Page 90 of Where Darkness Bloomed
Like a crashing tide, the memory of the night surged.
His hands, sure and demanding, trailing fire over her skin. His breath brushing the hollow of her throat. The weight of his body pressing her down, holding her open. The sound of her name—her name—murmured, low and deep, against her flesh.
The names that were now hers in full.
Persephone. Wife. Queen.
She sat up, pulse racing.
The chiton she had worn—discarded somewhere on the floor—was gone. Only the silver diadem remained, glinting like a shard of starlight at the foot of the bed.
She grasped a blanket from the bedding, wrapping it around herself as she stood.
Beyond the terrace’s linen curtains, silver-colored dawn was rising over the Underworld. Wild, wind-kissed mountains stretched in every direction, rising in harsh and breathless beauty.
A flicker of gold caught the edge of her vision. Her gaze shifted to a pedestal near the far wall, hewn from dark stone. Atop it rested a helm.
It sat in silent dominion, the dark gold reflecting the light, edged in shadow. Empty eye slits stared back at her, angular and severe. A stiff crest of black horsehair swept back in a warrior’s plume.
The Helm of Darkness.
Fashioned in the deepest fires of the cyclopes’ forge and bestowed to Hades during the Titanomachy. A gift. A weapon of legend. A crown of war.
She remembered him wearing it before. That first moment—when the earth split open and he had risen from its depths. Clad in armor, crowned in gold, his face hidden behind the sharp edges of this helm. Darkness had clung to him then, like a mantle of his will. A presence that had stilled the wind.
She stepped closer.
The hush around it deepened, soft but foreboding, whispering of battles long past. Of the lord who wore it still.
Her fingertips ghosted along the ridge of the crest. Slowly, she lifted it. Cold metal thrummed against her skin, the weight filling her hands.
“Heavy, is it not?”
She jolted at the voice behind her, deep and calm—now familiar.
The helm tipped through her fingertips, crashing to the floor with a deafening clang.
***
Hades stood in the doorway, silent.
Persephone stood at the pedestal, draped in linen and haloed in the soft light of rising dawn. The blanket clung to her body, molding to the curves his hands had traced all through the night. Her dark hair was still tousled from sleep—from him.
She studied the helm cradled in her palms, brow furrowed in thought.
Then he spoke.
The helm slipped from her grasp, falling with a clang that reverberated sharply through the stillness.
Persephone winced, bending to retrieve it. When she straightened, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes lifting to find his.
The heat rising in her face told him she remembered the night with the same vivid clarity he did. Every moment. Every sound and touch. His body tightened swiftly in response. But he ignored the pull of desire and stepped forward, bridging the distance between them.
She stood still, tracking his approach with soft, clear eyes.
“Is it true the cyclopes forged this?”
Her question surprised him, slowing his steps. Until now, she had asked him very little. But now, her gaze was changed, bright and curious, lit with a spark of intrigue that drew him like a flame in the dark.
