Excerpts Epic Fantasy Read an Excerpt From The Lost Reliquary by Lyndsay Ely A divinely blessed warrior bound to the last living goddess plots deicide to win her freedom. By Lyndsay Ely | Published on September 17, 2025 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Lost Reliquary, the first book in a new epic fantasy series by Lyndsay Ely, publishing with Saga Press on October 21. The Devoted Lands was once home to many gods. Now, after centuries of brutal wars, only Tempestra-Innara, the Enduring Flame, remains.As a divine warrior, Lys is outwardly loyal to her goddess. If she dreams of deicide, that’s her business. When a routine heretical execution erupts into a near-fatal assassination attempt on Tempestra-Innara, Lys sees a glimmer of hope for her freedom.Lys is chosen to hunt down the heretics and find an ancient reliquary with the power to kill a god. Annoyingly, she’s not alone. Paired with Nolan, a warrior from a rival cloister who is as pious as he is determined, Lys must feign devotion if she hopes to keep her own god-killing ambitions within reach.But as they pursue the heretics linked to the assassination, Lys uncovers a world with more possibility—and peril—than she ever anticipated. One When they whisper, we wake… Every divine execution begins pretty much the same: with me, bored and sweaty, staring down at the worn patch that sits before the altar of Tempestra-Innara, last living goddess of the Devoted Lands. I hate that spot. Even from the highest gallery of the Cathedral, it stands out like a stain, darker than the stone surrounding it, burnished smooth over centuries by the knees of countless devoted, conquered, and condemned.  The Cathedral’s apse curls around it like an embrace, oil lamps on spidery chains flickering among the golden, bejeweled bones that line the walls. Some of those bones’ owners knelt too. I’m not sure they would have taken it as a compliment, having their flesh stripped away, skeletons gilded and set with gemstones, but that’s the honor the Goddess bestows upon their worthiest of enemies: a tacky eternity as the Cathedral’s most striking décor. From this angle, I can’t quite see my favorite skull—the one with its front teeth missing and jeweled daggers in its eye sockets—but it’s there. I named it Alastair. Like the apse, the Cathedral is crowded with bodies, but fleshy living ones, which is why I am melting like a damn cake left in the sun. Even as high above them as my fellow Potentiates and I are, practically wedged into the skeletal ribbing of the vaulted ceiling, there’s no relief.  It must be worse in the gallery below ours, which, despite the upcoming entertainment, remains sparsely occupied by our superiors in the Orders—some huddled Priors oozing bureaucracy, a pair of Bellators in their snappy military garb, one rather wilted-looking Cleric of the Blood. And I can’t imagine the pure torture on the floor, where a lagoon of onlookers churns endlessly, their perfumes and sachets long ago congealed into a smothering overripeness that I can practically taste. Somehow the corporeal bouquet does nothing to temper the unwashed-armpit smell of my helm. We may not put on our ceremonial armor often, but the least the Dawn Cloister attendants could do is give it a good airing out before we do. “At this rate,” I say under my breath, shifting uncomfortably as a tickle of sweat runs down the small of my back toward my swampy nethers, “we’ll be dead before the condemned is.” To one side of me, Jeziah lets out a brief yip of laughter, as fox-like as the creature his helm depicts. On the other, Morgan is silent, but I can sense the simmering annoyance beneath her hawk, which stares unflaggingly at the Cathedral’s apse. It would probably take me literally exploding into flames to break her focused, ever-obedient attention. “Lys!” I turn my head slightly at the hiss of my name, down the line of my fellow Potentiates to where a warning expression flashes beneath Prior Petronilla’s hood. There and gone, her face shadowed again, but the message is clear. Especially when her attention snags fleetingly on the gallery directly across from us, where the Potentiates of the Dusk Cloister stand: Do not embarrass us. But if the Dusk Potentiates or their Prior noticed my indiscretion, they give no indication, as straight and still as the statues honoring our distinguished predecessors that line the halls of the Cathedral complex. Buy the Book The Lost Reliquary Lyndsay Ely Buy Book The Lost Reliquary Lyndsay Ely Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget We are a mirrored set, the gold-trimmed ebon gray of their armor contrasting with the polished red and gold of ours in a perfect theatrical duality. I don’t know the names or faces of the Dusk acolytes, and they don’t know ours. Until we join the higher Orders, we are nameless, faceless things to everyone outside our Cloister, our sole purpose to train and learn to serve the Goddess to the highest degree. Within the Dawn, competition to be the best is fierce. But Prior Petronilla never lets us forget that, no matter how we excel, the Dusk Potentiates might be that much better, that much more devoted. But anonymous or not, pitted against one another or not, we are all the children of Tempestra-Innara. Their Chosen. Every one of us once