Page 172 of Where Darkness Bloomed
Above, the sky was dark and immense, as if carved from dark stone.
Helen followed the river’s path upstream, and panic bloomed coldly in her chest.
At the peak, a temple towered like a black jewel crowning themountains. Bronze braziers burned with eternal fire. Rugged peaks framed the temple, the river spilling in raging falls, carving the mountainside in furious rapids.
Panic rose—but it did not crest. Because just then, she felt it.
A presence.
Across the river, beneath the silvered boughs of a laurel tree, a woman stood watching her.
Not a woman, Helen realized swiftly, cold shock rising. A goddess. The soft radiance of her ageless appearance proved as much.
Her chiton was the deep blue of twilight seas. Dark hair fell in loose waves over one shoulder, a wreath of delicate silver on her brow. Shadows laced around her ankles like mist, soft and shimmering, gathering reverently at her feet.
She was a being of impossible grace and quiet power. Not a queen of men, but something more ancient, enduring—a presence both sovereign and gentle. Even the grove leaned toward her, ever so slightly, as if the very earth recognized her, bowed to her.
For a moment, they regarded one another across the dark river. Not as strangers, not quite.
Then, the goddess raised her hand. A greeting. An acknowledgment.
Meant for her.
Helen’s fingers trembled as she slowly lifted her hand in answer.
Across the river, the goddess’s lips tilted into the faintest smile. Emerald eyes caught the light, sparkling, and in the warmth of her gaze, Helen believed—if only for a moment—that all might yet be well. Even as the goddess vanished, mist folding behind her like the last breath of dusk.
“Helen of Troy.”
A deep, commanding voice cleaved the river’s roar.
She startled, spinning swiftly.
The speaker stood at the riverbank, perilously close to the edge, mist rising around him.
Gone was the gleaming bronze, the armor that had once marked him a warrior of legend. Now, only a simple linen tunic clung to his form, belted at the waist.
Sharp, sea-green eyes stared into her, fierce as the blade that had carved his name into eternity. The same eyes that had found her through the smoke at Troy. Through the ruin and the fire, the night she’d never truly escaped.
Her body willed her to move, to speak or flee. But she stood still, held fast beneath the weight of his gaze.
Then her voice slipped from her lips, a whisper on the wind.
“My lord Achilles.”
Chapter 64
Achilles stood still, watching her.
The silence cracked beneath the wild crash of water against stone.
At last, he spoke.
“I did think this moment would come sooner.” His voice was steady, but it carried a quiet edge, a dark undercurrent. “Perhaps when we were both in Troy.”
Flames rose in her mind: towers collapsing in fire, marble blackened by ash, screams spiraling into the night sky.
The night the city fell.
