Page 28 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

The forests of Olympus whispered with ancient leaves, the scent of cedar hanging in the air. Aglaia’s feet moved swiftly on the narrow path, her heart still drumming in her ears.

Ahead, she saw it.

A great door embedded in the mountainside. It loomed larger with every step until it filled her vision—a towering entrance of hammered bronze.

Fitting for a forge.

Her fingers trembled, hesitating on the latch. Then, she pushed.

The heavy door groaned, protesting a moment before finally giving way. Heat unfurled from the opening, fire-scented air rushing to meet her as she stepped inside.

Before her, a forge sprawled inward, carved into the heart of the mountain.

Hot air thrummed with the pulse of creation.

Shadows danced against stone walls, thrown by a furnace’s blaze, and tools glinted in the firelight.

Half-forged creations filled every surface—fearsome metallic beasts, weapons waiting to taste battle.

He stood at the heart of it all—

Hephaestus.

Aglaia’s breath caught in her throat.

A heavy hammer was gripped in his fist, hovering over an anvil in a moment of tension before he swung it down. Sparks erupted, flaring bright and wild, casting his broad-shouldered silhouette in stark relief.

Tousled auburn hair, damp with sweat, brushed his shoulders, and a dark, cropped beard framed his hard jaw.

Sweat slicked his soot-smudged skin, glistening as it traced arms corded with muscle.

Beneath a leather apron, his bare chest rose and fell in the rhythm of exertion, each movement a testament to raw strength .

Unlike the polished beings of Olympus, the god of the forge was rough-hewn. A being of fire and bronze, honed into something more visceral than Aglaia had ever encountered among the others.

As if sensing her presence, his ash-dark eyes flicked up.

The air grew heavy with his gaze, unreadable in the shadows that half-veiled him.

The hammer fell again. The crash reverberated through the cavern, rattling Aglaia’s bones. But she fought the instinct to step back, rooting her feet to the ground.

Hephaestus straightened to his full, towering height, and lifted the glowing bronze from the anvil. Calloused hands turned it with ease, and he inspected it with a craftsman’s critical eye. With a decisive motion, he turned and plunged the hot metal into a nearby barrel of water.

Steam screamed, billowing around him in thick clouds.

Then he turned to her, arms folding across his chest. Silent and imposing, he waited.

On her.

He was waiting on her.

She flushed at the realization, fingers lacing before her as composure threatened to abandon her.

“Lord Hephaestus.”

She dipped her head respectfully. Her voice was mercifully steady, despite her frantic heartbeat and dry throat. “I bring a message from Lord Zeus.”

His silence was palpable. Dark eyes cut through the steamy haze, pinning her.

“He tasks you to forge new armor for Achilles,” she continued, quieter. “Son of Thetis and King Peleus, Greece’s great warrior.”

A muscle jumped in Hephaestus’s jaw, but his expression remained unchanged. One large hand rose to drag against his beard as his gaze left her, sweeping the forge.

Without a word, he turned, revealing his muscular back as he reached for a shield lying nearby. He lifted it with a casual grace that belied its weight, his fingers exploring the polished surface.

Uncertainty pricked at Aglaia. The urge to retreat pressed in, chafing against her resolve. She shifted back a step, her fingertips brushing the door latch behind her.

“Why are you here? ”

The question came from him, low and edged with challenge.

Aglaia stilled, looking up. Her gaze became trapped on the slow glide of his thumb against the shield’s edge. “I am—”

“Aglaia.” His deep voice cut through hers like whetted iron. “The youngest among your sisters.”

Without warning, he released the shield. It crashed to the table with a thunderous clang, and she flinched.

Then he turned, facing her fully. His gaze found hers once more. “I know who you are. Why are you here?”

Her throat worked once. “To deliver Lord Zeus’s message.”

“Hermes is my father’s messenger.” His reply was sharp, slicing through pretense. “What is it you want?”

Aglaia’s cheeks burned, her poise slipping. The words spilled out. “I... I wished to meet you.”

The air stilled, as if holding its breath.

Hephaestus tilted his head, his expression stony. “You wished to see the crippled god?” Bitterness curled his voice. “Hephaestus, the hideous and lame?”

“No,” Aglaia replied swiftly. Her eyes softened on him. “You are not hideous.”

“No?” His brow arched, a humorless smile tilting his lips. “Generous words from the goddess of beauty,” he remarked dryly. His gaze slowly swept over her, heated as embers dragging against her skin. “Fortunately,” he added, taking a heavy step forward, “neither am I vain.”

He emerged fully from the shadows then. Firelight illuminated the harsh planes of his face, the dark intensity of his eyes—eyes that dared her to look away. A flash of gold drew her gaze down to the brace fastened around one of his legs.

“Though I was born lame,” Hephaestus continued, watching her, “the tale was twisted to hide my mother’s shame in casting me from Olympus as a babe. I was called a monster to spare her dignity.”

The confession struck like a blow. It sank deep, hollowing out a cold void in Aglaia’s chest. Her gaze traveled up from the golden brace to the uncompromising lines of his face. Compassion wrenched through her.

What mother could treat her child this way?

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her throat felt suddenly tight, her eyes pricking. She glanced away from him quickly, biting the inside of her cheek to regain composure. But it was futile against the rising tide of sorrow .