knelt on that infamous spot below and received the gift of the Goddess’s blessing: our communion of blood. A shiver runs through me. But not from the memory. Tempestra-Innara has arrived. Instinctively, I stand straighter, discomfort forgotten as a sudden, diminishing sensation takes me. I am small, smaller even than when I first beheld them, when their gift trickled its way over my lips and into my veins. That shared blood sings now, their holy presence like a rush of fever as the bones in the apse shift, revealing the hidden door to the Goddess’s sanctum in the Cathedral spire. Below, the crowd cries out with pleasure, fear, awe. They clutch the reveries that hang around their necks—tiny representations of the holy flame wrought in gold, silver, marble—and reach out for a touch that will never deign to grace them. There is no acclimating to the arrival of the Goddess, not even for those with their divine gift. They glide forward. At the edge of the dais that marks the boundary between the apse and the Cathedral’s nave, the Goddess stops and raises their hands. Flames appear, filling their palms with a clean, white blaze. I feel the trembling in my legs again. Many in the crowd fall to their knees. I hear whimpers. I see tears. I get it. For most, it’s their first time this close to the Goddess’s glory. Do they see the same thing I do? The unnerving amalgamation of flesh and divinity, familiar and alien at the same time? Describing Innara, the chosen vessel, is easy enough: tall and slight of frame, with a light complexion and brown hair. But that is not a description of Tempestra. They tower. They radiate. They glow with the cold brightness of a full moon, their tresses flowing with the power of a river swollen by spring thaw. And their flames… even from a distance the flickering tongues of divinity feel hungry with a need to cleanse the impure. When they whisper, we wake… The prayer begins without need for a cue, a rising swell of voices. At their command, we follow. In their light, we are seen… we are judged… My lips move automatically, reciting words I’ve known longer than I can remember, brought to my village by soft-tongued clerics long before a Bellator’s forces arrived to deliver their enlightenment in a more bellicose manner. May their blessed flame find purity of faith, or else leave cinder and ash. Jeziah once told me he thought the air seemed thinner at the end of a prayer. Lighter, as if something has been burned out of it. And as this one tapers off, Tempestra-Innara lowers their hands, letting their flames extinguish before they address the crowd. “Bring forward the condemned.” They don’t waste time getting down to business. Which I appreciate, since the initial shock of their arrival has faded, and now I feel the sticky sweat again. The massive doors at the front of the Cathedral swing open, admitting a welcome rush of cool air. The condemned in question has probably been waiting just beyond them for ages, but there’s an order to these sorts of things. An anticipatory fear that needs to be constructed, a level of threatening theatricality that must be reached. After all, anything less than a showy execution is simply an invitation for further insurrection. The man’s name is Emmaus. He stumbles as he’s dragged down the center aisle by the rope around his neck, hampered by chains binding his ankles and wrists. The restraints hardly seem necessary; even from a distance, he moves feebly, bruises covering his exposed skin, barely keeping upright. Not that it earns him any sympathy from the onlooking crowd. They hiss and spit, rancor as thick as their perfumes. Because common criminals don’t get divine executions. Because Emmaus is more than that—he’s a heretic. And a proficient one at that. He and his coconspirators have murdered magistrates and clerics, and eluded the Goddess’s forces for nearly two years. Until they sent Andronica. One hand gripping Emmaus’s rope, Andronica saunters her way to Tempestra-Innara, not a trace of humility in her razor-sharp gaze. As the Goddess’s Executrix, such things are below her. My fellow Potentiates and I briefly break our static vigil to tap the sigil of the Dawn Cloister on our shoulders. Respect for the Executrix, who was once one of us. They are the Goddess’s right hand, their hunter, their blade. We are all stronger, faster, more resilient than a normal person, thanks to the Goddess’s gift. Our senses are sharper, our wounds quicker to heal. We can call the divine flame (some, like me, with less competency than others). But of all the paths a Potentiate will follow—Bellator, Prior, Arbiter, Cleric of the Blood—the position of the Executrix is the most revered. The most desired. And utterly out of reach. Andronica is still in her prime, radiating with vitality. But nothing, save the Goddess, lasts forever. Andronica yanks the rope, sending Emmaus to his knees. A reverie escapes his tattered shirt, a simple painted plaster pendant in the style favored by the lower classes. And by heretics. Easy to smash quickly if one needs to hide their spiritual inclinations. That Andronica has allowed Emmaus to keep wearing it is a clear mockery. Even with my divinely assisted eyesight, I can’t tell which dead god Emmaus is so devoted to that he risked ending up exactly where he is now, but