Page 98 of Where Darkness Bloomed
Regret shadowed Artemis’s face, pale by comparison to the wrath rising harshly in Apollo’s features.
“Then he will contend with me,” Apollo bit out. “I will bring the sun’s wrath down until the sea boils beneath their ships—”
“I think not.”
Poseidon’s words crashed like a storm surge. His brow furrowed, eyes darkening like the ocean’s deep as he glared at Apollo. Beyond the terrace, the sea answered—tide swelling, wind rising in a wild whistle tinged with salt. The first warning of the ocean’s rage.
A hush fell over the dais.
Then Artemis rose alongside her brother, eyes flashing like twin daggers as they swept the dais. “This council bends too greatly for the Greeks,” she accused. “Hephaestus forged Achilles’s armor, the armor he used to slay and desecrate Hector. And Athena whispers to Odysseus, counseling the Greeks as to Troy’s destruction.”
Across the dais, Athena was stern and unmoving in her throne of interlaced olive and bronze. Her white chiton lay in simple folds, unadorned. Beneath her helm, her eyes gleamed cool and silver-bright.
“This war did not begin with the Greeks,” Athena said evenly. “I will not stand in defense of a Trojan prince who violated our guest-right laws and stole another’s wife.”
Tension snapped like a cord drawn too tight. A sudden scrape of metal tore through the hush as Ares rose to his feet. His eyes burned like coals, fist tightening around his spear.
“Do you believe Agamemnon’s butchery ends with Troy’s soldiers?” he demanded, voice ringing with battle-hardened scorn. “Did you look away when he ravaged Morea? When his armies swept through the Dodecanese—pillaging our temples, slaughtering the young, raping women beneath burning roofs?”
Silence.
“I did not,” Ares snarled, eyes pinned to Athena. “Paris is a fool. Let him die—by blade or fire, it matters little. But Agamemnon?” His voice grew dark with warning. “He will burn every home. Leave no child screaming, no woman breathing. There will be nothing but ash and bone beneath his banner.”
The silence stiffened under the impact of his words. Ares sank back into his throne, the crash of his armor echoing like the first drumbeat of war.
“This,” he spat, “is the man you defend.”
Thunder growled in the distance, the air growing thicker.
Zeus stood, his robes rippling with the stir of unseen winds, and his eyes lit with stormlight. “I summon the Fates.”
All eyes shifted toward the hearth where the air shimmered.
Three figures stepped forward in unison—tall, graceful, and utterly cold. A chill crept through the hall, silencing all movement.
Together, the Fates bowed.
“Lord Zeus.” Atropos’s voice was melodic, ringing with finality. “How may we serve Olympus?”
“Foretell the fate of Troy,” Zeus commanded.
Stillness followed as Atropos’s dark gaze swept the dais, lingering over each occupant. Finally, her eyes returned to Zeus.
“Are you certain, my lord?” A soft warning. “A thing seen cannot be unseen.”
Lightning forked churning clouds menacingly as Zeus leaned forward on his golden throne. “Foretell it,” he said again, this time colder, the edge of the storm in his voice.
Gracefully, the Fates lifted their hands to the heavens, as if to stroke the constellations above. Silver mist coiled beneath their fingers, twisting into a cloud of woven light, and an image emerged.
It was a city with towering walls, defiant yet encircled by enemies. Arrows tipped with flame lanced the night like sparks from a dying fire, brilliant against the black sky.
The mist shifted.
Slowly, a colossal horse took form. Its chestnut frame cast an ominous shadow before the Trojan gates—gates that were flung wide. Greek forces flooded in like an unstoppable tide, flames devouring the streets. Blood spilled in dark rivers, pooling in stone gutters. Faint screams echoed through the vision, a final, futile resistance.
A city shuddering under a death blow.
Slowly, the mist dissipated, leaving oppressive quiet in its wake.
