Page 52 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

Hephaestus reclined on a low divan near the hearth.

Shadows played across the hard planes of his face. But the warmth of the fire was nothing compared to the goddess sitting before him.

Aglaia rested against his legs, a gentle weight, as though she belonged nowhere else. Her presence radiated its own quiet heat, intoxicating and steady, and his calloused fingers threaded through her hair, the dark strands slipping like water over his rough palms.

Each time he touched her, it felt like revelation. She was a creature made of morning, radiant and beautiful. Nothing of her belonged to the world of anvils and iron, where every creation was born of fire and force. And yet—

Here she was.

Against him. With him. Fitting to him with effortless certainty .

His thumb brushed the curve of her neck. She tilted her head slightly at the touch, and when her eyes met his, her lips curved into a quiet, knowing smile.

In her gaze—not heat or hunger.

Home.

Then the air shifted. It was subtle but sure, sending a prickle of awareness down his spine.

The golden brace on his leg creaked softly as Hephaestus rose, his focus shifting to the hearth. “Athena,” he murmured, answering the question in Aglaia’s gaze.

The space near the fire glinted like disturbed water, a form taking shape. Then the goddess appeared.

Athena stood rigid in the firelight, clad in unadorned linen. Bronze glinted at her wrists. Sharp gray eyes swept the chamber, lingering first on Hephaestus, then dipping to Aglaia at his feet. A flicker of surprise passed through her, too swiftly to settle—then vanished.

“Hephaestus.” The greeting was clipped, her nod precise.

He met her stare with a dry arch of his brow. “Athena,” he returned, folding his arms over his broad chest. “You are unexpected.”

“Forgive my intrusion,” she offered, though her tone carried no trace of apology. “I come with urgency.”

Hephaestus said nothing, and the silence stretched expectantly.

“Apollo has gifted the Trojan archers with great accuracy,” Athena continued crisply. “The Greeks are falling swiftly, enduring heavy losses. They need stronger armor if they are to survive this war.”

The fire snapped, a loud crackle against the tense hush that followed.

Aglaia startled at the sound, then rose gracefully to her feet. “I will go,” she murmured, her fingers brushing his arm.

But before she could step away, his hand encircled her wrist. His grip was firm, his thumb pressing gently to her pulse.

“You will stay.”

Aglaia’s gaze lifted to his, searching. But he didn’t waver. His thumb swept her skin again, unhurried.

Whatever she read in his eyes steadied her, drawing the tension from her shoulders. Wordlessly, she settled at his side. Where she belonged.

Athena’s expression turned into thinly veiled disapproval. “We speak of warfare, brother,” she began, “perhaps she should—”

Beside him, Aglaia flinched.

But before the words could fully land—

“She will stay.” His voice cut through Athena’s objection like iron. Hard. Final.

A muscle feathered in Athena’s jaw, but she inclined her head stiffly. “Very well.”

Hephaestus dragged a hand against his jaw, fingers scraping his beard. “The Greeks should abandon leather,” he said after a moment. “Wood is heavier, but it will fare better against archers. They can plate it with bronze if they have any left.”

Silence returned, heavier than before.

Then Athena’s gaze narrowed. “You will not forge for them.”

“No.”

“Why?” A challenge. A demand .

Hephaestus held her gaze, his chin tilting. “Speak plainly,” he said. “I know she sent you.”

Athena’s lips pressed into a hard line. “Hera did send me, yes,” she replied finally. “She seeks your aid.”

In the hearth, the fire flared, its glow deepening, stretching the shadows on the stone walls. But he spoke evenly.

“Tell Hera I do not support the Greeks.”

A rare fissure of frustration split Athena’s composure. “You aided them before,” she argued. “You forged armor for Achilles.”

“And Achilles desecrated a corpse with it,” Hephaestus replied mildly. “Hardly inspires me to act again.”

“One soldier turns your support from them?”

He huffed a laugh, but the sound was hollow.“Agamemnon never had my support. And Achilles is no mere solider—you know this, goddess of wisdom.”

Her gray eyes flashed, jaw clenching. “You will let them fall, then?” she demanded. “While you are here, hiding away in your forge?”

Anger surged, calling to the fire in his veins. Steam curled from his skin, twisting in the air. But next to him, Aglaia’s breath hitched. He felt it, her pulse suddenly racing beneath his touch. So he mastered his temper, choking off the rising fire.

His hand slid from Aglaia’s wrist. The brace on his leg caught the firelight as he stepped forward. The air between them warped with heat as Hephaestus leaned toward Athena.

“Do you see me hiding?”

Athena didn’t answer. Her gaze was a sword unsheathed, but he met it stone-faced, unmoved.

