Page 116 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“And fracture Olympus into ruin?” Zeus thundered. “You know what chaos that would unleash.” His hand swept toward the River Styx, whereendless souls spilled into shadow. “Look at them,” he demanded. “You hear their prayers—the cries of parents, the wails of widows, of children who will never see another sunrise.”
His voice faltered for a breath. Then it returned, uncharacteristically raw.
“We cannot intervene in Troy, not when the Fates have already foretold its fall. But this destruction might be avoided.” Stormbright eyes flashed at Hades. “You must yield. Demeter will not. When the war ends, Persephone will be returned to you.”
The air stiffened, turning glacial around Hades. “Demeter defies the Fates in violation of our oath, and you askmeto yield? To bend as she destroys the earth.”
The stillness between them threatened violence.
“Return to Olympus, brother.” The words fell with deadly calm. “You waste your breath.”
Zeus swore, a vicious oath in the old tongue, raking a hand through his hair, lightning flickering between his fingers. The throne room fell into hush, broken only by crackling torches and the mournful flow of the Styx.
Then Zeus asked, quiet and merciless, “And what will you tell Persephone?”
The question fell like a blow. A calculated fist to the gut.
He didn’t wait for an answer. “How will you comfort her,” Zeus pressed, voice coiling tighter with every word, “when she sees the river choked with souls? When the cries of starving children rise to her ears, day after day? She walked among them for eons, Hades. She will not look away as you do.”
Hades turned on him, fists clenched at his sides. “Demeter causes their suffering,” he snarled. “Not I.”
Without hesitation, Zeus struck back. “But neither do you prevent it,” he snapped. “Do you think she will forgive your neutrality when the riverbank overflows with children who died in their mothers’ arms?”
The sound that followed rose from Hades’s chest—not a word, but a raw, furious growl that shook the temple.
“You ask me to sacrifice my queen for the sake of mortals.” His eyes burned, fire banked in shadow, wrath smoldering deep. “I will not.”
Chapter 44
Hephaestus reclined on a low divan near the hearth.
Shadows played across the hard planes of his face. But the warmth of the fire was nothing compared to the goddess sitting before him.
Aglaia rested against his legs, a gentle weight, as though she belonged nowhere else. Her presence radiated its own quiet heat, intoxicating and steady, and his calloused fingers threaded through her hair, the dark strands slipping like water over his rough palms.
Each time he touched her, it felt like revelation. She was a creature made of morning, radiant and beautiful. Nothing of her belonged to the world of anvils and iron, where every creation was born of fire and force. And yet—
Here she was.
Against him. With him. Fitting to him with effortless certainty.
His thumb brushed the curve of her neck. She tilted her head slightly at the touch, and when her eyes met his, her lips curved into a quiet, knowing smile.
In her gaze—not heat or hunger.
Home.
Then the air shifted. It was subtle but sure, sending a prickle of awareness down his spine.
The golden brace on his leg creaked softly as Hephaestus rose, his focus shifting to the hearth. “Athena,” he murmured, answering the question in Aglaia’s gaze.
The space near the fire glinted like disturbed water, a form taking shape. Then the goddess appeared.
Athena stood rigid in the firelight, clad in unadorned linen. Bronze glinted at her wrists. Sharp gray eyes swept the chamber, lingering first onHephaestus, then dipping to Aglaia at his feet. A flicker of surprise passed through her, too swiftly to settle—then vanished.
“Hephaestus.” The greeting was clipped, her nod precise.
He met her stare with a dry arch of his brow. “Athena,” he returned, folding his arms over his broad chest. “You are unexpected.”
