Page 62 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“Aglaia.”
She looked up to find Euphrosyne approaching, eyes full of quiet understanding.
“Zeus has called for an audience.”
In the throne room, Zeus stood alone on the dais, regal and austere.
Hermes appeared before him in a flicker of silver, head bowing with practiced ease. “You summoned me, lord.”
“The armor that was promised to Thetis. Do you have it?”
Hermes’s face betrayed nothing as he replied, “Hephaestus brings it himself.”
Impatience sparked in Zeus’s eyes. “Very well,” he said brusquely. “Hephaestus.”
At his call, the air rippled with sudden heat. Aglaia’s pulse stuttered as it crackled, then a column of flame erupted in the hall. Embers and sparks scattered, and from the inferno, Hephaestus emerged.
He wore his leather apron, sweat gleaming along his arms and collarbone, as though he’d just stepped from the forge. Smoke curled from his skin.
Breath snagged in Aglaia’s throat, the raw memory surging again. His warmth at her back, the roughness in his voice, the rasp of his thumb against her cheek. The rejection, its bite still sharp as flint.
She stepped back on instinct, slipping behind her sisters. Her eyes fixed on the floor, not daring to look up at him—not now.
A silent plea burned through her mind, a desperate whisper to the Fates that he wouldn’t turn around. She couldn’t bear to face him again. Couldn’t bear the shame if she cried before the pantheon.
Before the dais, Hephaestus paused, glancing down at his soot-streaked appearance. With a flick of his fingers, flames flared across his skin, burning away the grime. When it faded, he stood clean, clad in a moss-green tunic belted at the waist, heat still clinging to him like a second skin. A heavy bronze chest gleamed at his feet.
“Father.” His deep voice commanded the hall as he addressed Zeus. “I bring armor forged for Achilles, son of Thetis.”
Zeus regarded him with something close to approval, offering a short nod. “You have our gratitude, Hephaestus. Hermes, deliver it to Thetis.”
Instantly, Hermes and the chest vanished, but Hephaestus remained before the dais, unmoving.
“For the work I have done,” he continued. “I would ask something in return.”
The hall was still. Every eye watched as Zeus considered, tilting his head. “Speak it, my son.”
There was no hesitation.
“I ask for the hand of Aglaia in marriage.”
***
The soft gasp that pierced the air was unmistakable.
Hephaestus turned sharply toward the noise, eyes searching. His gaze snagged on a glimpse of raven-black hair.
There she was.
Aglaia stood half-concealed behind her sisters, as if they could shield her from him. The stone wall pressed against her back, and her startled eyes were fixed on him.
A flush rose in her cheeks, lovely as the first light of dawn.
“Aglaia,” Zeus called to her.
She came forward from the shadows with hesitant steps. Her movements were like water, quiet and effortless, the hem of her chiton whispering against the floor.
As Hephaestus watched her approach, the tension in his chest wound tight. It sat, heavy as an anvil, pressing harshly into his ribs.
