CHAPTER 24
As peace flourished, the favor of the gods became the currency of society. Those whose devotion was acknowledged by the right god prospered openly, their homes and lands bright with abundance, while the unchosen lingered in shadow, reminded daily of the price of neglect.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Alaios stood before his desk, which was currently empty save for a single, thick scroll of parchment.
Someone, he didn’t know who, had cleaned the floor up before he got up.
He was dressed, as always, in simple, dark garments—a tailored black button-up and trousers—a stark contrast to the flamboyant silks of Asmodeus.
Would she still choose me if she knew Asmodeus would find out?
He ran a calloused thumb over the title of the scroll: Pending Strife Requisitions he had simply been there, standing on the upper balcony, nestled in the shadows where he could observe without being seen.
He knew she would come to his temple eventually since she had been denied by all the others.
He'd watched the nervous woman approach the front desk; her shoulders hunched against invisible pressure.
Her hand had run through her soft, auburn hair.
And then the tears. They had shimmered, thick and heartbreaking, in the corners of her mossy green eyes, diamonds of despair that she desperately tried to blink away.
He had followed her out, stepping onto the grand steps of the temple, watching her walk away, consumed by her rejection.
He had remembered that same rejection from when he was a mortal.
In that moment of seeing her complete vulnerability, he knew he couldn’t let her walk into the fire alone, not when he himself had gone through the uncertainty and terror of his own ascent unguided.
He’d walked up behind her, not thinking, only acting. And when he got close, the first whiff of her—orange blossoms—hit him, short-circuiting his focus. Then those mossy green eyes, wide and startled, looked up at him, and he was lost.
He’d blurted out the words without looking to see if any cameras or curious mortals recorded the interaction.
He knew the rules: the gods did not tell the mortals their fates, not so openly.
It was forbidden, a risk to the balance, a sure way to incur the Council’s wrath.
But at that moment, he didn’t care. The sight of her, the reality of her need, had shattered his discipline.
He knew the rules: be quiet and don’t interfere.
But he had felt a pull towards her, so he broke the rules.
In all their meetings, he hadn’t told her about the male who was supposed to become a god shortly after him but failed the trials, something that was never added to the history books.
He knew at least three others that failed, but those were before his time, so he knew little of them.
The ones who failed were forgotten, never to be added to the history books.
He knew he couldn’t be there with her, but he was going to make sure she didn’t suffer that same fate as them.
He trudged back to his desk, sinking into the familiar creak of his chair.
Grabbing the parchment, he lifted it up.
He tried to focus on the ink, but the words swam before his eyes, a blurry mess, and it was utterly useless.
He tossed the parchment back down on his desk.
She said she would be here. When the hell is she going to show up?
He had stalked her online since that day, every picture, every whispered rumor.
Her and Asmodeus—the thought ignited a burning jealousy he’d fiercely tried to suppress when she was around.
He’d never imagined, in all his existence, she’d choose him over the god of lust. Hell, he never thought anyone would choose him over Asmodeus.
He traced a finger across the cool, smooth desktop; her image, sprawled and vibrant, flashed in his mind’s eye with every circle of his digit.
He flattened his palm on the desk, willing the memory to fade. It didn’t work. He could still feel the phantom weight of her body against his chest from the night before, the way she had yielded against him, the raw, beautiful sound of her climax that had driven him over the edge.
He lifted the scroll again and tossed it back down.
No. No more distractions. He needed to focus.
She was coming back today for instruction, and he had to be the God of Strife, the stern instructor who prepared her for the impossible, not the selfish lover who had claimed her.
He needed to do his duties, not wait around like a lovesick puppy.
What if she is with Asmodeus? The thought circled in his mind as rage tried to take over.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the thought.
He looked around the office, his gaze settling on the space on the desk where he had taken her. Every inch of the room—the scent of her fading perfume, the spot in the corner of the rug where her emerald dress had pooled—brought his thoughts back to her.
A low, frustrated sound escaped him as he swore under his breath.
