Page 49 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

Wet sand clung to Achilles’s calves as the tide whispered in, cold seawater lapping at his legs.

Salt and wind tousled the air. Dark clouds brooded over the sea, heralding a coming storm.

A glint of color caught his drifting gaze. He bent, pulling a seashell free from the sand. Its scalloped edge gleamed, smooth and opalescent, as the tide rinsed the grit away.

The same kind he’d hunted in the shoals of Phthia as a boy.

Then, he’d been sun-darkened and wild, diving through the tide pools while gulls wheeled overhead.

From deeper waters, his mother and the other sea-nymphs had watched him, half-smiling, tending underwater gardens rich with coral and swaying seaweed.

In his mind’s eye, he saw her again—Thetis rising from the ocean, droplets adorning her hair like a crown of diamonds. Always, she had admired his treasures. Then she would begin her stories, tales spun like precious thread, ancient and edged in gold:

Pandora, whose curiosity courted ruin for humanity.

Heracles, whose trials of strength and sacrifice earned his place among the gods.

Perseus, whose wit and courage had slain vicious Medusa.

Her tales had always ended the same way—

“Honor, Achilles, is mankind’s greatest treasure. The gods honor those who show honor.”

A brittle crunch broke the silence.

He looked down to see the delicate shell splintered in his palm. Steadily, the tide surged between his fingers, sweeping the broken pieces back to sea.

He had believed her then. In the bright, boundless days of boyhood when the world glittered with purpose and promise. But now, he knew better.

On Troy’s blood-soaked shores, honor had become a hollow thing—utterly meaningless. It had not spared Patroclus. Nor Hector. Nor the thousands who’d died before them. It would not spare the thousands whose deaths waited a single breath away.

Achilles’s jaw tightened.

He was a pawn. Agamemnon’s most fearsome weapon. A great warrior lured to war by illusions of glory and renown, a song as old as time.

And what had followed...

Months of slaughter. Fields filled with the corpses of shepherd boys and farmers who’d barely learned to hold a spear before they were turned out. Sent to face him. His wrath.

Senseless death beyond the counting. All for the vanity of kings too proud of bend, too blind to see the ruin they wrought. And their broods—advisors, priests, nobles—churning like vipers in a pit, seeking advantage and wealth, and caring nothing for the cost.

No shred of honor in any of them. None but—

A bitter laugh scraped from Achilles’s throat, carried away on the whipping wind as the first raindrops pattered against the sand.

Hector.

Hector had been different, this he could admit. A man of honor, willing to admit his mistake in the wild thrum of battle.

A son of Troy burdened with his brother’s pride, flung into the jaws of death by a father too stubborn to yield. Hector, forced to defend a transgression he himself would never have contemplated. Hector, husband and father—now gone.

Achilles could still see his eyes in those final moments. Stern, resigned to the Fates. Prepared to defend his homeland, even as he knew he would fall.

In his death, there had been no satisfaction. No triumph. Only a tide of grief nearly as fierce as the one that had crashed for Patroclus.

Cold rain needled his skin as Achilles turned from the sea, the memories sitting like a blade in his gut. The sky wept in cold rivulets, the waves churning restlessly ahead of the storm.

He strode back to his tent, the sodden sand sucking at his sandals. As he ducked inside, his ears caught the faintest sound—the rustle of fabric. Every muscle coiled with sharp instinct, and he halted .

“Show yourself.”

From the back of the tent, a small, hooded figure slowly stepped forward. The hood fell, revealing a pale, pinched face framed by mousy hair clinging to damp cheeks. A servant girl, far too young to be standing alone amid a war camp.

Fearful eyes watched him, but she dropped into a wobbling curtsy. “My lord.”

Achilles’s eyes, already cold, narrowed as he stepped forward. “Who are you?” he asked, the low demand wrapped in warning.

She looked like she might faint but clasped her hands together and answered, “I serve the Spartan queen, Helen.”

The words landed like a deafening drumbeat in the quiet hollow of the tent.

For a moment, he said nothing, searching her face for deceit, for cracks in the fragile truth she offered. But her plain features held only raw sincerity.

“She sends you to your death,” he said flatly.

Outside, the sky rumbled in agreement, a growl of thunder shaking the ground.

The girl’s lips pressed into a trembling line, but she held his gaze. “No, lord. I stopped her from coming here.”

Her confession stirred a ripple of surprise in him—no small feat.

“She would have been recognized instantly,” the girl continued, her fingers twisting together. “I am... less noticeable.”

