Page 31 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

The sun rose in a blaze of gold, setting the sea aflame as it crested the horizon. Light spilled across Olympus’s slopes, gilding the temple with sunfire.

Aglaia stood on the temple terrace. Even amid the beauty of rising dawn, the pain in her chest remained, sharp and steady, a thorn lodged too deep to pull free.

“Aglaia.”

She looked up to find Euphrosyne approaching, eyes full of quiet understanding.

“Zeus has called for an audience.”

In the throne room, Zeus stood alone on the dais, regal and austere.

Hermes appeared before him in a flicker of silver, head bowing with practiced ease. “You summoned me, lord.”

“The armor that was promised to Thetis. Do you have it?”

Hermes’s face betrayed nothing as he replied, “Hephaestus brings it himself.”

Impatience sparked in Zeus’s eyes. “Very well,” he said brusquely. “Hephaestus.”

At his call, the air rippled with sudden heat. Aglaia’s pulse stuttered as it crackled, then a column of flame erupted in the hall. Embers and sparks scattered, and from the inferno, Hephaestus emerged.

He wore his leather apron, sweat gleaming along his arms and collarbone, as though he’d just stepped from the forge. Smoke curled from his skin.

Breath snagged in Aglaia’s throat, the raw memory surging again. His warmth at her back, the roughness in his voice, the rasp of his thumb against her cheek. The rejection, its bite still sharp as flint .

She stepped back on instinct, slipping behind her sisters. Her eyes fixed on the floor, not daring to look up at him—not now.

A silent plea burned through her mind, a desperate whisper to the Fates that he wouldn’t turn around. She couldn’t bear to face him again. Couldn’t bear the shame if she cried before the pantheon.

Before the dais, Hephaestus paused, glancing down at his soot-streaked appearance.

With a flick of his fingers, flames flared across his skin, burning away the grime.

When it faded, he stood clean, clad in a moss-green tunic belted at the waist, heat still clinging to him like a second skin.

A heavy bronze chest gleamed at his feet.

“Father.” His deep voice commanded the hall as he addressed Zeus. “I bring armor forged for Achilles, son of Thetis.”

Zeus regarded him with something close to approval, offering a short nod. “You have our gratitude, Hephaestus. Hermes, deliver it to Thetis.”

Instantly, Hermes and the chest vanished, but Hephaestus remained before the dais, unmoving.

“For the work I have done,” he continued. “I would ask something in return.”

The hall was still. Every eye watched as Zeus considered, tilting his head. “Speak it, my son.”

There was no hesitation.

“I ask for the hand of Aglaia in marriage.”

***

The soft gasp that pierced the air was unmistakable.

Hephaestus turned sharply toward the noise, eyes searching. His gaze snagged on a glimpse of raven-black hair.

There she was.

Aglaia stood half-concealed behind her sisters, as if they could shield her from him. The stone wall pressed against her back, and her startled eyes were fixed on him.

A flush rose in her cheeks, lovely as the first light of dawn.

“Aglaia,” Zeus called to her.

She came forward from the shadows with hesitant steps. Her movements were like water, quiet and effortless, the hem of her chiton whispering against the floor.

As Hephaestus watched her approach, the tension in his chest wound tight. It sat, heavy as an anvil, pressing harshly into his ribs .

At last, she reached his side, but she didn’t look at him. Her fingers twined tightly before her. The gesture was small, nearly imperceptible.

But he saw it.

His eyes flicked down, catching the faint tremor before it stilled. It stirred something deep—a fierce, aching protectiveness. An urge to reach out, to steady, to cover her hands with his own.

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

A rare flicker of warmth lit in Zeus’s storm-blue gaze as he looked down on her. “You have heard Hephaestus’s request,” he said. “What say you?”

A single breath of silence.

“I accept.”

Though she spoke softly, the words reverberated through him like a bell struck—a pure, bright note.

Zeus inclined his head, a formal gesture. “Then I grant this request.”

The tightness in Hephaestus’s chest unraveled. Relief surged into pride, fierce and hot as the fires he’d just left behind. He drew a breath, then spoke again.

“I would ask you to proclaim it now, Father.”

At that, Aglaia looked up. Her head turned, eyes flashing up to his. Even in her surprise, she was achingly beautiful, her eyes bright and wondering, her face radiantly flushed.

He held her gaze. And in that moment, he laid himself bare. No mask, no pretense. Only truth. He let her see it all—the need for certainty, the depth of his longing. His resolve to bind what the Fates had placed before them. What she had placed before him.

Zeus chuckled, low and knowing. His gaze flicked between them, a faint smile playing on his lips. “So soon?”

Aglaia’s blush deepened, but Hephaestus didn’t flinch. “A feast on Olympus while mortal blood still stains the earth would be... unseemly.”

A beat of silence.

Zeus rose to his full, commanding height. “As you wish.”

Hephaestus turned to her then, offering his hand. Soft fingers met his calloused palm, her hand small in his own.

“I, Zeus, proclaim valid the marriage of Hephaestus, god of fire and forge, to Aglaia, goddess of beauty.” His voice thundered through the hall, authoritative and final. “Do you swear by the River Styx your fealty and respect to Aglaia, goddess of beauty, as your wife?”

“I swear it,” Hephaestus answered, the vow forged in the heart of him.

Zeus’s gaze shifted to Aglaia. “Do you swear by the River Styx your fealty and respect to Hephaestus, god of fire and lord of the forge, as your husband?”

Her answer came softly. “I swear it.”

Time seemed to crystallize around the moment—fragile, perfect.

Zeus’s nod sealed their fates. “Then it is done.”

Thunder rolled through the sky, an exhalation of divine will. Hephaestus let it settle over him, feeling its weight binding her to him. The space between them was heavy, charged, alive with their vows.

Aglaia’s breath hitched as the heat in his veins erupted with life. His hand tightened on hers, the throne room vanishing as ash and flame rose, consuming them in divine fire.