The “action-packed and original” (M. H. Ayinde, author of A Song of Legends Lost) Divine Thrall series continues as a divine warrior must wage a war within herself to reclaim her freedom and save the realm from complete takeover in this propulsive epic fantasy—perfect for fans of Godkiller and Gideon the Ninth.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Divine Shadow by Lyndsay Ely, which releases on November 10th 2026.
In the shattered ruins of the Cathedral of the Enduring Flame, Lys grapples with the fallout of the latest divine conflict. The Whisperer has returned. Nolan is enthralled. Tempestra is still alive…with Lys as their newest avatar, which was definitely not part of the plan.
As the goddess worms deeper into her mind, Lys is determined to keep control—if not for herself, then for Nolan who is in danger of succumbing to his own divine possession. But resisting Tempestra is only the beginning. Across the Devoted Lands, the faithful and heretics alike spill blood in the names of their gods.
To end the war before it truly begins, Lys chases long-forgotten secrets where the first god fell. But as she prepares for her final stand, one question erodes the defiance she’s held tight: Is she truly ready for a world without gods?
EXCERPT
Eight
What hasn’t burned yet is consumed as I sweep through the city, stone turning tarry black and charred timbers crumbling to bone-gray ash. The air becomes dust choked, a roiling storm cloud to accompany this fresh wave of destruction as the Goddess finishes the job Osiron began, the fury of the Flame turning anything that might have been salvaged (with some hard work and a hefty dose of optimism) into nothing more than cinders and memory.
Except I’ve got nothing to do with it. My body might be the ship, but Tempestra is the gale. I’ve got no other choice but to batten down and bail out as they steer us back to the entrance of the city, every step feeling as if it will punch down through the cobbled streets into the very earth itself, a trail of graves for each of my—their fallen children.
Nothing.
Tempestra . . . stop . . .
We felt NOTHING.
I’ve lost physical control, but I’ve got a front-row seat to our blazing rage. Our vexation. And—most interestingly—our fear. The snuffing of a singular Chosen here and there might have been missed. But the mass murder of so many? We should have felt it as it happened, holes tearing open in the canopy of our power. Instead, Osiron managed to obscure their attack.
Understandable how that might worry you, Mother, but is this really the best way to react?
The gathered crowd shrinks as we reappear, tiny things that plunge to the ground until every soul left in Osturan is prostrate before us, save for our Chosen. Fleeing was not an option for these people, not when the Flame has unleashed its inferno. To run would be to acknowledge their weakness, that they are barely worthy to be prey to the power of the divine. As we pause to look over these frail creatures, the vision of the cowed heretic crowd returns, overlaying, bleeding into the figures before us. Each and every one deserves to burn. To be consumed by the Flame and have the wind disperse their ashes into nothing. A price must be collected. Here. Now. Love and loyalty be damned. They are nothing, after all. Nothing compared to what was lost.
We take another step forward, wrath swelling us like a drawn breath. No one moves. The faces that stare are so overwhelmed at witnessing the true potency of their god that they have gone blank with resignation, their bodies frozen with the understanding that whether they live to pray another day or end up as a communal pile of unidentifiable cremains is entirely out of their control.
One hand rises . . .
Don’t you dare, Tempestra.
We go stiff. I summon another memory, of familiar figures dropping through broken ice into an unforgiving current. The remains of my village, destroyed by the Flame’s servants.
Heretics.
Exactly. Something these people are not. They did nothing to warrant this. Not to mention this tantrum is unbecoming of a goddess.
The hand remains hanging in the air.
So let’s take a minute to cool off, yes?
We do, which comes as a surprise to both of us. The fury of the Flame contracts slightly, the searing light dimming. Which leaves an opening for the sorrow to pour forth, chilled water thrown on a whitehot forge, shattering the ravaging desire that gripped only moments before. Tears escape from beneath my eyelids, their trails like a cold razor blade drawn down my burning cheeks.