Sorrow for what he had endured. For the scars that lay buried beneath this rugged exterior—the god who bent metal and fire to his indomitable will.

A tear slipped free, sliding down her cheek. Across the forge, Hephaestus tracked its path. Then wordlessly, he moved toward her.

Steam parted for him like breath, curling away. Each stride was heavy, purposeful, reverberating through the cavern like a heartbeat. He stopped before her. The heat of him washed over her, radiating from his skin as though fire were kindled beneath. It pressed into her without touch.

He towered above her, and Aglaia tilted her head back, meeting his eyes. They glittered in the haze, dark and unreadable. His hand—so clever, so strong—lifted toward her cheek.

But he hesitated. His fingers stopped short, hovering over her skin. Then he let them fall, a grimace flattening across his mouth.

“I do not need your pity.” The words came harshly, but his eyes burned with warmer light. “What is it you want from me, Aglaia?”

Her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine, heat curling low and soft. Though her fingers trembled, she reached for him then—drawn inescapably, like a tide to shore.

“Don’t.”

The command scraped low in his throat. His hand caught her wrist.

Firm but careful, he turned her palm up. His thumb swept the soot-streaked tips of her fingers that had dared to brush his cheek. He stared down at the marks on her skin, his face hardening at the sight.

“The goddess of beauty has no place in a forge,” he bit out roughly, releasing her.

A cold ache spread through her. But Aglaia did not retreat.

Instead, she lifted her sooty fingers and, with quiet purpose, wiped them against her chiton, letting the remnant of his labor stain the fabric. Hephaestus watched, brow furrowing.

Then she stepped forward. Into the narrow space he’d left between them. A flare of heat lit the air suddenly, burning brighter than the furnace behind him.

“But beauty has many forms, does it not?” she asked, gently defiant.

She tilted her head, holding his gaze. “The beauty of fire, its flames curling against the night. The beauty of creation, shaped by hands with mastery.” She gestured to the forge, gleaming with marvels that whispered of their master’s unrivaled skill .

Another step forward brought her to him, and her breasts brushed the leather stretched over his chest. Hephaestus was still, his eyes fixed on her face. His body was a taut line of restraint, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Beauty and perfection are not the same,” Aglaia whispered, lifting her hand again.

This time, he didn’t stop her. He stood like stone as her fingers brushed the roughness of his jaw. His eyes slid shut at the touch, a subtle tremor rippling through his powerful frame.

“I came to you,” she said softly, “because I wish to be yours.”

His eyes opened, but they were no longer dark. The irises blazed amber—dangerous, utterly consuming like wildfire as his gaze swept over her in a searing caress.

It lasted only a moment. Then his shoulders tensed, his jaw locking. His entire body coiled, bracing against something unseen.

“You must go.” The words were jagged, as though harshly torn from somewhere deep within him.

The rejection was sharper than a blade. Her hand fell to his broad chest, where his heart pounded beneath muscle and leather. “Do not send me away,” Aglaia whispered, her voice breaking.

He inhaled sharply, his chest rising under her palm. For a moment, the space between them was glass-thin, one touch from shattering. The fire in his eyes flared brighter, fiercer, tracing every detail of her face with aching intensity.

Then, like a door slamming shut, his gaze shuttered. He turned his head sharply, shielding her from the firestorm raging in his eyes.

“Go.” It was softer, but no less commanding.

Then he stepped back from her. Cold rushed in where his warmth had been, an abyss opening between them.

Hot tears stung Aglaia’s eyes. She turned swiftly toward the door, gripping the iron handle. Throwing her weight against it, she pulled hard, desperate to flee before she shattered entirely.

The door shifted slowly, creaking open a sliver—then slammed shut beneath a heavy palm.

She gasped.

Heat pressed against her back. One large hand braced above her head, flat against the door, holding it shut. The other settled at her waist with quieter authority. Slowly, he turned her to face him .

Her back met the door. His arms caged her in, hands planted on either side of her. The air smoldered, wild, wordless tension wrapping around her like flame.

A rough knuckle brushed her chin, lifting it. Forcing her to meet his gaze.

The depth in his eyes—searing, forceful—stripped her bare. There was nowhere to hide. Nothing left but the snarled emotions tangling in her chest and the tears already sliding down her face.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just looked at her, his gaze roaming her face as if he was memorizing it.

“Why are you here, bright one?”

The words were soft, a murmur spoken not to her, but to himself.

His thumb caught a tear trailing down her cheek, Aglaia’s shattered heart clenching as he wiped it away. His touch left faint grit behind, a soft smear of soot on her cheek. A mark of him.

As his hand slid away, his gaze softened. The fierce fire in his eyes dimmed into something deeper, tempered, aching, and impossibly gentle.

He bent his head. She felt the whisper of his breath stir the loose strands of her hair.

“I will see you again, Aglaia.”

Then his lips brushed her brow, fleeting yet searing. For a moment, the world was suspended in a single, burning touch.

Fire erupted around him. The heat licked at her skin, but it wasn’t the blaze that stole her breath. It was the emptiness that remained as the flames died, and he was gone.

She sagged against the door, slowly raising a trembling hand to where his touch still burned.