it doesn’t matter. One is as damning as another. And ridiculous. There are no other gods, not anymore. Tempestra-Innara killed the last of their siblings well over a century ago. All that’s left are beliefs that refuse to die too. “Mother.” Andronica bows. “As you commanded, as you entrusted me to do, I have brought you the heretic Emmaus.” Tempestra-Innara inclines their head slightly. “And for that, my daughter, you have my thanks and love. Emmaus.” The Goddess speaks the name with a measure of respect. More than he merits, but it’s there nonetheless, a minute concession from a victor whose triumph was never in question. “You are guilty of treason and heresy. For that, you will die with greater honor than you deserve, by the hand of divinity.” Emmaus laughs, a creaking, defiant sound that sends a ripple of offended gasps through the crowd. “You may be divine…” I’m damn near impressed by the venom he summons. “But you are not my goddess.” More scandalized murmurs, cut off by a single word from Tempestra-Innara. “Heretic.” The sound shivers through the Cathedral, curdling my guts. Even Morgan flinches a little. The humanity in Tempestra-Innara’s features slips away, turning as cold as a marble statue’s. “I am the only goddess.” No one, save Andronica, is unaffected by the declaration. She smirks a little, beaming with devoted pride. Then, almost indifferently, she turns and kicks Emmaus in the side. He lets out a cry of pain, worse than the blow warranted, which makes me suspect it’s not the first kick his ribs have taken lately. “I should have cut out his tongue to gift you, Mother,” Andronica says. “If he speaks again, I will.” But Emmaus doesn’t quiet. Instead, he reaches for his necklace and wraps his hand around the pendant. His lips begin to move, and though he speaks too quietly to make out, I know a prayer when I see it. I almost laugh. Fool. I’m not the only one who anticipates the Goddess’s rage. The whole Cathedral collectively holds its breath, waiting for the inevitable execution, which, if it might have been merciful before, sure won’t be now. Divine execution might be an honored way to die, but it’s not a pleasant one. Displeasure hardens the Goddess even further as they raise their hands again. But Emmaus doesn’t falter when the flames reappear. He continues to pray, rocking slightly as he brings the necklace to his lips and kisses it. Making peace with the last moments of his life. At least, that’s what I think. Until I see his fist tighten. Until I hear the faint, chalky crunch an instant before Emmaus throws his head back. It all happens so quickly. Even Tempestra-Innara doesn’t have time to react. Suicide by poison. A syrupy moment passes as Emmaus stands and smiles—no, grins, lips blackened by whatever was secreted in the necklace. Mocking. Triumphant. I smirk beneath my helm. Maybe Emmaus isn’t as much a fool as I thought. Silence falls on the Cathedral. Not even Andronica moves, waiting, prudently, for the Goddess to react, to say something. This execution has turned into a colossal fuckup. Someone will have to bear the fault of it. Tempestra-Innara does not speak. Nor do they move. And for the first time, I glimpse something I’ve never seen on the Goddess’s face. Something that must be anything else, because it can’t possibly be what I think it is. Fear. The Goddess strikes—a divine blow, unnatural in its speed. A blow that should leave Emmaus in as many pieces as his reverie. A blow that Emmaus blocks. Cries erupt from the crowd as Emmaus grips the Goddess’s wrist with one hand and snatches their neck with the other. A blade swings—Andronica’s—but Emmaus glides beneath it, landing a kick that sends the Executrix flying. With unsettling vigor, Emmaus laughs. Impossibly, his bruises have disappeared, and he doesn’t move like a man with shattered ribs. Instead, he stands tall as his fingers tighten further. A truncated cough escapes the Goddess. Then, abruptly, he begins to wheeze. To choke. The heretic pitches forward, eyes squeezing shut as he loses his grip on Tempestra-Innara. Freed, the Goddess stumbles backward, the look on their face… I don’t need to see it clearly to know something is truly wrong. Especially not when Emmaus’s eyes open again. All humanity there is gone. In its place is blackness, oily and fetid. A darkness that spreads, bubbling over Emmaus’s face, pouring from his nose and mouth in a hideous gush. One that starts to consume him. To change him. Emmaus raises his arms, flesh disintegrating as spears of the grim effluvia burst from what used to be his hands, sharpening to a point as they plunge into Tempestra-Innara’s shoulder, stomach, thigh. The Goddess screams, a sound that grates across my soul. I cannot look away from the horror below, blood pounding in my ears even as it seems to drain out of me. What I am seeing shouldn’t be possible. Cannot not be possible. And yet, the blackness continues to grow. Faster even than my stunned disbelief as I watch Emmaus about to succeed in doing what I have secretly dreamed of since the first time I knelt on that worn Cathedral floor: Killing Tempestra-Innara. Excerpted from The Lost Reliquary, copyright © 2025 by Lyndsay Ely. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>The Lost Reliquary</i> by Lyndsay Ely appeared first on Reactor.