My children . . . dead . . . dead and taken . . .
Yes, Mother, but incinerating innocents isn’t going to change either condition.
My control returns, relief spreading before I realize I’d been afraid it was gone forever. That Tempestra had toppled—even unintentionally—those careful partitions keeping me, me. But despite the deluge of violence, the dams have held. We open our eyes. The citizens of Osturan still stare with a glaze of wonderment as thick as the silence that has fallen. They are waiting. None seem to know what for—an explanation, a punishment, death by immolation—but each result is one that they’d accept as deserved.
We stand a little straighter, a lump forming in my throat. “My Chosen . . . are dead.”
No surprise: I’m sure that’s a conclusion most had already reached. Instead, the collective sense among the onlookers is something less definable, like the moment when one’s balance falters, not quite lost yet but unclear whether it can be regained . . .
“My Chosen are dead and the Whisperer is to blame.”
Okay then. That’s how we’re playing this. No more secrets. No more manipulating rumors and half truths. It’s almost a relief—to me, not anyone else, Tempestra included. The Goddess would have much preferred to keep Osiron’s return tightly under wraps, and even I have to admit that it would have been more convenient to catch up to the Whisperer and handle our disagreements quietly. But both of us know by now that ignoring the stink of a rotting fish won’t make it go away.
“They have come from the shadows,” the Goddess continues, using my voice to speak, “as they always have, their devious nature betraying their weakness . . . their fear of us. They slink forth like the lowest sort of assassin, targeting those that have done them no harm other than giving their love to me . . .”
Framing that picture a little creatively, aren’t you, Tempestra?
“. . . and having the revolting gall to desecrate my children’s remains.” The Flame swells once more, chasing away some of the growing, if still nervous, relief throughout the crowd, the act reminding them that their Goddess is more than a doting mother—they are a warrior, a force of nature, a leviathan of very existence. It reminds me as well, a swarm of memories enveloping what is Lys. The clash of metal against metal rings in recollection, air thick with the scents of sweat and copper and opened bowels. Bodies spread across endless fields, blood soaking every inch, cries of the dying still filling the air. The very earth trembling as a deity sputtered and winked out of existence, the resulting release of energy as unchecked as a hurricane. “The destruction of Osturan will not go unpunished. The Flame has burned throughout a thousand battlefields, leaving all challengers defeated. That has not changed. I have fought, I have been victorious. I have endured. We will see this cowardly challenger dead and their vicious heretics punished in ways never before seen within these lands. I am Tempestra-Lystrata, Goddess of the Devoted Lands. I am the Flame, and the Flame is eternal!”
Before we have even finished, the crowd explodes, their love surging forth with as much enthusiasm as their cries, flooding through us and washing away some of the marks inflicted by Osiron’s attacks. But as bracing as that is, Tempestra suddenly recedes. With a single beat of my heart, full autonomy returns, the Goddess shrouding themselves in gray sorrow, moving beneath the shadowed eaves of me once more.
I take a deep, gasping breath, as if I have been drowning and finally broken the surface. Which . . . what the fuck, Tempestra? Was that really necessary?
They’re dead . . .
I know, I know. You loved them, Mother, as much as you’re able to love any of your children. But, frankly, one of us should have expected this. It’s our fault we were taken in by the fact that Osiron traded for so long in small, calculated maneuvers that a sudden shift to this scale simply didn’t occur.
My Chosen children murdered again and again . . . lost . . .
And whose zealous regime is to blame for that, Tempestra?
Exhaustion hits suddenly, along with the knowledge that our childish exertion of energy was a coin poorly spent, better saved to pay for what is coming.
