Page 26 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

“We thought it was you, my lord.” Eudorus’s head hung low with grief. “He wore your armor, carried your sword. We did not know until Hector’s spear—”

“Enough.”

Achilles’s voice cracked like a shattered amphora. His hands shook as they tore through his hair. His knees hit the sand beside the body, a hollow thud lost to the distant crash of the surf.

Patroclus lay still.

Pale. Cold. Silenced forever.

Achilles bent over him, his breath shuddering as it met flesh that no longer warmed to his touch. His fingers trembled against the cooling skin, as if he could will the heat back into it, searching for the steady heartbeat that had always been there.

He saw it all at once, flashing like lightning behind his eyes.

As boys, they had lain beneath the stars, pointing out constellations and whispering about the future—of glory, of gods. Had chased each other through the olive groves in Phthia, bare feet pounding the sunlit grass.

Patroclus had been there the day Achilles’s hands first held a blade, the first time kings and warlords watched him with awe and unease. They came to Phthia to see him, gray-haired generals and lords draped in bronze. It had been no secret even then, they were inspired by his mother’s prophecy—

He would be the greatest warrior of a generation. A life to burn fierce and bright. A flash of lightning, then gone.

Patroclus had been there as he was sent to Chiron—the famous immortal, chiefest among centaurs.

Under Chiron’s care, he was tutored in war, in healing, in poetry.

And death. Trained to be the finest of all Greeks.

After all, what was a boy’s life when compared to how brightly he might blaze as a warrior on the killing fields?

Even then, Achilles had known: he was being shaped into something terrible. A name for songs. A name to fear.

But Patroclus had never looked at him like that. Had never cared for prophecies or politics.

Instead, he had run beside him, barefoot and laughing, sharing figs and secrets and silence—unbothered by the future carved out by the Fates. When Achilles had staggered under the weight of it, it was Patroclus who had steadied him.

Then, as men, they had fought side by side, blood drying on their skin, dust clinging to their armor. Achilles—the fury, the fire blazing across eternity. And Patroclus, the calm presence at his side.

He had always been the better of them. Achilles had been stronger. Faster. More skilled, more lethal. But Patroclus had been better in every way that mattered.

There had never been a moment Achilles did not feel him near. Until now.

“Be swift to the ferryman, my brother,” Achilles whispered hoarsely to the ear that no longer heard him. “And I will follow closely behind.”

His lips pressed to the cool forehead, his own warmth lost against it.

The body was nearly naked. A tattered tunic clung to the ruined form, stiff with blood, dark and gritty. Where the spear had struck, the wound gaped wide, a brutal hole torn through flesh and bone. A sandal hung loose from one foot. The other was gone.

Achilles’s armor had been stripped from the corpse, stolen by Patroclus’s killer—Hector.

Only the sword remained, lying beside the limp, chalky hand.

A dark thought tore through Achilles’s mind, igniting his fury until it burned black, flooding through him like molten iron. His head lifted slowly, rage darkening his eyes. “How was the body recovered?”

Pain flashed across Eudorus’s face. He hesitated.

“Speak,” Achilles commanded, his gaze never leaving the corpse.

Eudorus’s throat bobbed. “Odysseus and Ajax fought nearby,” he said heavily. “They saw Patroclus fall and thought it was you. They pulled him from the field, but Hector—he took your armor and declared victory.”

His teeth ground together, but Achilles spat, “What did Hector say? ”

Eudorus’s voice was strained as he replied, “He said he would feed his dogs with the body.”

Hateful wrath ripped down Achilles’s spine, tightening through his body until his vision went black. It pounded furiously in his chest, threatening to crack his ribs, to cleave him open from the inside. The sharp taste of blood pooled on his tongue. War drums pounded in his skull.

His hand dropped, curling not around the hilt of his sword—but the blade. Then, he rose.

The blade bit deep into his palm, a clean, bright pain. Blood spilled between his knuckles, warm and slick, falling in slow drops onto the sand. It was nothing—a slice of pain, something real and sharp in a world suddenly hollowed out.

Inside him, fire swelled. Grief and fury twined until they were indistinguishable, an inferno tearing through his chest, cauterizing whatever remained of his heart.

Eudorus was still speaking, but Achilles no longer heard.

The world had narrowed to the furious rhythm of his heartbeat and the haunting echo of Patroclus’s laughter.

The weight of a shoulder against his own in younger years.

The warmth of his voice after battle, speaking not of glory or victory, but of home.

Now—gone. Ripped away by a single, well-aimed spear.

Achilles didn’t see the sun blazing overhead as he stormed from the tent. Nor the solemn faces of the men, watching silently as he passed. The cries of the gulls, the thundering surf—all lost to him.

Every instinct sharpened, honed to a single, brutal point.

Hector.

He would not need armor. Nor a sword. He would tear Hector apart with his bare hands. Feel his bones crack and shudder in his grip, hear the last breath rattle from his lungs. Watch the prince’s blood pour, hot and thick, draining away onto the sand.

There would be no body for Troy to mourn—no ashes, no memory.

Only dust and silence.

Only the echo of his grief, howling across the plains like a forsaken god.