CHAPTER 32
Every citizen found their place beneath the gaze of a god.
Sun-worshippers ruled with radiance; Earth-worshippers labored with steadfast strength; Ocean’s children sailed and traded; Fire’s artisans built and crafted; War’s disciples trained and protected; Shadow’s pupils moved unseen, influencing what others could not.
Society became a reflection of divine favor, each role necessary, each path dictated by allegiance.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Alaios pushed the pending worshippers’ scroll across his desk, not able to focus on which worshippers to approve and which to deny.
His concentration was a frayed thread, incapable of holding the complexities of political policies when his mind was a violent storm of worry.
Two months. Sixty days since Lyra had vanished into Aetherfall.
He had pestered Seren almost daily, visiting the Goddess of Peace only to be met with the same placid, unhelpful pronouncement: The veil remains closed.
That same sad smile and soft, pitying eyes that told him nothing.
He pushed the scroll open again. He dragged his gaze across the names, but the ink blurred.
All he saw was the ghost of Lyra’s face, the image of her mossy green eyes, fierce and defiant.
If she is struggling in the trials, it is my fault.
I didn’t have enough time to prepare her properly.
It was my responsibility to ensure she remained focused, and I failed.
I should have protected her. The thought was a relentless, self-inflicted punishment.
A soft, hesitant tap-tap echoed at his door, a sound gentle yet still criminally intrusive.
"Enter," Alaios commanded, the word a low growl that felt more natural than the forced calm he wore.
One of his priestesses, Anwen, entered, her expression one of respectful, controlled discomfort as she bowed down. “My God, Lyra Nymphaea’s parents, Pollo and Diane, are requesting an urgent audience. They refuse to leave the receiving area and, well…”
“Well, what?” Alaios sighed. He leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing softly under his weight. His eyes, dry and tired, drifted upwards, tracing the tiny dust motes dancing in the slivers of light that pierced the gloom.
“Mrs. Nymphaea is well,” Anwen paused. “She is causing a… a scene.”
“A scene?” he asked, unsure if he actually wanted to know what was happening.
“Umm,” Anwen murmured. “Yes. A lot of worshippers are watching. She is crying. Crying very loudly. It is making worshippers uncomfortable.”
Alaios huffed a breath, the debate immediate and internal.
He could easily tell her to send them away, to cite divine protocol and dismiss their mortal wants.
But the image of Lyra, of the sheer vulnerability he’d glimpsed in her when they were alone, stayed his tongue.
He had seen the way her family had both loved and tried to cage her.
He wondered if they were feeling the same gut-deep fear that was currently consuming him or if they thought they were owed something for being of her blood.
A flicker of intense curiosity sparked in his eyes, a silent question forming about their true intentions for appearing in his place.
The air hung thick and expectant, and he responded with a sharp, curt nod. “Let them in."
The door opened moments later, and Diane Nymphaea swept in, followed closely by her husband, Pollo.
But the usual polished facade Lyra had spoken of was gone.
Diane’s cheeks were stained with dry, shiny tracks of tears, and her immaculate dress looked slightly rumpled, as if she had been wearing the same thing for days.
Pollo looked utterly defeated as his hands fretted.
"God Alaios,” Diane began, her voice cracking on his title. “Thank you for seeing us. We… We just came from the Lust Temple. Asmodeus wouldn’t even grant us an audience. His priestess said he was too busy with his new… new conquests. They won’t tell us anything."
“It is hard to gain an audience with us,” Alaios stated. “Since we have many mortals, we have to watch out for. I have granted this as a one-time favor.”
“I understand, God Alaios. I just wanted… No need to know about my pebble… my Lyra.” She wrung her hands, her eyes frantic as a fresh wave of tears fell. “It’s been two months. Two months, and we just need to know something. Please tell us anything about our daughter."
“There’s nothing to tell,” Alaios whispered.
The dam broke. Diane pitched forward, the last of her composure shattering into raw, ragged sobs that racked her body.
Alaios watched, feeling an intense, alien discomfort.
He was the God of Strife; he commanded conflict and friction, not this messy, uncontrolled emotion. He had no protocol for tears.
“We didn't even have a body for a funeral,” she gasped. “There was nothing. He robbed us of our baby.”
He waited. Her raw sobs, ragged and tearing, clawed at the thin veneer of composure he’d pulled together, a fragile shield against the storm of his own grief.