“All of you, go,” I say to the crowd. “Follow your fellow citizens and find somewhere safe.” No one moves. “What? Did you want to pack up some of the ashes to take with you? Go!” The command comes more forcefully this time, quickly followed by remorse for my sharp tongue. The people here have lost everything. They also have no idea how close I was to letting the Goddess’s anger be taken out on them… far too close. I soften. “There’s nothing left for you in Osturan, but I swear that the moment the Whisperer is dead again, what has been lost will be returned, as much as is in my power to do so. Go!”
The combination of a gentler touch and my generous promise gets them moving, standing shakily, drifting away with a reluctance to leave the warmth of their Goddess’s flame. But beneath it all—infused in stolen glances and the set of tight jaws—I sense something else: doubt. In the ability of the Flame, in the truth of its promises.
Despite our little demonstration, there’s no unspilling that blood now.
As the last of the crowd disappears into the distance, Morgan and Ysell and the others, abandoned back at the Arbiters’ hall, reach my side again. They aren’t doing any better of a job in hiding their insecurity than the citizens of Osturan did, and wait for me to give some order, set some tone. Instead, I go over to the nearest chunk of stone that will accommodate my weary backside and drop onto it, letting my head hang to my chest. I don’t even bother to try to listen in on the low mutterings that follow.
“Goddess . . .” Ysell is the first to break my vigil, her voice tight with urgency. “We need to return to Aerdis and its legions. It’s not too late for the Clerics of the Blood to handle this, send the lesser Orders out to contain the spread of what happened here before it reaches too far.”
“That’s idiotic,” Morgan blessedly cuts in, saying exactly what I was about to and sparing me from hurting Ysell’s feelings. I look up in time to catch Ysell’s offended frown, but she has nothing to counter with. “There’s no containing this,” Morgan continues. “There are too many witnesses to spin this slaughter as anything other than what it was.”
“Not to mention,” I mutter, “someone will notice eventually how few Arbiters are out and about.”
My Chosen stop arguing and look back at me and the piece of rubble I’ve made a temporary throne, tension gripping each and every one of them, even Reia and Owin, who were spared the puddle of disembodied eyes.
“You can’t remain out in the open,” Ysell presses. “Goddess, it’s not safe.”
“If this is where Osiron had wanted to start a fight, they would have been waiting, ready to throw down.” I can’t keep the exasperation out of my voice, patience far too much of an effort. Lys and Tempestra are tired. I recognize the feeling that’s crept its way into us, that one that follows loss, when a hole has opened up in you but neither time nor reflection has had a chance to start filling it in. The Goddess sulks even as something else bothers me even more: the fact that I have no fucking clue where Osiron is at this moment. The feeling of the new god, and the compass pointing north toward them, has not wavered at all. Was Nolan the true distraction, the bait meant to draw me away from the region so that Osiron could ensure their message of return would get out loud and clear? Or—a small flicker of hope sparks within me— has the new god already balked at being under someone else’s control? Even more optimistic: Has Nolan exercised some power over it, managed to break the new deity away from the Whisperer and driven them somewhere else?
But if that’s a possibility, then their purpose for moving north makes no sense. Why not return to Tempestra?
To me?
The only answer I have to any of those questions remains in that vague, pulsing sensation of their being, traveling farther and farther away with every minute we waste here.
Suddenly, the sun hangs low. Not low enough that we couldn’t make some distance from Osturan, but despite my impatience, I can’t bring myself to order us up and moving. My Chosen have exercised the patience I couldn’t while I was submerged in a sea of my own thoughts, Tempestra’s grief an anchor I couldn’t fight. The Potentiates have brought tea and food, warmed over a campfire they’ve built nearby. I accept the tea but wave the food away, not missing when Reia glances at Morgan, who nods before she actually scampers away with it.
“This is going to spread.” Morgan picks up that point as if it had never dropped. “And when it does, every heretic who’s been hiding out is going to worm their way to the surface, driven by the promise that their dead gods will return. The Whisperer’s spies have infiltrated who knows how many of our institutions. Ysell is right about returning to Aerdis, or Lumeris. We should fortify both internally and externally before one of them becomes the next target.”
