Page 46 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

Hades sat upon his throne, fist pressed to his temple, his gaze heavy as it swept over the three curule chairs before the dais. The judges conferred in somber tones, their voices low echoes in the Underworld’s throne room.

The events of Olympus had wearied him—but the sight awaiting him in the Underworld had carved deeper still.

On the banks of the Styx, souls gathered in droves.

War in Troy had turned the steady trickle of death into a flood, each soul torn from life by the bite of bronze, the brutal thrust of a spear. The air trembled with their silence, their longing and memories. Even the Styx, dark and thunderous, seemed sluggish beneath the onslaught of so much death.

When the chariot stopped, he had longed to seek her out.

Persephone.

He, who had ruled in solitude since the realm was young, ached for her.

For the one that softened the silence, made it feel full—lush and living, like the gardens that surrounded the temple.

He could not seem to hold enough of her.

Not just her body, though he hungered for that too, but her presence, bright and unguarded.

It was a feat of will that he had dragged himself from his bed at all to attend Olympus, especially with her lying curled against him, one bare thigh nestled between his.

He wanted to retire to their bedchamber, to sink into that quiet again and lose himself in her embrace. To feel her fingers slide through his hair, her nails grazing gently. To hear her voice, soft and warm, shaping his name in the dark.

But duty held him fast.

With a rough exhale, he had dismounted. Armor had melted from him as he walked through the temple to the throne room, replaced by a dark himation. The helm vanished into shadow, a gold laurel appearing in its place. Taking his throne, he had summoned the judges.

Now, before the dais, two small figures stood—a boy and a girl. They clung to each other, slight frames trembling.

In the left chair, Rhadamanthys unfurled a silver scroll, reading, “Kalista and Erasmus, children of Castor and Evanthia.”

The small boy whimpered, clutching his sister. Her arms tightened around him, though there was no protection to offer. Not here.

Watching them, Hades’s gaze softened. “Rhadamanthys,” he said quietly, “where is their mother? She is here as well.”

Rhadamanthys lifted his chin, calling out, “Evanthia, mother of Kalista and Erasmus.”

His voice reverberated through the hall.

The air beside the children stirred, then solidified.

A woman stepped forward. Her face was drawn, eyes stricken, but when she saw her children, a soft cry rang out. She gathered them to her skirt, their small hands clinging.

Hades’s gaze slid to the crook of her arm, to the infant cradled there. A child sleeping peacefully, too young to know death had claimed it. That judgment now loomed.

“You and your children stand for judgment,” Rhadamanthys addressed the woman calmly. “If found righteous, you may drink from the River Lethe and pass into peace. If not…”

He trailed off, glancing once more at the scroll.

“You lived in Troy?”

“Yes, lord.” The woman’s voice was a whisper, her trembling fingers resting on her daughter’s head. “We lived in the countryside.”

“Your death was two nights ago,” Rhadamanthys noted.

“The Greeks... they came, setting fire to our home.” Her voice shook, but she continued. “My husband—he died months ago in the war. I carried our babe in my womb when they stormed the countryside.” She looked down at the infant in her arms, sorrowful. “I... I could not get my children out.”

Silence descended, and Hades stood.

The air tightened, as if the Underworld leaned in to hear its master speak. A hush so deep that even the Styx outside seemed to quiet as Hades gazed at the woman .

In an instant, her life unraveled before him in a slow cascade of memory. Her childhood laughter. Her wedding vows. Joy at the births of her children. Her husband’s lifeless body on the pyre. The quiet strength that had carried her forward for her children.

Then—flames.

Thick, acrid smoke. Her children screaming in terror. The moment she realized she would not save them. The fire claiming her.

Pride. Joy. Grief. Fear.

The emotions roared through him, love and loss twining like grapevines. He closed his eyes for the barest moment, shouldering the weight of it.

When his eyes opened, she was watching him fearfully. Her hand stroked her daughter’s hair, a quiet, instinctive comfort. Even now.

“Evanthia of Troy.” His voice was solemn, tinged with the same sorrow that lingered around her soul like smoke. “Your children are innocent, their lives stolen by the cruelty of others. They are granted Elysium.”

She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing. But then another fear surfaced in her eyes, one he had seen too often.

The fear of parting. Of eternal separation.

“As for you,” he continued steadily, “you lived righteously. You sought no glory, fought no battles. But you obeyed the laws of gods and men, and you died striving to save your children.”

