Page 104 of Where Darkness Bloomed
He guided her up the steps, his other palm a steady anchor against the small of her back. When they reached the great onyx throne, she moved to step aside—but his hand tightened around hers, halting her.
“You will sit.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes. She glanced from the throne to him, hesitating. Her teeth caught at her lower lip.
But he touched her waist, guiding her toward the seat he had just vacated. She sank into it slowly, her luminous figure framed by the high black stone—a bloom of life against dark grandeur.
Hades lingered another moment, taking in the sight of her. His wife, his queen. Then he turned back to the waiting hall.
“Aeacus.”
The judge on the right straightened, a gilt-edged scroll unrolling between his fingers. “King Atys of Phrygia and Sipylus,” Aeacus intoned. “Son of Tmolus and Plouto.”
At the name, Hades’s spine locked. He was still for a breath, then folded his arms over his chest. “Oh, I know King Atys.”
A pause. A breath drawn deep.
“Summon him.”
Instantly, a man appeared before the dais.
Reedy and sharp-featured, he stood with his brow knit in momentary confusion. Then his gaze lifted, finding the figures atop the dais in the great hall.
Realization dawned. His body buckled, crumpling to his knees, raw horror twisting his features.
“You are King Atys,” Hades said in a voice as dark as Tartarus’s chasm. “Known to gods and men as Tantalus.”
A choked sob came from the mortal’s throat. His breath was harsh, tears already dripping down his cheeks.
“Your day of judgment has come,” Hades continued quietly. “At last.”
“I am innocent, my lord!” Tantalus cried, voice cracking. “My wife betrayed me, betrayed the gods. She was jealous of my place among Olympus’s divine!”
From his seat, Minos scoffed, glaring at the man. “You cast the weight of your vile crimes on your wife?”
Tantalus’s arms stretched out, pleading. “It is the truth! You must believe me, my soul is innocent before you!”
His desperation cloyed the hall.
At the edge of Hades’s vision, Persephone flinched. His gaze flicked to her. Subtle distress was written across her face, her fingers curled in her lap. The king’s wretched sobs stirred her sympathy.
But she did not see him as he did.
She saw only the pleading, broken man. Not the stain of his sins, the weight of his heinous crimes. The festering rancor of depravity blooming deep within his dark soul.
“Nonsense.” Minos’s voice cut sharply against the silence. “I know how well you entertained the gods—”
“Peace, Minos,” Hades called firmly.
The hall fell silent again.
Hades’s gaze turned back to Tantalus, who gasped for air like a drowning man, thin chest heaving with the strain. “You make grave accusations, Tantalus. Against your wife, no less,” he remarked calmly. “If you wish to prove your claims true... then drink.”
He raised a hand.
At the center of the hall, a fountain stood, a sphere of glinting black obsidian, water sluicing endlessly over its glassy surface.
Tantalus’s eyes slid to the fountain, fear crystallizing on his face. Even so, he staggered to his feet, pitching toward the fountain. He cupped his hands, water trickling through his fingers as he brought them to his lips.
