Page 25 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

Kore braced for the sensation of drowning.

But instead, she felt weightless, suspended in a sea of hoary light. The water around her dissolved into air, her limbs drifting free, though she still felt him against her back.

Then her feet touched solid ground. She opened her eyes—and gasped.

The temple of Olympus materialized around her, white columns reaching to the star-strewn heavens above.

A familiar voice pierced the silence.

“Artemis!”

Kore blinked at the sight before her, certain her eyes were betraying her.

Her mother. Demeter reclined on a low couch, sweat dampening her brow, her face twisted in pain. Lower, her swollen belly strained, tight with the pangs of birth.

Shock rose, then ebbed—

Impossible.

“Mother!” Kore cried out, lurching forward, but her feet found no claim against the floor.

“This is only a memory.” Hades now stood at her side, watching the scene before them. “She cannot hear you.”

Demeter’s face contorted, her bloodless fingers gripping the linens beneath her.

Artemis knelt at her side, silver-clad and serene, grasping her hand tightly. “All is well, Demeter,” she soothed. “Aphrodite is coming.”

As if summoned by her name, Aphrodite swept into view, her arms full of soft linens, honeyed hair catching the torchlight.

Demeter groaned, her face tight with pain. “Where is he?” she gritted through her teeth .

The goddesses exchanged a tense glance.

Aphrodite knelt at her side, placing a calming hand on Demeter’s knee. “We have more important work at hand,” she said firmly. “Your child is coming now.”

The words were intended to soothe, but—

“He is with her !” Demeter sobbed, pain and fury etching her features. “She will not let him come to me!”

“Shhh,” Artemis soothed, bathing her forehead with a cloth. “Do not fear. You are almost there.”

Aphrodite grasped Demeter’s hand, and her voice was commanding as she said, “Push.”

With a harsh scream, Demeter obeyed. A rush of ichor spilled forth, and an infant slipped into the world with a wail that echoed through the chamber.

Aphrodite swiftly cleaned and wrapped the babe in soft linen, her brilliant eyes shining as she placed the child into Demeter’s trembling arms. “A goddess,” she smiled. “A beautiful, little goddess.”

Relief softened Demeter’s face as she cradled the newborn close.

Then thunder rumbled ominously.

The chamber doors flew open as Zeus strode in, his presence wrapped in stormlight. Behind him, Hera stood at a distance, her gaze cold as she watched him approach Demeter.

“You have our congratulations, Demeter,” Zeus intoned, his voice echoing off the walls. He approached the couch, smiling warmly. “The pantheon gathers to honor you and your child.”

Leaning down, he scooped the infant from her arms. He gazed down at the child in unmistakable satisfaction. “Artemis,” he called. “Summon the others.”

Artemis’s silver eyes flicked toward Demeter. “Perhaps it would be wise to wait—”

“Nonsense,” Zeus barked. “All will celebrate my daughter—the first goddess born in our victory over the Titans.”

With a nod, Artemis disappeared from the hall.

Aphrodite knelt beside Demeter, whose expression had become wooden.

With a touch of her hand, the stained linens vanished, replaced by pristine white cloth.

Demeter’s rumpled chiton transformed into a flowing peplos embroidered with golden laurel leaves.

Though dulled by exhaustion, Demeter’s eyes were grateful .

A moment later, Artemis returned. A host of gods and goddesses followed her, filling the hall with divine light and the hum of power.

Kore’s gaze swept over the gathering. Poseidon stood tall, his sea-blue eyes calm. Apollo shone beside his sister, clad in golden finery. Hermes flitted above the crowd, forever restless. Hephaestus leaned against a far column, his dark eyes watchful.

Then—Hades entered. Or rather, a younger Hades.

Kore stared.

He wore the same black and gold armor. His beard was slightly longer, untamed, and his skin bore the tawny warmth of the sun. But he moved with the same silent purpose, a shadow among Olympus’s brightness.

Kore looked up at the god standing beside her. “You were there,” she said quietly. “At my birth.”

“I was.”

“You were… different.”

He glanced toward his younger self. “I had not yet been named ruler of the Underworld. We cast lots shortly after your birth.”

The last to enter the hall were three stately figures—a trio of goddesses, lingering apart from the crowd.

“The first goddess born in a new age of peace,” Zeus announced triumphantly to the pantheon, holding the child up for all to see. “She will be titled Persephone, the goddess of spring. May she restore beauty and balance to the earth.”