That was undoubtedly true. She was small, unassuming, hardly worth a second glance. Entirely unlike Helen, whose brilliance rivaled a star falling from the heavens.

Then he snorted. For all the absurdities he’d witnessed in war, this girl—plain and trembling—stood before him by choice.

She had courage. That, he could grant her. It took courage to step into the jaws of the lion. Little sense, perhaps. But courage, at least.

“Tell me...” Achilles let the silence stretch as he weighed his words. “Why would a servant risk so much for a foreign mistress? One who brings such a terrible blow to Troy, no less.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, cautious and reproachful.

“Speak freely,” Achilles commanded, an impatient bite in his tone. “I mean you no harm.”

Her throat bobbed. “She was brought to Troy against her will, as I once was. She is the prince’s captive, forced to watch thousands die in her name.” Her fingers twisted the hem of her cloak. “She has suffered much but still seeks to end this bloodshed, and I would help her... if I can.”

The tent fell into silence, the growing storm outside a low murmur. Achilles stood unmoving, grimly considering her words.

“And how, exactly,” he drawled at last, “does she intend to accomplish such a feat?”

She reached into the folds of her cloak, hands trembling as she withdrew a piece of parchment. Striding across the tent, Achilles took it from her. Unfolding it, he scanned the feminine script.

Spare the city. Take me.

Words heavy with desperation, despair.

A dry, humorless laugh left him. Achilles crushed the parchment in his fist. “She thinks the Greeks will abandon Troy if I help her escape?” Scorn curled his voice.

“Agamemnon didn’t drag an army across the sea to bandage his brother’s marriage.

He is here for Troy—its gold, its power and position on the Aegean. ”

The girl flinched, but replied, “She believes the army follows you, not the king.”

Silence fell, heavy and sudden. The words sank deep.

“If you turn from Troy,” she continued, softer now, “the others will follow. And if she is gone, the Trojan prince and king—they’ll have nothing left to defend. The city, its people, they may yet survive.”

Achilles stirred, his eyes sharpening like a sword drawn. “You flatter her, girl,” he growled, deliberately harsh. “She seeks escape, nothing more.”

Defiance lit in the girl’s eyes, a startling flash of fire for one so powerless. “No, lord,” she replied, the words raw and trembling. “She tried to flee Troy. She meant to come here, to end this. She would accept death to spare innocent lives.”

Her voice dropped, quiet and pleading, desperate as the message still crumpled in his fist. “You must believe me. Helen of Sparta is honorable.”

It struck like lightning.

Achilles went entirely still. His thoughts turned sharp and rapid, racing half-wild. Memory and instinct, all unraveling at once.

When his voice returned, it came hoarsely. “Wait here,” he rasped. “Do not leave this tent.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and pushed through the leather flap.

Rain struck his shoulders in icy bursts, the night ready to swallow him whole. The sky had become a black expanse, and the sea roared like a chained beast straining at its bonds.

In the distance, Troy blazed with torchlight—a city bracing for ruin. Soldiers paced the battlements, their shadows restless. Behind those thick walls, thousands of civilians huddled together, waiting for the blow.

His eyes swept the sprawling Greek encampment. Tents stretched out like a plague upon the land. Each one sheltered men caught in the same brutal bargain: kill or die. Boys with faces still smooth. Men too old to outrun death. All sent to force the point of Agamemnon’s pride—

Bring Troy to heel. Or else carve it from the face of the earth.

How many had been sacrificed for this cause? How many had he killed for this purpose?

Too many to count.

The truth sat on his tongue, bitter as ash.

Rain slicked the parchment still clenched in his fist, ink smudging at the edges. The servant girl’s words echoed in his mind, a silent refrain.

If she was to be believed, Helen of Sparta was not merely beautiful... she was clever. Through the bars of her prison, she had watched. Learned. And reached two undeniable conclusions.

First—Achilles offered no allegiance to Agamemnon.

Second—the men didn’t fight for the bloated king sprawled in the shade, gold cup in hand. They fought for him .

In both, she was right.

When he’d withdrawn before over Agamemnon’s insult, the army had staggered beneath the blow.

Without him, without the Myrmidons, the Greeks losses had been heavy.

The camp grew restless, then mutinous. Agamemnon had tasted it then, the sharp tang of fear.

Fear of rebellion, of a blade in the dark at the hands of men who’d grown tired of dying on foreign soil.

In desperation, he’d offered bribes: gold, women, titles, and hollow words of humility. Each meant to tempt Achilles back to the battlefield.