snapped open wide with startled wonder, darting around the opulent room.
She tried to absorb the swirling kaleidoscope of silks and jewels, the hushed murmurs of a hundred voices blending into a soft, almost reverent hum.
The air, thick with the faint, sweet scent of lilies and expensive perfume.
This was the hallowed gathering of the devoted, and the sheer, dazzling spectacle of it all was overwhelming.
The opulence was a physical thing: the soaring ceiling was inlaid with silver leaf, and massive crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, catching the light and casting diamond patterns across the floor.
Everywhere Lyra looked, surfaces shimmered—polished marble, silver serving trays, and the glint of expensive jewelry.
The hall was a sea of color and prestige.
Gods, radiant in their own light, mingled effortlessly with high priests and priestesses dressed in the specific, rich colors of their respective temples.
Elio, golden and regal, stood near a fountain.
Mira, in flowing blue silks, spoke with a cluster of wealthy-looking followers.
A live orchestra played a slow, elegant waltz, the music filling the vast space with a sophisticated melancholy. Before Lyra could fully register the crowd or the potential onslaught of introductions, Asmodeus smoothly spun her.
"I’m not risking losing you to a bore before I get the first dance,” he murmured in her ear, his breath warm against her temple.
He pulled her closer, his hand firm against the small of her back.
His warmth seemed to seep into her, a heady contrast to the coolness of the night air.
He led her in the dance with an effortless, practiced grace, twirling her through the crowded floor.
For the length of the song, she was cocooned in his attention, the rest of the hall a glittering blur.
As the final, shimmering notes of the waltz dissolved, Asmodeus spun her away in a blur of movement.
Then, his touch, surprisingly cool against her skin, lingered as he bent his head, pressing a swift, almost fiery kiss to the back of her hand.
He took her hand and, with a practiced glide, navigated them to the edge of the room.
He plucked two crystal flutes of champagne from a passing silver tray, handing one to Lyra. “Meet the ladies who make the Hedone Temple the most fun in the city. These are my priestesses."
A dazzling circle of women instantly surrounded Lyra, all stunning, all dressed in fabrics that screamed ‘indulgence’.
They were his priestesses; their dresses a softer shade of burgundy, their smiles wide and unwavering.
Lyra realized, with a quick sweep of her eyes, that there were no male priests in his immediate entourage—only these beautiful, devoted women.
"Lyra, darling, you are absolutely breathtaking,” gushed one woman, touching the emerald velvet with a look of genuine awe. “God Asmodeus chose perfectly."
"The dress is divine, of course, but it’s the way you wear it,” another chimed in. “You have the aura of a true goddess."
A third leaned in conspiratorially. “Honestly, Goddess Lyra, we’ve been dying to meet you."
Another beautiful woman fussed with her hair, smoothing it down. “Your hair is so soft.”
“You have the prettiest eyes I have ever seen.” Another sighed.
Lyra smiled, feeling the familiar mix of flattery and profound uncertainty.
Their admiration was lavish and seemingly sincere, but after weeks of media and family expectations, she couldn’t shake the question: Was any of this truly about her, or was she simply the most exciting, newest accessory the God of Lust had acquired?
She raised her champagne flute in a polite, noncommittal toast, the cold glass a small anchor in the glittering chaos.