A murmur of approval swept through the hall, punctuated by scattered applause and nodding smiles.

But then—

“No.”

The word was quiet. Almost fragile.

Demeter sat straighter on the divan, her gaze fixed on Zeus with blazing defiance. Her voice did not rise for the hall. It was low, pitched for his ears alone. “I will call her Kore ,” she said, voice trembling. “That she might never know the evils of gods or men.”

The pantheon watched in strained silence.

Zeus’s smile turned brittle. “Your labors have left you confused, Demeter,” he said, voice low with warning. Then, dismissing her, he lifted his goblet high as cups appeared in every hand. “To my daughter, Persephone.”

“Persephone!” voices echoed, rising in unison, goblets raised to honor the new goddess .

To honor her .

A trove of gifts were offered—a beam of radiant sun from Apollo, sparkling sea pearls from Poseidon. Eternal beauty from Aphrodite. A silver arrow of moonlight from Artemis. With a cutting glance toward Zeus, Hera stiffly offered the gift of undying fidelity.

Finally, the younger Hades approached.

“Sister.” He pressed a swift kiss to Demeter’s brow. “A joyful day.”

Demeter’s smile was fragile. “In some ways,” she said softly, looking down at her daughter, “yet in others…”

She didn’t finish, but sorrow shadowed her eyes. Hades watched her with quiet understanding for a moment before he spoke again.

“We are victorious,” he said at last. “The Titans have fallen, and your daughter is born into a world remade. One of peace, of safety.” His eyes were warm, sincere. “There can be no greater blessing from the Fates.”

Then he lifted his hands, palms cupped before him. A dark orb of soil formed there, cradled in his fingers. From it, a green shoot unfurled, growing into a slender sapling as they watched. Crimson flowers bloomed, then shed their petals, burgeoning into round fruit.

Demeter leaned forward, curiosity lighting her eyes. “I’ve never seen its like.”

“A creation of my own.” With a motion of Hades’s hand, the sapling drifted to rest beside Demeter’s couch. “A pomegranate tree, to honor the new goddess.”

Kore’s brow knit, and she looked more closely. It was the same. The same type of tree that stood at the heart of the Underworld’s garden. His creation, formed in her honor eons earlier.

Her eyes were wide as they lifted to Hades again, but his gaze was already on her, steady and unreadable.

“Watch,” he instructed softly.

At that moment, another voice cut through the chamber—clear, measured. “We also bring an offering.”

The crowd parted, and the trio of beautiful goddesses stepped forward together.

“Do you know them?” Hades asked her.

Kore watched the triad approach. Each was dressed in a linen peplos. Though plainly dressed, they shone with simple, eternal beauty. Serene, but cold—a radiant indifference.

She knew them instantly.

“They are the Fates.”

Hades nodded. “Clotho spins the thread of life. Lachesis measures it. The one with shears is Atropos, who cuts it.”

The Fates stopped before Demeter.

“Honored Zeus. Hallowed Demeter.” Atropos tilted her head gracefully, a solemn bow. “We bring a foretelling for the new goddess. Witness.”

Together, the Fates raised their hands. Silver mist gathered, rising like smoke into the starlit sky over the temple. It twisted, coiled, and began to take shape. An image formed.

It was a girl. She ran barefoot through a forest, dark hair catching sunlight, wildflowers blooming in her wake Kore’s pulse quickened. She didn’t need to see the face. It was undoubtedly her.

The vision shifted. The child became a young goddess, her arms filled with spring blooms, her chiton white and windswept beneath a blue, sun-drenched sky.

Then, darkness crept in.

The sky changed, deepening until it glittered not with sunlight but with jeweled stars, the unmistakable firmament of the Underworld.

Her appearance shifted as well. The white chiton turned dark and fine, richly embroidered with silver threads.

A laurel wreath of sparkling silver crowned her brow.

The flowers in her arms became a spray of cypress branches. In one palm, a pomegranate rested.

Kore’s gaze searched the crowd until she found him—Hades, standing still amid the gathered gods, his expression unreadable. His narrowed eyes were fixed on the vision.

Then, the mist dissolved, fading as swiftly as it had gathered.

None spoke or even moved.

Demeter still stared at the sky, stricken. Then her expression darkened, and she clutched the infant closer. “What gift is this?” she hissed at the Fates.

Atropos was unmoved, her gaze impassive. “Not a gift,” she clarified. “An offering.”