“Osiron won’t strike the same way again.” I close my eyes. The air still reeks of burning everything, dry and astringent. “They chose Osturan because the Arbiters have been trying to flush out those very heretics, but also because it was small enough to take easily. The Whisperer wouldn’t be foolish enough to try for one of the larger cities. Whatever assistance they’ve mustered, their forces don’t have that level of strength.”
“But ours do,” Morgan insists.
“The Executrix is right.”
Lovely. My Bellator Prime and Executrix are teaming up.
“Let the legions sweep the land,” says Ysell, “before the next blow falls. We can comb every village, town, and city . . . chase down every hint of heresy and clear these rats out before they know what’s befallen them.”
“And how exactly”—I rub at the ache gathering in one temple—“will you know who is a true heretic and who isn’t?” It’s a miracle I can say it with a straight face. As if that’s ever been a concern before, huh, Tempes tra? “At best, you will spread our forces thin and expend unknown amounts of resources to root out a handful of heretics that may not even be the ones we’re after. At worst—and I’d bet a jar of eyeballs that Osiron hopes we will react exactly as you just described—you’ll create a paranoid panic. Rivals will lob accusations against each other. Neighbors will offer up any vague half-remembered time where someone forgot to pray loud enough or didn’t greet them with ‘May the Flame warm you’ in order to make themselves appear above suspicion. Osiron has sown unmeasurable amounts of discord quietly. Don’t let them manage it in the open too, with you acting as their agent.” Ysell seems so chastised by this I actually feel a little bad.
So, what are we going to do? I see that question on all their faces.
But we don’t have an answer, do we, Tempestra? We can’t even fathom what other helpful tricks Osiron might have honed over the centuries, because we’ve been so confident in our supreme control for so long that we no longer know what pieces on this game board were there from the beginning and which ones Osiron has been sneaking in to mess with us. And since we don’t have a plan on how to deal with the Whisperer, I’m holding you to your godsdamned word.
We’re going after Nolan.
No argument comes, direct or otherwise.
Good.
“Ysell.” She snaps to attention. “You’re as fully informed of what happened here as anyone. Return to Aerdis and have the remaining Bellators ready the legions. For what, I don’t know yet, so don’t ask. It is
possible Osiron will try something else, so instruct them to send messages to every city and port and village big enough to have a name and tell them to keep their eyes open, weapons ready, and expect anything.” I stand to emphasize what I’ve said. “Get moving.” My words deepen. “And call all my remaining Chosen back to their Orders’ cities. Keep them together. Keep them safe.”
You had to add that little bit at the end, Tempestra, didn’t you? Fine. Do what you think will keep your Chosen from harm.
So long as we do everything possible for the one I want to save.
Ysell rides off. Night falls.
A chill laces the air, though I no longer feel it in the same way I did before. Or even how I did when we set out on this little adventure. The whole world is taking on a sharper edge the longer I remain avatar, as if the world is being reworked in glass. The tea I drank earlier poured down my throat like oil, and the night sounds of crickets and things rustling in the brush take on a strange melody. It is as if everything around me is shifting into the facets of a dream.
I refuse to dwell on these changes, though. Tempestra has kept to our bargain. I am still more Lys than not.
I hope.
A very human fatigue circles like a hungry vulture, but remains held at bay by a pressing restlessness, which finally drives me to my feet. I want to head to where the air doesn’t reek of cinders, but instead I find myself moving once again beneath the gates into the city, through its rubble and ruined streets. With everyone sent away, it’s even quieter within than without, not even insect song to add some ambiance. There is something lingering, though, sprinkled among the ash and coals, deeper than the cool veil of night. It’s not a feeling of Osiron, but I can’t put a name to it.
What else is here, Tempestra? Was this more than a message to the devoted, or even to you? We were always told that the Whisperer was the weakest of the gods. That’s why their siblings were able to destroy them so easily, and why they left no trace on the world. You believed that. We all believed that.
