Page 22 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

Sunlight broke the horizon, dawning over a sea of Greek tents.

Inside his tent, Achilles sat on a deerskin, the steady glide of a whetstone filling the quiet. Sparks flared along the blade, then died.

The tent flap stirred, Eudorus appearing. “Agamemnon’s army moves. Your orders?”

Achilles did not look up. “Eat. Sharpen blades. Pray, if you think it helps.”

“We will not join the others today?”

“Not today.” The whetstone traced another slow arc across the bronze. “Nor tomorrow. In three days, we sail for home.”

Eudorus hesitated, his jaw clenching tight. Then he gave a sharp nod, withdrawing.

Moments later, the flap snapped open again.

Patroclus stood in the opening, breathing hard, his helmet clutched in one hand. Dark hair clung damply to his brow, and dust streaked his arms. “You will not fight?” he demanded. “Eudorus says we remain in camp again today.”

The whetstone paused. Achilles glanced up—just a flick of the eyes—then resumed his work.

“The front is crumbling.” Patroclus’s voice rose, growing tight. “Hector himself leads Troy’s charge. Ajax is holding the line from his knees while our ships burn in the bay. And you’re here—sharpening your sword?”

Another slow pass of stone over the blade.

“Let Agamemnon fight his own war.”

“This stopped being his war months ago,” Patroclus snapped. “It belongs to all of us now. Ours to win or lose, and you swore an oath to fight for Greece. ”

Achilles met his gaze at last, eyes flat and cold. “I swore that oath upon my honor. And my honor was desecrated .” The word hissed between his teeth. “Ripped from me by Agamemnon, before every man in this camp.”

Patroclus stared at him. “This is still about Brise?s? You would let this war rot and countless men die over an insult from one man?”

An insult.

Anger bristled in him, but Achilles held it. Controlled it. It was more than an insult, they both knew it. For all his ignorance, even Agamemnon knew it. The entire army knew it.

They had clashed again and again, the warlord and the king, striking heads like two heavy-horned rams in the mountains. Brise?s had only been the final blow.

Agamemnon had forgotten who needed whom. He’d forgotten that some prowess, some wrath was unmatched. Now Achilles would remind him.

“I care nothing for war prizes.”

He rose slowly, like a storm rolling to its feet. The whetstone slipped from his hand. The blade in his grip whistled, newly edged.

“This is about honor,” he said. “About a king who thinks I am his hound. To be summoned at his call, unleashed when it suits him, brought to heel when it pleases him.” His gaze darkened. “Now, he learns the cost of that mistake.”

Patroclus’s jaw clenched. “And the men who followed you here? Thousands of them—we trained with them, bled beside them, ate from the same fires. They are dying without you.”

Achilles’s grip tightened. The blade stilled.

“That is the nature of war,” he said coldly.

Patroclus drew back, breath shallow, as if the words had struck him. “All for your pride?” he asked, voice raw. “To make one man suffer, you will let the rest of them pay in blood?”

“I am done being used,” Achilles snarled. “Agamemnon can choke on his arrogance. He can drown in the blood that follows.”

“He tried to make peace,” Patroclus said, nearly shouting now. “He offered gifts—gold, horses, apologies. You were wronged, yes. But how many lives will you trade for your pride?”

Achilles turned his face away. Silent.

“You speak of honor.” Patroclus stepped forward, his voice shaking. “But there is no honor in watching men die when you could save them. There’s nothing noble in letting them burn just to spite a king. ”

“There will be other wars.” Achilles sheathed the sword, placing it beside his bronze armor where it hung on the stand. “Other chances to die. This one no longer concerns me.”

Patroclus stepped closer. “And what of me?”

Silence descended with heavy hands, carrying the weight of everything left unsaid.

Achilles stopped, growing still.

“Do you think I don’t feel this?” Patroclus whispered. “Every scream that echoes through this camp, I feel it in my spine. The fire. The blood and pyres.” His breath shuddered between his teeth. “And I look to you, and you are silent—you are gone. ”

His voice grew hoarse, breaking. “I do not know if I mourn these men... or you.”

Achilles looked at him, truly looked, and saw everything: the tremble in his shoulders, the fire behind his eyes, the grief in his heart that bled into every line of his dark, beautiful face.

Patroclus—lit from within by courage and anguish.

“I cannot sit idle as they fall,” Patroclus said, barely more than a breath. “Even if you can.”

Not just his companion or brother-in-arms. His other self. The better half Achilles’s heart, as he had been since boyhood.

Until Troy. Another spark of light that had been stolen by this godsforsaken war.

Achilles could not speak.

So he turned wordlessly and stepped out into the sunlight. The tent flap fell closed behind him.

Outside, the camp was alive, preparing for combat. Armor clinked, spears scraped against shields. As they fastened buckles and cinched straps, soldiers murmured prayers to the gods. For whatever good that would do.

Achilles moved past them all, his bare feet sinking into sun-warmed sand. At the shoreline, he stepped into the surf and splashed water over his face, the salt stinging his skin.

“Well rested, are we?”

A voice rose behind him, laced with dry amusement.

Achilles’s mouth twitched as he turned, finding Odysseus just above the tide, leaning on his spear. Wind teased his hickory-dark curls, the morning sun catching in the king of Ithaca’s sea-blue eyes—bright, sharp with a cleverness Achilles had never fully trusted .

