Page 117 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“Forgive my intrusion,” she offered, though her tone carried no trace of apology. “I come with urgency.”
Hephaestus said nothing, and the silence stretched expectantly.
“Apollo has gifted the Trojan archers with great accuracy,” Athena continued crisply. “The Greeks are falling swiftly, enduring heavy losses. They need stronger armor if they are to survive this war.”
The fire snapped, a loud crackle against the tense hush that followed.
Aglaia startled at the sound, then rose gracefully to her feet. “I will go,” she murmured, her fingers brushing his arm.
But before she could step away, his hand encircled her wrist. His grip was firm, his thumb pressing gently to her pulse.
“You will stay.”
Aglaia’s gaze lifted to his, searching. But he didn’t waver. His thumb swept her skin again, unhurried.
Whatever she read in his eyes steadied her, drawing the tension from her shoulders. Wordlessly, she settled at his side. Where she belonged.
Athena’s expression turned into thinly veiled disapproval. “We speak of warfare, brother,” she began, “perhaps she should—”
Beside him, Aglaia flinched.
But before the words could fully land—
“She will stay.” His voice cut through Athena’s objection like iron. Hard. Final.
A muscle feathered in Athena’s jaw, but she inclined her head stiffly. “Very well.”
Hephaestus dragged a hand against his jaw, fingers scraping his beard. “The Greeks should abandon leather,” he said after a moment. “Wood is heavier, but it will fare better against archers. They can plate it with bronze if they have any left.”
Silence returned, heavier than before.
Then Athena’s gaze narrowed. “You will not forge for them.”
“No.”
“Why?” A challenge. A demand.
Hephaestus held her gaze, his chin tilting. “Speak plainly,” he said. “I know she sent you.”
Athena’s lips pressed into a hard line. “Hera did send me, yes,” she replied finally. “She seeks your aid.”
In the hearth, the fire flared, its glow deepening, stretching the shadows on the stone walls. But he spoke evenly.
“Tell Hera I do not support the Greeks.”
A rare fissure of frustration split Athena’s composure. “You aided them before,” she argued. “You forged armor for Achilles.”
“And Achilles desecrated a corpse with it,” Hephaestus replied mildly. “Hardly inspires me to act again.”
“One soldier turns your support from them?”
He huffed a laugh, but the sound was hollow.“Agamemnon never had my support. And Achilles is no mere solider—you know this, goddess of wisdom.”
Her gray eyes flashed, jaw clenching. “You will let them fall, then?” she demanded. “While you are here, hiding away in your forge?”
Anger surged, calling to the fire in his veins. Steam curled from his skin, twisting in the air. But next to him, Aglaia’s breath hitched. He felt it, her pulse suddenly racing beneath his touch. So he mastered his temper, choking off the rising fire.
His hand slid from Aglaia’s wrist. The brace on his leg caught the firelight as he stepped forward. The air between them warped with heat as Hephaestus leaned toward Athena.
