Page 60 of Where Darkness Bloomed
She sagged against the door, slowly raising a trembling hand to where his touch still burned.
Chapter 26
Jasmine perfumed the evening air, carried by a soft wind. Silver silks billowed across the open terrace, catching the dying light of the sunset as it bled into night.
“What do you mean?” Thalia’s voice was a hush of concern. Her silhouette flickered, outlined by the fire dancing in the marble hearth. Behind her, shadows drifted along the polished stone walls.
“He told me to go,” Aglaia said quietly, sorrow thickening the words.
She sat curled beside the fire, arms tightly wrapped around her knees. Her sisters sat close, forming a quiet circle around the hearth.
“But he kissed you,” Thalia protested.
“On the forehead.” Aglaia’s voice cracked. “As he told me to leave.”
“You are goddess of beauty,” Euphrosyne interjected, disbelief coloring her voice. “He would not simply... turn you away.”
The memory surged, so painful it felt like she would wrench apart.
“He would,” she murmured. “He has endured much.”
Euphrosyne’s gaze grew pensive. “But his marriage to Aphrodite was Hera’s arrangement, not his. And it ended long ago.” Her voice turned soothing. “Aglaia, he does not pine for her.”
But the words offered little comfort. Her thoughts only spiraled, dark and tangled.
How much misfortune had he endured at Hera’s hands?
Thalia’s smile was gentle, touched by sadness. “There are others.” She nodded toward the open balcony, where the horizon held the last gold traces of sun. “Apollo would call himself blessed to have you.”
Aglaia shook her head, unable to speak, looking away. Tears silently slipped down her cheeks as she buried her face into her arms.
It didn’t matter. None other mattered.
Only him.
Chapter 27
Thetis’s footsteps were silent along the marshy riverbed, her eyes fixed on the far horizon.
Behind her, the Scamander flowed darkly in the failing light, choked with blood.
Then the waters stirred, parting as a figure rose from the murky depths.
He was dark, elemental. Scamander, god of the river, stepped forward onto the bank. Silt clung to his hair. His eyes were deep, ancient as the stones in his waters.
“Your son,” he said in a gravelly voice, “is determined to drown the world in Trojan blood.”
Thetis did not turn.
“Achilles has become a madman,” Scamander went on. “I have watched, and he does not eat. He does not sleep. He sharpens his blade until his hands bleed.”
A pause. The river stilled.
“And the body...”
Thetis’s heart clenched in her chest.
“It remains in his tent,” Scamander finished grimly. “He will not give it up.”
