Page 44 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

“The Greeks believe Achilles cannot be killed, and with good reason.” Apollo’s voice rang with accusation. “He has defied death at every turn!”

The sun god’s golden gaze burned across the dais, searing into Hades.

Hades leaned against the arm of his throne, his expression stony as he smothered a flicker of scorn. “None fated for death escape Thanatos,” he replied flatly. “It has never been done before.”

Apollo’s eyes sharpened with disdain. “A sword slices through a mortal’s gut, yet he’s not fated to die?”

Hades lifted a shoulder, unbothered. “So it seems.”

Apollo’s face tightened. He rose to his feet in a flash of light, a golden arrow materializing in his fist. It glinted menacingly, the promise of divine retribution.

“Achilles or no, I will not let my city fall,” he snarled. “Agamemnon learned nothing from his first encounter with my sister.”

From his jagged throne, Ares scoffed. He lounged, one ankle slung over his knee, the picture of brutal indifference. “By demanding the sacrifice of Agamemnon’s daughter in exchange for safe passage to Troy, Artemis only hardened his resolve,” he said darkly, his gaze slashing toward Artemis.

The silver goddess sat rigidly, a gleaming figure of stillness and moonlight, her face carved with calm fury. A circlet of starlight crowned her brow, and the pale folds of her chiton shimmered like frost.

She met Ares’s glare without flinching.“I sought to stop this war before it began—to spare lives,” Artemis replied coldly. “I did not think he would so eagerly butcher his own child.”

Ares leaned forward, elbows bracing against his knees. “Roam your forests, huntress,” he growled. “Leave warfare to those who understand it. Agamemnon’s heart was set on Troy’s ruin. Now he honors his daughter with its destruction.”

Regret shadowed Artemis’s face, pale by comparison to the wrath rising harshly in Apollo’s features.

“Then he will contend with me,” Apollo bit out. “I will bring the sun’s wrath down until the sea boils beneath their ships—”

“I think not.”

Poseidon’s words crashed like a storm surge. His brow furrowed, eyes darkening like the ocean’s deep as he glared at Apollo. Beyond the terrace, the sea answered—tide swelling, wind rising in a wild whistle tinged with salt. The first warning of the ocean’s rage.

A hush fell over the dais.

Then Artemis rose alongside her brother, eyes flashing like twin daggers as they swept the dais.

“This council bends too greatly for the Greeks,” she accused.

“Hephaestus forged Achilles’s armor, the armor he used to slay and desecrate Hector.

And Athena whispers to Odysseus, counseling the Greeks as to Troy’s destruction. ”

Across the dais, Athena was stern and unmoving in her throne of interlaced olive and bronze. Her white chiton lay in simple folds, unadorned. Beneath her helm, her eyes gleamed cool and silver-bright.

“This war did not begin with the Greeks,” Athena said evenly. “I will not stand in defense of a Trojan prince who violated our guest-right laws and stole another’s wife.”

Tension snapped like a cord drawn too tight. A sudden scrape of metal tore through the hush as Ares rose to his feet. His eyes burned like coals, fist tightening around his spear.

“Do you believe Agamemnon’s butchery ends with Troy’s soldiers?” he demanded, voice ringing with battle-hardened scorn. “Did you look away when he ravaged Morea? When his armies swept through the Dodecanese—pillaging our temples, slaughtering the young, raping women beneath burning roofs?”

Silence.

“I did not,” Ares snarled, eyes pinned to Athena. “Paris is a fool. Let him die—by blade or fire, it matters little. But Agamemnon?” His voice grew dark with warning. “He will burn every home. Leave no child screaming, no woman breathing. There will be nothing but ash and bone beneath his banner.”

The silence stiffened under the impact of his words. Ares sank back into his throne, the crash of his armor echoing like the first drumbeat of war .

“This,” he spat, “is the man you defend.”

Thunder growled in the distance, the air growing thicker.

Zeus stood, his robes rippling with the stir of unseen winds, and his eyes lit with stormlight. “I summon the Fates.”

All eyes shifted toward the hearth where the air shimmered.

Three figures stepped forward in unison—tall, graceful, and utterly cold. A chill crept through the hall, silencing all movement.

Together, the Fates bowed.

“Lord Zeus.” Atropos’s voice was melodic, ringing with finality. “How may we serve Olympus?”

“Foretell the fate of Troy,” Zeus commanded.

Stillness followed as Atropos’s dark gaze swept the dais, lingering over each occupant. Finally, her eyes returned to Zeus.

“Are you certain, my lord?” A soft warning. “A thing seen cannot be unseen.”

Lightning forked churning clouds menacingly as Zeus leaned forward on his golden throne. “Foretell it,” he said again, this time colder, the edge of the storm in his voice.

Gracefully, the Fates lifted their hands to the heavens, as if to stroke the constellations above. Silver mist coiled beneath their fingers, twisting into a cloud of woven light, and an image emerged.

It was a city with towering walls, defiant yet encircled by enemies. Arrows tipped with flame lanced the night like sparks from a dying fire, brilliant against the black sky.

The mist shifted.

Slowly, a colossal horse took form. Its chestnut frame cast an ominous shadow before the Trojan gates—gates that were flung wide.

Greek forces flooded in like an unstoppable tide, flames devouring the streets.

Blood spilled in dark rivers, pooling in stone gutters.

Faint screams echoed through the vision, a final, futile resistance.

A city shuddering under a death blow.

Slowly, the mist dissipated, leaving oppressive quiet in its wake.

Atropos’s face was serene, pitiless, as she lowered her hand. “It is certain,” she said, her voice like a death knell. “The city will fall.”

