Page 33 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

Achilles jerked the leather laces tight as he strode forward, the bracer biting into his forearm.

Troy’s gates loomed before him. He approached alone, ignoring the wary eyes of soldiers lining the parapets above.

A faint breeze stirred. Weeks earlier, it would have caught his long hair.

Now, there was nothing left to catch.

The long locks were gone, cropped close to the scalp by his own sword. Most had been cast into the sea, flung into the waves with the last scrap of his honor.

All but one lock—that had been saved for the pyre.

Patroclus had lain untouched for days, pale and still.

Achilles had been unable to surrender him to the fire. He’d bathed the stiffening limbs with shaking hands. Wrapped him in the finest linen he possessed. Sat beside him through sleepless nights, whispering to him as if Patroclus might stir, might answer.

When the body had begun to change—when the skin darkened and the air thickened with the stench—he did not flinch. Refused to look away.

The priests came. Then Odysseus, urging mercy and reason.

He would not listen.

Could not.

The men had stayed away, wary of the silence in Achilles’s tent, of the foul smell that clung to it like a warning. Whispers of madness rose.

Then—she came.

Thetis had risen from the sea, a veil of foam and sorrow trailing in her wake. Her eyes, dark as the deep and full of grief, were fixed on him.

But he could not look at her. Only at Patroclus .

“My son,” she said quietly, kneeling beside him, “you shame him. This is not honor nor mercy. This is love turned to ruin.”

There was no scorn in her voice, only sorrow.

“Then let me be ruined,” Achilles rasped, voice cracked and hollow. “I have no honor, not without him.”

She had reached out then and touched his face, her thumb brushing his cheek as she had when he was a child. “You do,” she said softly. “Even now.”

He had closed his eyes, a harsh breath blowing from him.

Then, more firmly, she said, “He cannot stay. He does not belong to this world anymore.”

“I know.” And it was the truest thing he had ever said.

Thetis had turned then, laying her hand on Patroclus’s brow. A final mercy—stilling the decay. A gift not for the dead, but for the shattered heart of a golden-haired boy long lost.

Achilles had prepared the pyre.

That night, the flames had risen high above the beach. Wood, oil, linen and bone. Fire roared into the sky, a furious thing, as if the gods themselves mourned.

Achilles had stood before it, his hair shorn close, the blood dried beneath his nails. In his fist, he had held the last of it. A single lock, once golden, now dull in the firelight. He had pressed it to his lips, then curled it gently between Patroclus’s lifeless fingers.

The flames took it. Took everything. And with it, something inside him, sacred and mortal, had turned to ash. The last part of him from boyhood. The last piece of him that remembered laughter, that knew mercy.

Gone. It had risen with the smoke.

Now, outside of Troy, the clang of metal shattered the stillness as Achilles struck his sword against his shield.

“Hector!”

His voice carved through the hush, grief reborn as wrath.

“Hector!”

It reverberated against the stone walls, echoing into eerie, watchful stillness.

A groan answered from within the walls. Then, the slow, grating scrape of wood.

Achilles’s gaze snapped toward the gates. Slowly, they creaked open, revealing a lone figure silhouetted in the morning sun.

Hector stepped through with a shield on his arm, a spear steady in his fist. His dark hair was drawn back, save for a rebellious strand brushing his brow. But he ignored it, his gaze on Achilles.

Behind him, the gates rumbled shut.

Achilles stood motionless, waiting. Only when the doors slammed with a resounding thud—sealing Hector’s fate—did he stir. His gaze rose, calculating and cold.

Archers lined the walls, bows ready, waiting. They might cut him down, but not fast enough. He would strike faster. He would kill Hector if it was his last act in life.

His gaze dropped, and Achilles studied the Trojan, marking every detail. The balanced stance, the poised grip, the tension thrumming beneath the mask of calm—all telling of an experienced swordsman.

Then he moved, striding forward slowly.

Hector held his ground, letting him approach.

When Achilles was close enough to see the pulse thudding in Hector’s throat, he tossed his sword into the dirt. The bronze struck the ground with a hollow clang, a funeral toll. His shield followed, landing with a dull, heavy thud.

Hector’s eyes narrowed.

Achilles gripped his spear, then drove its point into the earth. Leaning forward against it, he gazed at Hector with storm-dark eyes.

To his credit, Hector did not flinch.

“I did not know it was him,” the Trojan said at last. The words were steady, but regret dragged their edges.

Achilles’s face was impassive, empty as the corpse Hector had left behind. “You do now,” he replied flatly. Hollow.

