Page 56 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)
The current crashed in his ears as Hades stood on the landing above the waterfall, staring out across the chasm to the Styx’s distant bank.
Countless souls clustered, mournful and silent. Ripped from life before their time. The sharp tang of burnt offerings rose on the air, prayers from the world above, soaked in grief and despair.
Behind him, a throb of power announced an arriving presence.
“You sent Hermes for me?” Zeus’s voice was tempered steel.
Hades stood still.
His gaze settled on a boy on the distant riverbank, a golden coin clutched in his small fist. The child’s eyes were wide—the innocence of a life unjustly stolen. So much like that first child.
“When the mortals’ war ends,” Hades said at last, the words low and unforgiving, “she returns to me. Swear it now on the river.”
Surprised silence answered him at first.
Then Zeus’s voice came firmly. “Your wife will return to the Underworld when the war in Troy ends,” he vowed swiftly. “I swear it by the River Styx.”
Only then did Hades turn, fixing Zeus with a flat stare. “Do not forget your oath, brother,” he murmured. “Break it—and Olympus will war with the Underworld next. Even your lightning will falter in that darkness.”
His gaze shifted back to the child, to all others who waited there.
“This I swear by the river.”
Zeus stiffened at the threat. His mouth opened, chest swelling with a reply. But a rare moment of restraint flickered through him, and he paused, thoughtful. Instead, he offered a sharp, wordless nod. The air cracked, and he was gone.
Ice settled in Hades’s chest as he stalked into the temple, his steps echoing hollowly. The corridors were empty. So was their bedchamber.
His gaze turned to the pool. With a thought, the water revealed her. Despite the weight in his chest, his lips tilted as he looked down on her reflection.
Moments later, he stepped into the green meadows of Elysium.
The air was warm, fragrant with blooms. Behind him, brilliant turquoise surf met white sand shores. But his gaze was fixed ahead.
Persephone stood beneath an emerald canopy of alders beyond the beach, light dancing through the leaves and catching like amber in her dark hair. Laughter rang through the air, bright and soft as a swallow’s song.
Hades’s gaze moved past her to the children playing beyond. They raced barefoot through the grass, collapsing in the soft billows. Joy untouched by sorrow, as he had intended.
Persephone bent, pressing her palm to the ground. He watched as the earth obeyed her silent command, and a white circle of jonquils bloomed around the children.
One of the children, a toddler with chubby fingers, picked a bloom, a delighted squeal escaping her lips.
“Beautiful,” Hades murmured, just behind her.
Persephone turned with a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It is beautiful,” she agreed softly. “You made it so.” Her gaze wandered back to the children beyond the trees. “Why are there children only here, in Elysium?”
“They are pure.” Hades gently threaded his fingers through her hair. Then he added, softer, “How can you judge a soul before it has truly lived?”
Persephone swallowed. “There are thousands of children on the riverbank now.” Quiet despair crept into the air still ringing with children’s laughter. “There are many women, too—mothers holding infants.”
He stilled, waiting.
She looked up at him, eyes flickering with raw understanding. “They are women who died in childbirth.”
It was a question, unspoken yet unmistakable. She was asking. Asking him to confirm the unthinkable, the unbearable truth that she had already realized.
That Demeter—goddess of the harvest, of growing life, of childbirth—had turned away from more than just fields. In her wrath, she had abandoned the birthing bed as well. Mortal women. The unborn .
The urge to shield her, to bear the burden alone, burned through him. But when Hades looked into her eyes, the trust he saw there closed around his heart like a fist.
He would not betray it. Never again.
“Yes.”
The word was bitter as poison.
A soft sound cracked from her, a sob that fractured through him.
He tugged her into his arms, cradling her to his chest as she wept. As if his power, his strength, could hold the world’s cruelty at bay. Even as he knew better—no power, no throne, nor divine will could ease this pain.
“I have Zeus’s oath,” Hades murmured against her temple, “that you will return after the mortals’ war ends. Demeter will answer to the pantheon then.”
Persephone’s arms tightened around his waist. “I do not want to leave you.”
The words were soft, warmly filling the hollow ache inside him even as dread curled around his ribs. He had waited for her across eternity, yearned for her to speak these very words. And now, she would leave him, returning to the world he had stolen her from.
She may not choose to return , a thought whispered, cold and cruel, in the darkest corner of his mind.
Hades’s breath caught. He looked down at her still pressed against his chest, his fingers curled into her hair.
Zeus’s oath could command many things, but not a goddess’s heart.
Not her heart.
Once above, she might choose to stay. To remain in a world of open skies, surrounded by the light and warmth she was born to. Free of the solemn burdens of the Underworld. Free of him.
Fear raked through him with cold talons. But he clenched his jaw, refusing to speak it, to let it take form.
Bright as glass, a tear slid down Persephone’s cheek. Crooking his finger beneath her chin, he gently lifted her face up to his. Sorrow pooled in her eyes, deep and soft as spring rain.
“Do not fear,” he murmured. “I came for you once.” His thumb caught her tear, sweeping it away. “And I will come for you again.”
His voice carried a vow etched in the bedrock of his kingdom. An oath that no god, no fate, nor war could unmake.
Nothing— nothing —would keep him from her.