Heat hissed viciously as it warped the air, steaming around Apollo, whose gold eyes blazed with rage. His mouth opened, words of protest rising in him—

An earth-shaking crack of thunder ripped across Olympus. A command for silence.

Zeus’s eyes were white with lightning. The air sparked, awaiting his command. “The Fates have spoken,” he thundered. “Those who defy their will court a punishment to rival Prometheus’s.”

Hades’s brow arched.

It was no small threat. Prometheus was chained to a jagged boulder, forced to endure as an eagle tore into his flesh each day. A living monument to Zeus’s creative wrath.

Apollo paused. Then reluctantly, he regained his seat.

Zeus’s gaze swept the chamber, eyes narrowed. “This council is dismissed—”

“My lord Zeus.”

A different voice cut through the storm’s rumble, and Demeter rose from her throne.

Her face was pallid and drawn, shadows pooling in her eyes. “I care nothing for mortal wars,” she said tightly. “I come on a matter of greater urgency.”

Zeus’s eyes slid sideways, flicking swiftly toward Hades as he settled once more onto his throne. A silent forewarning.

Hades sat still. Waiting.

Demeter’s robes, golden as autumn wheat, rustled as she stepped to the center of the dais. Her red-rimmed gaze fixed on Zeus.

“Our daughter is missing.”

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. “I have scoured the earth. Fields, mountains, and valleys. The nymphs search every river and glade. There is no trace of her.”

A breath passed, then Hades rose. “Persephone is in the Underworld.”

Demeter’s head whipped toward him. For an instant, raw relief flickered in her eyes, then suspicion swiftly drowned it. Her voice turned cold, razor-edged. “Why is my daughter in the Underworld?”

The chamber seemed to inhale. Zeus leaned back slowly, his face hardening. Bracing.

Hades held Demeter’s icy gaze. “She dwells in the Underworld as its queen. And my wife.”

The hall fell into silence, stunned. There was a sharp intake of breath—Artemis. The goblet in Poseidon’s hand halted just short of his lips, forgotten in his grasp. Aphrodite’s brows arched high, curiosity igniting in her gaze, and even Ares, war-hardened and brooding, momentarily lost his scowl.

But Demeter did not falter. She drew in a single, ragged breath—and exhaled rage. Fury bled into every stone line of her face.

“Nonsense.”

The word was pure venom.

“She is no one’s wife. She is promised to the virgin path to remain—” The words died as Demeter’s gaze cut swiftly toward Zeus. “She is your daughter. Surely, you will defend her.”

Zeus met her anger with iron. “As her sire,” he replied, voice heavy with authority, “I granted Persephone in marriage to Hades.”

Betrayal shattered across Demeter’s face for one cold, clear moment. Then, she dropped to the marble floor.

Her knees struck the dais with the force of an earthquake breaking. A wail tore from her chest, raw and keening. It rose on the air, tearing through the hall like stormwind.

“Enough,” Zeus commanded, his voice cracking like a whip. “It is done.”

Tears streamed from Demeter’s wild eyes as she lifted her face to him. “Undo it!” she screamed, clutching her robes with shaking hands. “Annul the marriage and return her to me!”

“No.”

The reply was calm, crystalline. But it wasn’t Zeus who spoke.

Hera rose from her ivory throne, regal and imperious as the crown on her head. “The marriage oath was sworn on the River Styx. Witnessed and consummated—”

Demeter’s fury snapped into focus, eyes blazing on Hades. “ How dare you ,” she hissed, her voice trembling with wrath.

Hera ignored her. “By the old rites, Persephone is Hades’s wife,” she continued. “The oath is sealed. It cannot be undone.”

Demeter’s face twisted. Her eyes sliced toward Hera, filled with bitter scorn. “Of course not,” she spat. “Fidelity is sacred to you , is it not?”

The barb struck deep. Hera stiffened, eyes flashing dangerously. But her silence held, iron-clad in dignity.

Zeus’s did not. His nostrils flared, shoulders stiffening. “Take care, Demeter,” he growled. “My decision is final, and my patience has limits.”

Demeter was past reason. Wild light burned in her eyes as she surged to her feet, fists balled at her sides. “Then I will go to the Underworld myself,” she snarled. “I will drag her back to this world. Her world. ”

Power crackled up Hades’s spine, sparking through his veins like a clash of bronze. His fist closed tightly around the bident. When he spoke, his voice was a blade in the dark, waiting to strike.

“That would be unwise.”

Power hummed, divine will thickening the air, waiting to burst free of its restraints. Tension simmered like a mirage in summer heat.

The other gods watched, motionless, suspended between divine wrath and reason.

“Enough!”

Zeus’s fist slammed against the arm of his throne. The marble beneath him cracked, the dais trembling. Torches guttered as the mountain itself shuddered and groaned.

“Demeter,” he thundered, “you will not set foot in the Underworld without its master’s leave.” His glare scorched as it swept the dais, daring defiance. “This council is ended. Go. ”

The tension broke apart like glass. Hephaestus immediately vanished in a blaze, the scent of smoke trailing in his wake. Hermes was gone in a blink of silver.

Aphrodite drifted to Ares’s side, her expression still tinged with amused intrigue as she glanced between Hera and Demeter. Apollo strode past them toward the terrace, still stiff-spined with anger, and Artemis followed, her brow knit.

Only Athena remained, ignoring Zeus’s command. She sat still but thought raced behind her eyes, turning them molten silver.

Hades turned from the dais, his mantle billowing behind him as he descended, swallowing light in its folds.

Demeter’s voice rose behind him, sharp as lash. “You will regret this,” she vowed. “I swear it.”

A sudden gust swept through the temple. She vanished with it, the scent of loam and wild grass clinging in the air—but it was cold as frost.