Chapter 1: The Whisper in the Void
The world had forgotten his name.
Lyar, the God of Lie, lay in the abyss where the gods had cast him an eternity ago. There was no light here, no sound, only an endless expanse of shadow and silence. Yet, even in this desolation, whispers stirred. Whispers of mortals lying to themselves, of leaders twisting words, of lovers uttering soft deceptions. Each lie, no matter how small, sent ripples across the void, a faint echo of his once-great power.
But tonight was different. Tonight, one whisper grew louder than the rest.
"Set me free," it pleaded, trembling with desperation. "Grant me the words to make them believe."
Lyar stirred. His ethereal form, barely a wisp of smoke, coalesced into something resembling a man. He felt the pulse of the mortal's words, the raw need behind them. For the first time in centuries, someone was lying not for gain, but for survival.
Curious, he reached out, his consciousness slipping through the veil of the abyss and into the mortal world.
---
The mortal's name was Amara.
She sat in a dimly lit room, her hands trembling as she typed furiously on an outdated laptop. The air smelled of burnt coffee and fear. She was a journalist—at least, she had been until yesterday. Exposing corruption had always been her calling, but this time, she'd aimed too high. Her latest article had revealed damning secrets about a powerful conglomerate, and now they were coming for her.
"They'll call me a liar," she whispered to herself. "They'll bury the truth."
The words hung in the air like a prayer.
That was when she felt it—a presence, cold and ancient, wrapping around her like smoke. Her hands froze on the keyboard as the voice whispered in her mind, smooth as silk and sharp as broken glass.
"Mortals rarely call for me so directly," it said. "What do you seek, Amara?"
Amara jerked back, her chair scraping the floor. "Who—what—"
"I am Lyar, the God of Lie," the voice replied. "You have summoned me, though I doubt you meant to. Now, tell me: why do you lie?"
"I—I don't lie," Amara stammered, her heart racing.
"Oh, but you do," Lyar said, amused. "Every journalist does. You bend truths, omit details, frame narratives. And yet, here you are, trembling like a lamb. Shall I grant you my gift?"
"What gift?" she asked warily.
"The power to weave lies so convincing that even gods would believe them. With it, you can save yourself, topple your enemies, and reshape the world. But beware, mortal: every lie has a cost."
Amara hesitated. The fear clawing at her throat was real, but so was the fire in her chest—the desire to fight back, to expose the truth, to survive.
"What's the cost?" she asked.
Lyar chuckled, his presence growing heavier. "You'll find out."
Before she could refuse—or accept—the darkness surged forward, enveloping her completely. The laptop flickered, the air around her shimmered, and when she opened her eyes, she was alone again.
But something had changed.
Her heart still raced, but her hands were steady. Her mind buzzed with clarity, and her words, when she typed them, seemed to burn with an unearthly conviction. Amara didn't know what she'd unleashed, but she felt powerful, alive.
---
Far away, in the forgotten void, Lyar smiled.
The lie had begun.