Page 100 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“No.”
The reply was calm, crystalline. But it wasn’t Zeus who spoke.
Hera rose from her ivory throne, regal and imperious as the crown on her head. “The marriage oath was sworn on the River Styx. Witnessed and consummated—”
Demeter’s fury snapped into focus, eyes blazing on Hades. “How dare you,” she hissed, her voice trembling with wrath.
Hera ignored her. “By the old rites, Persephone is Hades’s wife,” she continued. “The oath is sealed. It cannot be undone.”
Demeter’s face twisted. Her eyes sliced toward Hera, filled with bitter scorn. “Of course not,” she spat. “Fidelity is sacred toyou, is it not?”
The barb struck deep. Hera stiffened, eyes flashing dangerously. But her silence held, iron-clad in dignity.
Zeus’s did not. His nostrils flared, shoulders stiffening. “Take care, Demeter,” he growled. “My decision is final, and my patience has limits.”
Demeter was past reason. Wild light burned in her eyes as she surged to her feet, fists balled at her sides. “Then I will go to the Underworld myself,” she snarled. “I will drag her back to this world.Herworld.”
Power crackled up Hades’s spine, sparking through his veins like a clash of bronze. His fist closed tightly around the bident. When he spoke, his voice was a blade in the dark, waiting to strike.
“That would be unwise.”
Power hummed, divine will thickening the air, waiting to burst free of its restraints. Tension simmered like a mirage in summer heat.
The other gods watched, motionless, suspended between divine wrath and reason.
“Enough!”
Zeus’s fist slammed against the arm of his throne. The marble beneath him cracked, the dais trembling. Torches guttered as the mountain itself shuddered and groaned.
“Demeter,” he thundered, “you will not set foot in the Underworld without its master’s leave.” His glare scorched as it swept the dais, daring defiance. “This council is ended.Go.”
The tension broke apart like glass. Hephaestus immediately vanished in a blaze, the scent of smoke trailing in his wake. Hermes was gone in a blink of silver.
Aphrodite drifted to Ares’s side, her expression still tinged with amused intrigue as she glanced between Hera and Demeter. Apollo strode past them toward the terrace, still stiff-spined with anger, and Artemis followed, her brow knit.
Only Athena remained, ignoring Zeus’s command. She sat still but thought raced behind her eyes, turning them molten silver.
Hades turned from the dais, his mantle billowing behind him as he descended, swallowing light in its folds.
Demeter’s voice rose behind him, sharp as lash. “You will regret this,” she vowed. “I swear it.”
A sudden gust swept through the temple. She vanished with it, the scent of loam and wild grass clinging in the air—but it was cold as frost.
Chapter 40
Stamatios sank to his knees on the temple’s stone floor, his forehead pressing against the marble. Desperate prayers spilled from his lips, whispers that dissolved into vast, indifferent silence.
The fields and orchards surrounding Athens were renowned for their fertility. Year after year, waves of golden wheat surged from the rich, dark soil. Nourished by plentiful sunlight and rain, slender green shoots rose as surely as the sun, swelling and finally bowing beneath heavy, golden crowns of grain.
This year had promised no less.
By early summer, the fields had shone in vibrant shades of green, swaying with the soft caress of a warm breeze. Rain had been abundant, and the crops stood tall and proud—a symbol of the kingdom.
Athens, prosperous and blessed.
As keeper of the royal storehouses, Stamatios had anticipated the largest yield in decades. He had lain awake at night, restless with the worry of too few laborers to gather such unprecedented abundance before the winds turned cold. Soon, people would come from the surrounding villages, eager to buy their share of the season’s grain.
But everything had changed that morning.
