Page 151 of Where Darkness Bloomed
Not in the way of a goddess gilded in vanity, cloaked in ageless divinity. Her beauty was nothing so paltry. Instead, it was deep and pure, the way dawn is beautiful after the long bitterness of a winter night. Flushed with warmth, uncertain in its brightness, and yet steady—wrapped in a quiet strength he’d come to recognize as hers alone.
The sight of her struck him with a force he hadn’t braced for, pulling something tight within him. For one unguarded heartbeat, he could scarcely breathe through it, forcing himself to swallow hard.
When he spoke, it was gruff. “You are very fond of children.”
Aglaia’s brows drew together. She blinked up at him, unsure. “Yes.”
“Tell me why.”
It came out sharper than he intended, less a request than a demand. Buthe needed to hear the answer, cared more deeply about it than he could admit even to himself.
Her gaze flicked away, then returned steadier, but soft. “They are pure, full of hope. They carry the seed of so much good.”
Her words struck bone. Cutting through old scars, burning through walls he’d long thought impenetrable.
Hephaestus dragged a hand across his jaw, the scrape of calloused fingers doing little to ease the turmoil churning beneath his skin.
Long ago, he had made a vow—not of innocence, but of bitter clarity.
He’d sworn never to sire a child into a world so steeped in cruelty and betrayal. The world that had shaped him.
Desire had not eluded him. He had known it well in mortal women bold enough to seek out a god, drawn by fire-warm skin and hard hands. In nymphs enticed by an Olympian who did not give chase or burn for worship.
Some sought novelty, others comfort. He’d answered, at times, sharing warmth and pleasure in the night when it asked for nothing but flesh and breath.
But never—not once—had he been tempted to cross that final, sacred threshold.
Creation.
Never had he allowed himself to shape life from that intimacy.
His vow had been ironclad for good reason. Nothing recommended begetting a child into turmoil, into needless tragedy. Into the world where a mother cast her son aside like refuse. Where marriage was leverage—his to Aphrodite a twisted arrangement, thrust upon him like shackles.
His own history had been reason enough to make that vow. And for millennia, it had held fast.
Until now. Until her.
Aglaia.
As different from Hera and Aphrodite as dawn from shadow.
She was gentleness unbroken. Light untarnished by power, undulled by bitterness. Strength in its quietest, most breathtaking form.
Now, standing close enough to feel her breath stir the air, he looked into her face. Into the softness there, though it was currently tightened by uneasiness. Even so, the way she looked at him cleaved through him, striking a place long hardened against hope.
It came then, a vision. Clear and consuming.
Aglaia, radiantly silhouetted in the firelight of their home, one hand resting lightly on the soft swell of her belly. A child.
Theirs.
Not born of obligation or mistake, but of her warmth and light. Of his strength. A child shaped not by Olympus, but by something older, simpler. The force rising in him like sunrise breaking the horizon, still unnamed.
He nearly staggered.
When he found his voice, it was hoarse, roughened by more than restraint. “Do you run from me?”
Aglaia’s gaze flickered, pain rising in her eyes like stormclouds. “No,” she whispered, but the word trembled.