Before another word could be spoken, the vision shattered. The temple cracked, the marble crumbling into silver air—

And Kore was falling.

A rush of light and water tore around her. Her feet found stone, and she broke the surface of the Pool of Mnemosyne. Silver water arced as she flung her soaked hair back, gasping for breath, heart racing .

“As you can imagine,” came his voice, low and wry, “that foretelling caused quite a stir.”

Her eyes flew open.

Hades stood by the waterfall, water slicking his chest, dripping from his dark hair down the muscled lines of his body before vanishing into the pool at his hips.

The memory—the revelation—burned through her like a streak of sunfire.

“Why did no one ever speak of this?” she asked, hardly more than a whisper.

“Your foretelling was both clear and obscure.” His voice was unshakably calm, though his eyes grew shadowed with memory.“It showed you in the Underworld, wearing my heraldry. But then, I was warrior—not yet a ruler.”

He paused, something heavier settling behind his gaze.

“I was named ruler to the Underworld a fortnight later. And your mother left Olympus the next day, taking you. Raising you away from the pantheon. Away from me.”

Her throat grew tight, and her voice was small. “As Kore.”

“As Kore,” he confirmed, meeting her eyes.

The name—her name—hung in the air. A lie. A name that meant... nothing.

“She never spoke of you,” Kore whispered truthfully, the words trembling. “Never.”

He shook his head regretfully. “When I took my throne, much became clear. Demeter wouldn’t share my presence after that. Except at the council.”

She stared at him, comprehension slowly dawning. “That is why you came for me.”

“Yes.”

Water lapped softly as he approached her with slow steps. Once he stood before her, he reached out, and his thumb swept her cheek, smoothing away a droplet. It was a small touch, but it rippled through her, quiet and undeniable.

He followed the shiver with dark, warm eyes. “You are chilled.”

He stepped closer, his hands resting lightly at her waist. Shadows stirred and curled inward, drawn to him. The world melted away in a hush of black silk, only to right itself an instant later.

Firelight spilled over her skin, the brazier bathing the bedchamber in a golden glow. The warmth reached her limbs, but she hardly felt it. Not over the awareness of his hands, still resting at her waist. Not over the breath caught between them.

He didn’t move. Neither did she.

When he spoke again, the warmth of his voice seemed to sink into her bones. “I have waited for you for thousands of years.”

His fingers found a tendril of hair clinging to her damp cheek, and he tucked it behind her ear with agonizing tenderness. His fingers lingered just behind her ear, then he traced the curve of her neck with the lightest caress of his knuckles. The breath left her in a quiet, shattered exhale.

His fingers trailed lower, brushing featherlight over her collarbone in a way that made her skin tighten, her pulse leap.

“But I will not force you.” The deep timbre of his voice dipped lower, a hushed promise. “I will not have you fear my touch.”

The vow stirred something deep. Like a smoldering flame, heat pooled low in her belly, spilling warmth into her limbs. She could not meet his eyes. Instead, her gaze traced the firm lines of his chest, his shoulders.

He exhaled sharply, as if he felt her gaze like a touch. His fingers slipped beneath her chin, a gentle demand for her eyes. But as her face tilted to his, he moved forward, and his lips captured hers.

There was nothing soft in it this time. Only heat.

Hunger, fierce and consuming. His kiss was demanding, filled with a need that made her tremble against him.

One hand slid into her hair, angling her to him.

The other pressed firm at the small of her back, drawing her flush against the hardness of his body.

When his tongue stroked hers, all coherent thought left her like water slipping through cracked pottery. Her fingers curled into the hard muscle of his arms, clinging as if he were her only tether to the earth. He groaned into her mouth, a rough sound that sent a shiver through her.

When he finally lifted his head, he did not retreat. He kept her close, their breaths mingling in soft, uneven pants. His hand slid from her hair to cradle her throat, his thumb brushing tenderly across her bottom lip.

“Come to me tomorrow.” His voice curled around her like warm smoke, dark and smooth against her skin.

“I will be your husband. And you… my queen.”

Then he stepped back slowly, as if letting go of her required effort. His hand slipped from her waist, leaving her colder than she’d expected.

At the door, he paused and looked back. “Tomorrow,” he said again, low, certain. A vow spoken into the quiet.

The echo of it lingered long after he vanished, suspended in the hush like a breath half-held.

Tomorrow.