“Praying for divine inspiration?” Odysseus drawled, all mockery.

Achilles arched a brow. “Cursing the bastard who dragged me into this.”

“Really?” He leaned forward with languid interest. “How do the gods answer you?”

“They say to bolt the rutting door next time Odysseus comes speaking of honor and glory.”

Odysseus threw his head back, barking a laugh. Pulling his spear free of the sand, he stepped into the surf beside Achilles, and both men surveyed the stirring camp.

“You think I want to be here—on this cursed beach, instead of in my own bed with my wife?” Odysseus scoffed. “Not even you love war that much.”

“Then why come?” Achilles asked, eyeing him. “Better yet, why drag me into Agamemnon’s madness?”

Odysseus’s grin faded into a somber, thoughtful expression. “Few kings have the luxury of fighting only for themselves. Ithaca is a small nation, one that could not withstand Agamemnon’s wrath. I yielded for my people.” He cast a sharp glance at Achilles. “As for you—we need you. And you know it.”

Achilles shook his head, crossing his arms. “Wars have been fought and won before my time. They’ll rage long after my ashes are scattered.”

“This is different.” Sharp, blue eyes glittered. “Even the gods are in this war. You know this better than any, son of Thetis.”

“The gods fight for their own sport, not for us,” Achilles replied bluntly. “Agamemnon can seek their aid, instead of mine. I sail for Phthia in three days.”

Odysseus let the wind speak for a moment. Then, more carefully, he asked, “What of Patroclus?”

Achilles’s shoulders tensed. “He is not a warrior,” he said, voice low. “Not like you and I. He will leave with me.”

Odysseus’s brow pinched in. “He’s more of a warrior than most still standing.”

Achilles said nothing. But his throat worked silently, his gaze sliding back to the sea.

“You trained him,” Odysseus went on. “Put the sword in his hand, the shield on his arm. He’s been on killing fields since adolescence. He’s no green boy.”

“He’s nothing like me,” Achilles said swiftly, his eyes hardening. “And I trained him to fight, not to chase after death. ”

“No one is like you,” Odysseus replied ruefully, crossing his arms. “But Patroclus chose a place in this war, just as you did once. His blood burns no less brightly. He’s eager to help his countrymen.”

Achilles stared at the sea. The breeze stirred his hair, the scents of salt and fire rising on the morning air. The sun had barely risen, too early in the day for blood.

“He came to me with a strategy.” Odysseus watched him. “He wishes to fight... wearing your armor.”

The words fell like the final note of a dirge, ringing in Achilles’s ears. Tension crackled up his spine.

“What did you tell him?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing.” Odysseus tilted his head. “The decision is not mine. He thinks the Trojans will falter if they believe you’ve returned to the fight. The illusion may give us time to save our remaining ships.”

A beat.

“Achilles, he’s not wrong.”

“No.” Achilles’s voice sliced the air like whetted iron.

There was no surprise in Odysseus’s face, only grim understanding. “The men are breaking. They look to your tent as if it were a temple, seeking your lead—”

“If he wears my armor,” Achilles gritted out, “Trojans will descend on him like wolves. Hector will seek him out as he would seek me out.”

“Patroclus knows the risk.”

“ He does not !” The words ripped from Achilles’s throat, raw and furious. He turned, eyes blazing. “If I send him in my place, I may as well slit his throat myself. It would be quicker than the death he’ll find at the end of a Trojan spear.”

Odysseus was silent, studying him.

“You cannot keep him in that tent while he burns to aid his countrymen,” he said at last, voice even. “He will grow to hate you for it.”

Achilles’s fists clenched at his sides, every sinew pulled taut, every breath hard-earned. The words bit deep—striking too clean, too true.

Without intending to, Odysseus flayed open that fear which Achilles hadn’t dared to name. A fear already taking form. Already becoming real.

He and Patroclus had come to Troy as younger men—eager, inseparable, fire-hearted. He remembered standing at the prow of their ship, Patroclus’s shoulder pressed against his own, eyes on the horizon. Full of promise, souls brimming with each other .

But he was not that man now. They both knew it, though neither had yet spoken it outright. War and blood had cleaved him open, bled him of something vital. In its place, a fire had ignited, unforgiving and unquenchable. One that threatened to burn everything in its path.

And Patroclus—bright, beloved Patroclus—had begun to blister beneath its heat.

Bitterness had settled in Achilles like ash, fine and choking. It clung to everything, dulling what had once been tender between them. Even in the stillness of night, lying beside Patroclus, when their limbs were tangled and the world fell still, the fire smoldered on, burning him from the inside.

“He came to me because you will not hear him,” Odysseus said, lower. “Let him fight. Or stop him yourself.”

The tide lapped around Achilles’s calves as Odysseus clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Or better yet, stay the course with us,” he added. “Agamemnon will not rule forever.” A crooked grin tugged at his lips. “Death comes for us all.”

Then he turned, jogging up the sandy rise toward the waiting Ithacan soldiers.

“But not today, you sorry whoresons!” Odysseus bellowed, voice rising like a war-drum rolling across the shore.

A cheer answered him, ragged but raucous.

A breath escaped Achilles. Almost a laugh, though he could not remember the last time anything had called for laughing. He watched the wily king vanish into the men under his fire-eyed command and, against his better judgment, admiration stirred.

He very nearly liked the king of Ithaca.