Page 14 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

Sleep eluded Hades.

Weeks had passed since the summer solstice. Night after night, it slipped from his grasp, leaving his nights restless and hollow.

With a sharp exhale, he rose from his bed, tying a garment around his naked waist. His footsteps whispered against the dark marble as he crossed the long stretch of his bedchamber.

At the far end, a low pool sat still and calm, like a mirror carved into the dark marble. Awaiting his will.

Demeter’s daughter.

The water trembled immediately. Ripples spread outward as the image formed.

And there she was. Nestled in sun-warmed grass. Dark hair fanned out like a shadow around her. Sunlight pooled over her skin, emblazoning her in gold. Her fingers skimmed through green blades, threading gently.

“Grow.”

The whisper left her lips. And the earth obeyed.

New shoots curled up at her fingertips, unfurling into delicate cobalt blossoms that he recognized.

He watched her eyes fall closed, lashes dark against her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell with the slow rhythm of summer air, as though the earth breathed with her. His gaze traced her—the lines of her form, the slope of her waist, the lazy stretch of her hand.

Then he noticed it.

The trees that surrounded her were tall, ancient. A thick forest of cypress.

His grove. She lay in his grove.

The warmth lingering in his chest turned molten, a slow surge rising deep from the most ancient part of him.

She had come willingly. Had crossed into his sanctuary not by accident, but with purpose. Had chosen to lie here, in the place consecrated to him. A place where none other wandered.

Hades turned from the pool, the image dissolving in ripples behind him. He strode from the chamber, garments forming around him as he moved with long, purposeful strides.

The time for watching had passed.

***

His chariot tore through a jagged chasm at the heart of Olympus, the earth sealing shut behind him.

Columns of white marble rose against green slopes, gleaming brightly before dissolving into the heavens. Shrines and temples crowned the mountaintop, grand and imperious, golden braziers flaring to life as twilight deepened.

In the sky, Apollo’s chariot descended, a final crack of his whip driving the fiery chariot over the horizon. The last streaks of crimson sunlight faded, ebbing into indigo.

At the summit, the great temple awaited. Hades strode through its entrance, his footsteps echoing in the atrium.

The throne hall was empty. Except for Zeus. He stood before the dais, his gaze resting on the circle of thrones. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he turned.

Hades nodded his greeting. “Brother.”

Zeus clasped a firm hand to his shoulder, a flicker of curiosity sharpening his eyes. “What stirs the Underworld that its lord returns to Olympus again so soon?”

Hades did not answer immediately. Instead, he moved past Zeus, stepping onto the broad terrace beyond. The sea stretched endlessly beneath them, glinting silver as moonlight danced on its restless waves.

Zeus followed, leaning against a marble column as he waited for him to speak.

“I’ve come to speak of our oath,” Hades said at last, his eyes on the constellations burning overhead. “The vow we swore after war with the Titans.”

At that, Zeus sobered instantly. “The old law,” he said slowly. “None may interfere with the Fates.”

“Yes.” Hades turned, facing him fully. “Yet, what of your daughter with Demeter? ”

A beat. Then—

“Kore.”

“She remains with Demeter,” Hades continued evenly, “though the Fates bound her to me long ago.”

Silence settled between them, deep and heavy.

At length, Zeus inclined his head. “I do not deny it.”

“Then will you support my claim to her?”

Zeus’s brow flicked up. “She has agreed?”

Hades thought of her face beneath the solstice moon—her eyes lit with wonder, breath shallow as her emerald gaze searched his face.

“She has not refused.”

Zeus gave a dry huff that might have passed for a cough.

He ran a hand over his short beard, contemplative.

“You have no quarrel with me. Kore is a lesser goddess—the goddess of spring, beloved by mortals.” He studied Hades for a long moment, then rolled a shoulder in indifferent assent.

“If you desire her as your wife... then she is yours.”

A pause followed. When he spoke again, his tone shifted—growing solemn, echoing the old rites. “As her sire, I grant her to you in marriage. If she will have you.”

The words rang like a seal, spoken and done.

Hades inclined his head, masking the unrest that shifted beneath. “You have my thanks,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause, “What of Demeter?”

Zeus grimaced. In the distance, thunder echoed the gesture. “Of all the immortals, she is the most stubborn. And Kore is her only child.” He glanced sidelong at Hades, warning in his eyes. “You’ve witnessed her wrath. Rain falls in torrents, or not at all. Crops flourish or else wither in blight.”

It was true.

Hades had seen it many times—floods of souls arriving on the banks of the River Styx during years of famine or drought. Mortals starving as the earth offered no mercy.

A grim testament to Demeter’s volatile nature.

“Nevertheless,” he replied firmly. “I will have her.”

Zeus folded his arms, his expression turning shrewd. “Then take her,” he offered simply. “Marry her away from Demeter’s sight.”

Hades stilled, absorbing the weight of his words. “Do you think that wise?” he asked at last.

A sardonic smile tipped across Zeus’s mouth. “None will interfere with a lawful marriage, lest they invite Hera’s wrath. If the vows are sworn and consummated, Demeter will have no recourse.”

Hades stood silently.

He had tasted Demeter’s fury once before, for this very transgression. Time had done nothing to temper her. In this, she would never yield. He was certain of that.

But the image of her daughter burned in his mind. Eyes soft as spring leaves. A cascade of blooms rising at her bare feet, dark hair spilling over the shoulder bared by her chiton. The way she had tilted her head into his touch. Her quiet power, born of the earth.

The Fates had not erred.

They had entwined their threads long ago, his with hers. She had been destined to stand at his side, to walk with him through the turning of the ages. And yet she had been hidden away, kept beneath her mother’s shadow, buried beneath roles and titles not her own.

Kept from him.

But now—now she had come to him. The path between them was opened once more, guided by the Fates’ hands.

And he would not let her go.

“I must go.”

Hades turned from the terrace, the edge of his himation catching the breeze. But at the threshold, he paused. “Brother,” he said, without turning back, “you called her Kore?”

Zeus scoffed. “A name Demeter clings to. Maiden. ” He shook his head. “Her title is—”

“Persephone.”