When she finally looked up at him, he grumbled, “I did what I could.” He turned away, unable to look at her grief. “The mortal who did this is no more. He will never hurt another again.”
Swallowing, he willed himself to look back at them. To finish the conversation so that he could move on. “I have no further information than you have already.”
Pollo, his face pale and drawn, moved quickly to gather his weeping wife, holding her tightly.
As he looked up at Alaios, his eyes were a shade of clear, mossy green, the exact color of Lyra’s, now swimming with unshed tears.
Alaios felt a sudden, cold jolt. He was looking into Lyra’s eyes, and then, glancing at Diane’s profile, he saw the exact, delicate curve of Lyra’s nose.
The resemblance, in their shared distress, was a physical punch.
"The Council does not appoint gods based on a vote or a whim,” Alaios said, forcing himself not to look away.
“There are things that are kept out of your mortal books. A god must prove they can command their domain in trials. Right now, Lyra is facing those trials. I cannot tell you how long it will take, only that she is fighting now. If she succeeds, she will become the goddess she is meant to be.”
“If?” Diane lifted her tear-streaked face. “But why? Why does it have to be a trial? Couldn’t she just... become a goddess? What if she fails? Who is she fighting?” With each question, her voice became more hysterical. “Can we do anything to help her? Is she alone? Does she need us?”
Alaios closed his eyes, wishing he could take the words back.
If not for Diane, but at least for himself.
Saying one of his fears out loud created a knot in his stomach.
Opening his eyes, he put his mask of cool indifference back on.
“You will simply have to wait. There is nothing we can do but wait. Lyra must face this battle alone."
Diane let out a fresh wail, slipping from Pollo’s grasp to sink onto her knees on the stone floor.
“Wait? God Alaios, we’ve lost her! She’s my baby!
We just want her back. We only wanted her to be a goddess because we thought it would give her life purpose!
But now she’s just… gone. My baby is gone! "
Pollo spoke again, his voice cracking with a desperate honesty. “God Alaios, what were the trials like for you?”
Alaios opened his mouth and closed it again. Pretty lies about it being easily touched the tip of his tongue but would not leave. He had no words of comfort to offer them, only bitter truths. So he decided on something in between. “It was not easy. I tried to prepare her as much as I could.”
Pollo pulled his wife tighter, his own tears finally falling unchecked. He looked directly at the God of Strife, his voice low and thick with paternal fear. “Will we be informed? When you hear something, anything, will you let us know?"
Alaios finally moved, pushing away from his desk.
He walked to the edge of the granite, looking down at the two mortals consumed by their grief.
He looked into Lyra’s identical eyes, full of despair, and his voice was rougher than intended.
“Once I know she’s been confirmed as a goddess and has returned, I will ensure you are informed.
" He wasn’t sure he had enough room in his chest for his own grief and fear, let alone theirs.
Diane lifted her head, her face blotchy, her eyes shining with hope and terror. “Will she… will she remember us? When she’s a goddess, will she remember her family? Will she remember me?"
Alaios held her gaze, the weight of the question settling heavily on him.
He knew the answer was yes—the core self did not change—but the fear that gnawed at him, the terror that Lyra might not pass the trials and would be forgotten entirely, was suddenly suffocating.
He gave a curt nod, the fear eating at him: the fear that Lyra, his beautiful chaos, might not pass.
I should have been there. I should have stopped the fanatic before the man even reached her.
Guards could have protected her if I had assigned them.
The thought hammered against his skull, a cruel counterpoint to the quiet weeping of the mortals at his feet.
I was too slow. I got caught up in my own selfish desire to see her, to prove she was mine.
Because I broke protocol, she lost her final, precious moments of her mortal life.
The cold, hard fact of his failure, of the power he had hesitated to use, was a profound, suffocating guilt.
He was the God of Strife, the necessary friction, the consequence—and yet, he had failed the only mortal he had ever cared to protect.
Pollo stood, pulling his wife up gently, but he didn’t release her.
“Thank you, God Alaios. For seeing us. For… for trying.” He gave a small, formal nod, the gesture one of respect for the power he faced, but not for the cold comfort he had received.
“We will wait for your word. May the gods ever be with you. "
“And with you.” Alaios said the words on autopilot, though they rang hollow to his own ears.