The silence turned brittle. The wind stirred the banner over Troy. Somewhere above, a soldier shifted.

Hector inhaled slowly. “Let us agree on one thing.”

Achilles’s brow lifted, waiting.

“The victor will honor the fallen. His body will be returned to his people.”

Achilles laughed, the sound cold and hollow. “What do you know of honor, Trojan?” His head tilted, voice laced with venom. “You stripped Patroclus. Stole my armor and thought to feed your dogs.”

Hector’s jaw tightened. His nod was curt. “A mistake,” he agreed. “Made in the roar of battle. Patroclus’s body—”

Achilles struck.

A blur of bronze, lightning swift. His spearpoint was at Hector’s throat before breath could be drawn.

A kiss of metal. A whisper of death.

“Do not speak his name.” Achilles’s voice was a snarl, thick with fury. “You are unworthy of it.” He stepped closer, dust curling at his feet. “Just as you are unworthy of the death you will receive.”

The spearpoint fell away.

Hector did not move, did not blink. His voice was low when he spoke again. “His body was returned.”

Achilles’s lip curled. “His body was retrieved ,” he spit the words, bitterness rising in his chest like a serpent poised to strike. “You butchered my brother. My heart.”

His fingers flexed around the spear, grip tightening.

“So now, I’ll carve yours from your chest.”

He pulled the helmet from beneath his arm. The bronze slid over his face, his glare glittering through the eye slits. “Patroclus was honored with songs.” The spear’s tip leveled with Hector’s heart as he vowed, “Vultures will feast on you.”

Hector stood unmoving. Then, a single nod—grave, resolute. A warrior’s acceptance. Or else a condemned man’s last defiance.

In a bold move, Hector turned his back to cast a long glance up toward the royal terrace, his gaze searching.

Achilles’s eyes narrowed. “Does your wife watch you?” he asked, soft and cutting. A dagger sliding between the ribs.

Hector said nothing. Instead, he drew on his helmet, bronze sheathing his face. His sword rasped free of its scabbard, and morning light skimmed along the blade, a cold, glinting warning.

The moment stretched between them, drawn taut as a wire.

Achilles sank low, muscles coiling. “Good.”

Then he struck.

Hector had barely raised his shield before Achilles was there, his spear slamming hard, driving a shockwave down his arm with the force of the blow.

He recovered, swiftly—lunging, sword flashing.

Achilles was faster.

Their weapons met in a savage clash, bronze meeting bronze, ringing across the plain. A swift parry, and Hector stumbled back.

They circled, two predators .

Hector pivoted sharply, his blade carving an arc toward Achilles’s left side. But Achilles had already read it. Anticipated it. And caught the motion with contemptuous ease.

He was faster, deadlier. In one fluid motion, he lashed out—his foot driving into Hector’s chest with brutal force.

Hector staggered, breath hissing through his teeth, feet skidding against the earth. He barely had time to raise his sword before Achilles’s spear whistled toward him. The razored edge grazed his arm, a thin line of crimson blooming.

A shallow cut. A warning. A sentence already passed.

Straightening, Hector steadied himself. Beneath the helmet, his face betrayed nothing.

Achilles watched the blood drip down his arm. “Do you hear it?” His voice was low, lethal as he circled closer. “The sound of Thanatos’s wings.”

The air tightened.

“He comes for you.”

Then, like a tempest loosed by the gods, Achilles moved.

Wild, reckless speed surged through him, and he exploded forward. Every muscle burned with blistering rage, his vision narrowing until only Hector remained.

His sword. His breath. His end.

Hector braced, feet digging into the earth, shifting swiftly as he tried to hold the ground. But Achilles’s gaze locked onto the smallest gap, the barest flaw—

The spear left his hand like lightning torn from the heavens, slicing the air.

It struck with a sickening thud.

The blade pierced just above Hector’s collarbone, burying deep, tearing through muscle, through bone and breath. Crimson burst into the sunlight, arcing brightly before watering the ground.

Hector stumbled, his sword slipping from his grasp. His body jerked, a shuddering broken thing, then folded like a shadow. By the time he struck the earth, life had already abandoned him.

He lay still.

For a single, deafening heartbeat, the world became still with him. Not a sound, save Achilles’s own ragged breath, harsh and loud in his ears.

Then a scream rose—a high, keening wail, raw with grief. A widow’s anguish, rising from the balcony .

Achilles ignored it, staring at the crumpled form before him, his chest still heaving. Blood soaked into the ground beneath Hector. His enemy, the cause of his deepest grief.