He had let himself be drawn into a fight with Asmodeus, violating centuries of protocol just to stake a pointless, possessive claim in a public space.
He’d behaved like an entitled mortal, not a god. And now she was consuming his thoughts.
A soft, insistent tap at his inner door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Enter," he commanded, his voice returning to its normal, low resonance.
The priestess Anwen entered, moving with respectful haste. “My God, Lyra Nymphaea has arrived. She is requesting an audience."
Alaios nodded once, his eyes closing briefly. Waving for her to let Lyra in.
He took one last, steadying breath, then straightened, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression settling into its familiar mask of control.
Lyra walked into the room, pulling the hood off her head and running a hand through her tousled hair. The forced cheer and polished image she had to maintain for her mother melted away here. She wore a simple white tank top, jeans, and an earnest expression.
He looked at her, his eyes dark and intense, and a familiar, profound surge of need hit him—a raw, dangerous wave that threatened to capsize his carefully constructed stoicism.
He noted the dark smudge of lack of sleep under her eyes, the slightly messy way her hair was pulled back, the simple, honest beauty of her untainted.
"You’re here,” he stated, his voice coming out lower than intended.
"I said I would be,” Lyra replied, her eyes meeting his, a shared memory flickering between them. She walked toward him, the ease between them a testament to the weeks of shared conversations and the intensity of the night before. She stopped a few feet from his desk.
"You look exhausted,” he stated, the observation bordering on a complaint.
"Thanks," Lyra joked, a genuine smile touching her lips. “Turns out dancing all night, drinking, making several questionable decisions with a god on his desk, and then having to sneak out of my own house is tiring."
Alaios didn’t smile back, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He felt the pull to close the distance, to pull her against the comfort of his body, but he resisted.
"We have work to do, Lyra,” he said, pushing away from the desk, his voice transitioning into the instructor’s tone.
“The clock is still counting down. We need to talk about the elemental mastery required for the final trial.
The Trial of Stormbound Rule. It is the hardest, the one designed to break you before you can rule. "
He walked to the high window, his back to her, creating distance—a necessary separation between them to separate this need clawing at him.
From the periphery of his vision, he caught the swish of her walking towards him.
The air seemed to hum with her determined stride.
Instead of letting him retreat, she decisively maneuvered, her shoulder brushing past his arm with surprising firmness.
A subtle, knowing curve graced her lips, a silent testament to her intent.
"Did you really want to talk about the trials, God Alaios?” she asked, her voice low and teasing, cutting through his serious tone. “Or maybe you are going to lecture me about the proper storage of state documents while I’m here?"
His dark eyes, like polished obsidian, locked onto hers, a silent challenge.
The air crackled with unspoken energy, a hint of shared heat that sent a shiver down her spine.
The casual irreverence in her gaze, a subtle smirk playing on her lips, was the last spark igniting a wildfire within him.
His hand shot out to grasp her arm, pulling her flush against his chest, the solid thump of his heart resonating against hers.
"I need you to focus, Lyra,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear, his fingers tightening on her arm with a sudden, possessive demand. “I need you to be prepared for the trials. And you cannot do that if you are distracting me."
She leaned into him, her hand coming up to rest on his shirt, a soft, intimate gesture. “I am focused, Alaios, just not on the trials. I’m focused on you."
He groaned, the sound raw and desperate, and then his mouth was on hers, claiming her with a fierce, absolute kiss that was both a punishment for her defiance and a surrender to his own desire.
He broke the kiss, his eyes searching hers, a flicker of true vulnerability visible for a moment. He reached out and gently traced the line of her cheek with his thumb.
"I know the trials are coming, hopefully not for a long time. Your life has been changed forever; I know that,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
“I will not let them break you alone. You will receive everything I possess, every weapon in my arsenal of knowledge, and every ounce of peace I can establish for your benefit. "
“We have time for that later,” she whispered. Her hands cupped his cheeks, and she brought his face down to hers, placing a gentle kiss on his lips.
“Oh, do we now?” he laughed.
“Yes,” she giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I am not dying today. So, we can lecture tomorrow and play today.”