His voice softened, an homage to the sacrifice she had borne for them. “You have suffered greatly. For the love you bore them, and the sorrow you endured—Elysium awaits you.”

A pause.

“Your husband is there.”

Her knees gave way. She fell to the stone floor, clutching her children as sobs tore out of her—grief shattering into gratitude.

“Thank you, lord,” she gasped.

Warm light bloomed around them, soft and golden as the sun’s touch. It enveloped the mother and her children in radiance and, in the next instant, they were gone.

From the middle seat, Minos leaned forward, a hand stroking his short beard. “The Greeks grow bloodthirsty, my lord. To murder a mother and her children…” He shook his head. “It is an affront to the gods.”

Hades sank into his throne once more, shadows gathering in closer. “It is,” he said darkly. “The Underworld will offer no sanctuary for such deeds nor those who commit them. Only what is owed, and it will be paid in full. ”

The image of the burning home still seared his thoughts. A home devoured, innocence consumed. Not battlefield chaos, but monstrous, deliberate evil.

Destruction for its own sake.

Killing just to watch the blood spill.

The black stain of it was spreading among the Greeks like rot. Each day brought more souls: civilians slaughtered, lives torn apart by bloodied hands as the army became insatiable.

A slow, smoldering rage kindled in Hades’s chest.

Something must be done .

But he extinguished the thought as swiftly as it sparked.

It was not his place. Mortals sowed strife as naturally as they breathed. And Olympus’s interference had too often deepened the wound it meant to mend. Hadn’t the arguing of goddesses set this tragedy in motion from the beginning?

No, he reminded himself, exhaling through his nose. His role was not to interfere.

It was judgment. Swift and eternal. Long after the ashes cooled, after the world forgot the horrors it had birthed—

There was him.

And yet…

Of all the carnage he’d witnessed across the ages, this war felt different. A gnawing sense of unease lingered with the rage still smoldering, aimless and unspent.

His fingers scraped the rough edge of his jaw. “Damn them,” he muttered.

“My lord.”

The voice cut through the darkness like a shaft of sunlight through stormclouds. He looked up.

Persephone stood at the threshold, the torchlight weaving through the dark waves of her hair. A vision wrought of fire and earth.

Her eyes sought his, shadowed in uncertainty. She did not move, but something in her stillness was already reaching for him. The question passed between them unspoken, already understood.

Hades rose. His mantle rippled as he descended the dais. At the foot of the stairs, he extended his hand to her.

“My queen.”

She came without hesitation.

As she walked the length of the hall, her midnight chiton shimmered with golden thread like the veins of precious metal buried deep in the earth. As though the Underworld had yielded its riches to adorn her.

Her eyes flicked to the judges, who stood with heads bowed as she passed. Then she was at his side, her fingers slipping into his.

And the storm inside him went silent.

He guided her up the steps, his other palm a steady anchor against the small of her back. When they reached the great onyx throne, she moved to step aside—but his hand tightened around hers, halting her.

“You will sit.”

Surprise flickered in her eyes. She glanced from the throne to him, hesitating. Her teeth caught at her lower lip.

But he touched her waist, guiding her toward the seat he had just vacated. She sank into it slowly, her luminous figure framed by the high black stone—a bloom of life against dark grandeur.

Hades lingered another moment, taking in the sight of her. His wife, his queen. Then he turned back to the waiting hall.

“Aeacus.”

The judge on the right straightened, a gilt-edged scroll unrolling between his fingers. “King Atys of Phrygia and Sipylus,” Aeacus intoned. “Son of Tmolus and Plouto.”

At the name, Hades’s spine locked. He was still for a breath, then folded his arms over his chest. “Oh, I know King Atys.”

A pause. A breath drawn deep.

“Summon him.”

Instantly, a man appeared before the dais.

Reedy and sharp-featured, he stood with his brow knit in momentary confusion. Then his gaze lifted, finding the figures atop the dais in the great hall.

Realization dawned. His body buckled, crumpling to his knees, raw horror twisting his features.

“You are King Atys,” Hades said in a voice as dark as Tartarus’s chasm. “Known to gods and men as Tantalus.”

A choked sob came from the mortal’s throat. His breath was harsh, tears already dripping down his cheeks.

“Your day of judgment has come,” Hades continued quietly. “At last.”

“I am innocent, my lord!” Tantalus cried, voice cracking. “My wife betrayed me, betrayed the gods. She was jealous of my place among Olympus’s divine! ”