Page 89 of Where Darkness Bloomed
She no longer believed in the sincerity of men. Tyndareus. Theseus. Menelaus. Paris. Each one had possessed, used, and betrayed her. Each one had proven to her that treachery was the only certainty among men.
Yet... Achilles remained apart.
In truth, she had never known of another like him. It was difficult to doubt his sincerity when he made no effort to conceal his contempt. Pride, rage, defiance—he wore them like his armor, blazing brightly as the bronze on his back. His scorn for both Greeks and Trojans was open, unapologetic.
He had turned from the war once before in defiance of Agamemnon, and the Greek army had descended into turmoil. Trojan forces had surged forward then, nearly driving them into the sea. Many of their ships had burned, blazing bright on the sea.
All because of one man.
Across the long months of siege, she and Achilles had faced each other,separated by a battlefield. He had no reason to care for her plight. Yet when his eyes found hers, the fire in them had flickered. Not quenched but tempered.
Then, Patroclus.
Achilles’s grief had been wild, unrestrained. Fury had carved the hard lines of his face, hollowed out his eyes, sang through the spear he hurled into Hector’s body.
But afterward, when Hector lay dead on the ground at his feet, Achilles’s eyes had risen to hers once more. The bloodlust in them changed. Not with triumph, not even rage. His gaze was raw then, stripped bare and bloodsick.
In that moment—grief sang to grief. Like called to like.
Across the chasm of the battlefield, his sorrow had reached for hers. Only a moment, but his gaze had burned a mark deep beneath her skin. She’d felt no fear then. And in him, she’d seen no fury.
Now, doubt stirred. And with it—a fragile, trembling thought. Reckless, perhaps even mad.
The Greeks revered Achilles more than their high king. They feared his wrath, admired his ferocity, obeyed his command. But Achilles had nothing to gain by staying in Troy.
And, more importantly—nothing to lose by leaving.
Hadn’t he begun to leave once before? Before Hector’s spear found Patroclus, dragging him back from the sea’s edge.
The thought that rooted in her mind was impossible. But that hardly mattered anymore. Not when the walls were closing in. Not when so much else had already been stripped away.
This was the last chance. The only path left unburnt. The last fragile thread of hope for the Trojans, the Greeks.
For her.
Helen drew a breath, willing iron into her heart, smoothing calm over the chaos clawing in her chest. Her voice, when it came, rang soft like a blade drawn from its sheath.
“I need parchment.”
Chapter 37
The woman’s breath was ragged and soft. Blue light pulsed around her, seaweed drifting by. Overhead, brilliant daylight bled through the water’s surface, a distant halo of gold. She surged upward, her head breaking into open air.
The goddess stepped from the sea onto a windswept cliffside beach, seawater streaming from her dark hair and robes.
“Thetis!”
A voice echoed in the distance.
She glanced over her shoulder. Regret lined her features, but she only cradled the infant in her arms closer. Without a word, she slipped into the dark mouth of a rocky cavern, vanishing down a winding path into darkness.
Persephone’s eyes opened.
Her breath came unsteadily, rising and falling as though she had shared the goddess’s flight. Like fog, the dream clung to her mind’s edges, blurring the line between waking and dreaming.
Gradually, the chamber around her sharpened: dark walls rising high, the dome above glittering with constellations. The bedding, soft and cool against her bare skin.
Next to her, the bed was empty.