But that was then. This is now.
Eons have passed. Is there a possibility Osiron’s power has branched, evolved in such ways that they were able to obscure the massacre of the Arbiters? What else might they be capable of?
Without noticing, I’ve reached the stairs again. The eyeballs are gone. Morgan and Ysell insisted they be shown the respect that belonging to their brethren afforded them; what’s left now is a tiny pile of ash among larger piles of ash, already nearly indistinguishable. The urn was left where it rolled, colorful enamels catching the glow of the rising moon, a clean light that makes the soot-free stairs glow. There are no clouds, so the stars shine brightly above. I seek out one that shines brighter than the others, a fixed point that’s referred to as the Compass Star, as it always leads north.
North, where Nolan is.
What is he dealing with? I know what I’ve experienced, but what is it like for him, to be burdened with a new deity, one whose mind is still trying to form into something capable of comprehending our world? Has he maintained any sense of himself, like you’ve allowed for me, Mother? Or is it like being lost in a sea of your own body, buffeted about by the will of some chaotic, primeval creature? Does his forced baptism in blood protect him from the new entity at all?
I blink.
Morgan stands in front of me, a questioning expression on her face.
“Goddess?”
I look around, then up. The moon has moved well across the sky. “Yes . . .” How long have I been standing here? “What is it?”
“I . . .” She stares at me quizzically for a moment, as if waiting for me to say something. Then: “I woke and you were gone.”
I gather myself. Shrug. “Couldn’t resist one more sightseeing tour around Osturan.”
Unamused, her mouth thins, but blessedly she gives up on inquiries. Instead, she holds up some bread from dinner, topped with thin slivers of hard cheese. “You didn’t eat today.”
“I’m not hungry.” Not tired, not hungry, no longer subject to such insignificant human concerns. “You should still—”
“I said I’m not hungry.” It comes out fierce. I don’t mean it to, but it does.
Morgan shrinks a little, then frowns and draws herself up, taking a step closer and pushing the food toward me again. “You need to eat something, Goddess . . . Tempestra-Lystrata needs to eat something.”
She hits my name hard, with enough force that I obediently consider the bread again. I should be famished. Instead, it holds all the appeal of a handful of sand.
“You . . .” Morgan hesitates. “You’re thinner than you were.” Lys is, she means.
“Well, yeah,” I mutter. “There was a time in the not-so-distant past where feeding me was basically heresy.” It seems years ago that Caius kept me locked away and unfed for the whole trip from Cyprene to Lumeris, but it’s only been a couple of weeks. Add to that an infusion of divine being for whom food is only a necessary inconvenience and it’s not exactly shocking I’ve gone a bit bonier than before.
“Fine.” I reluctantly accept the offering. “But only because you used your Executrix voice.”
Morgan bristles. “I do not have an—”
“You absolutely have an Executrix voice. I bet you had it before you even imagined it was possible you’d become Executrix. You practiced it in your room in the Cloisters, didn’t you? Just in case.”
Morgan’s jaw flexes with the desire to fight back, to throw Lys’s teasing back at her with a good dose of rancor. But I’m tired enough to take pity on poor Morgan.
“Thank you.” I pick at what passes for a meal. It’s good, my sense of taste now as enhanced as the rest of me, the components taking on an unfamiliar intensity. It’s as if I can taste the specific grains that made the bread, the rain that watered that grain, the ocean the salt came from to brine the cheese. As if I can pick out the interlocking pieces of this land I’m bound to in the bounty that springs from it. It should be a transcendent experience. Instead, the act of chewing and swallowing brings no pleasure or satisfaction. It’s a performance, one that must be put on in order to assuage my devoted, and to serve certain parts of me.
The weakest parts.
Excerpted from THE DIVINE SHADOW by Lyndsay Ely. Copyright © 2026. Reprinted by permission of Saga Press at Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.