After a moment, he dismissed her with a slow turn of his broad shoulders. “The forge is my nature,” he said, voice brittle. “Wisdom is yours, and bloodshed is theirs. You’ll find no ally here.”

Athena remained a moment longer, still bristled. Then she vanished, her ire lingering like a bitter aftertaste.

Hephaestus inhaled deeply in the silence, the unspent anger in him slowly settling. He turned from the hearth, dragging a hand through his hair, then—

A sharp jolt lanced through his leg, sudden and deep. He stumbled, a grunt escaping him as familiar agony struck hard.

Cursing softly, he limped to the divan .

But before he could lower himself fully, Aglaia was there. She knelt wordlessly at his side, her hands reaching for him. Concern darkened her gaze, fierce and focused.

Hephaestus stiffened.

The sight of her reaching for his ruined leg—for that broken part of him—struck something raw and instinctive. His hand shot out, shielding his leg from her touch, his teeth gritted against the pain.

“Don’t.” The word was harsh, rough-edged. “Leave it.”

But Aglaia’s eyes met his, flashing with sharp light. “Will you suffer needlessly?” she asked heatedly, brushing his hands away.

Hephaestus opened his mouth to argue, but he choked on the words as she knelt between his spread legs, her hands finding the rigid muscles of his thigh.

The first press of her thumbs was unrelenting, deep pressure that cut through the pain without mercy. A breath hissed through his clenched teeth as the sensation bit deep.

“Damn it,” he rasped, gripping the divan’s edge with white knuckles.

Her hands moved with purpose. Not gentle, not cruel. Precise. She kneaded into the strained muscle, coaxing the pain from its hiding places, unraveling what had been a part of him for longer than his memory could recount.

It hurt . But beneath, relief stirred.

Firelight spilled over her shoulders, dancing in the silky dark curtain of her hair, casting her in warm gold. She hummed quietly, a soft, lilting melody, and those dark, raw places inside him clenched in response.

He watched her silently, cursing himself for his earlier harshness. For recoiling from the very hands he craved. His eyes traced the smooth curve of her cheek, her dark lashes cast down as she focused on the task.

Slowly, he reached for her, his knuckles grazing her cheekbone—an apology spoken in touch.

She looked up, her eyes now bright, gentle once more. “May I ask you something?”

His throat constricted. Still, he nodded. “Anything,” he croaked.

She paused, her gaze sweeping over his face as if weighing her question. “You do not favor the Greeks,” she said hesitantly. “So then why did you forge Achilles’s armor?”

The question struck hard. A hammer to iron—sudden, blunt .

Memories surged, welling up from deep within. Ancient pain that cut into him more viciously than any weapon ever could.

He watched the fire, its twisting flames echoing his unrest. “Thetis, the sea-nymph,” he began finally, dragging the words up from that harsh place, “is the mother of Achilles.”

Aglaia tilted her head. “I saw her plead before Zeus.”

He nodded once, tightly.

“When Hera hurled me from Olympus, I fell into the Aegean Sea.” The memory burned behind his eyes, vivid as the day it happened though he’d only been a babe. “It was Thetis who found me there.”

Aglaia’s hands stilled.

He felt it—her sorrow. It soaked into the silence between them, heavy and unspoken.

“She cared for me,” he said quietly, gaze still fixed on the fire. “Until I was strong enough to work the forge.”

Flames crackled, filling the hollow space left by his words. The pain in his leg faded into the shadow of that deeper wound as it stirred in his chest. Long scarred but never forgotten.

Aglaia rose to her knees. Her hands lifted to frame his face, palms gentle against the rough planes of his cheeks, her thumbs stroking slowly.

Then her mouth found his—soft, unbearably tender.

It threatened to obliterate him.

Her lips moved against his, gentle but searching. Then her tongue slipped past his, soothing and incendiary all at once.Groaning, he sank his fingers into her dark hair, drawing her deeper into him.

Wetness brushed his cheek.

He stilled. Drawing back enough to see her face, he stared into eyes bright with tears.

“Do not weep for me,” he murmured. His thumbs swept away the glistening trails as he cupped her face in his hands. “I would change nothing of my fate.”

The breath shuddered from her, but she gave no reply. Instead, she pressed closer, burying her face in the warm hollow of his throat, seeking the comfort of his warmth, of his body.

She fit to him perfectly. As though they’d been formed by the same thread of existence, woven into one another by the Fates.

His pulse quickened as her fingers drifted to the broad leather belt at his waist. She unfastened the clasp with sure fingers. It slipped from his hips, landing on the floor with a soft clink of bronze.