Page 57 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

Breath billowed into vapor, curling in the cold. The goddess drew the infant tighter to her chest.

“We’re almost there, my love,” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread of warmth in the endless dark.

The earthen tunnel opened into a wild mountain landscape beneath a dark, glittering sky of stone. She moved swiftly, her eyes locked on the distant temple rising high in the distance above the thundering river.

At the edge of a laurel grove, the goddess paused. Her eyes swept the horizon, worry lining her face.

“Where do we go, little one?” she murmured, pressing her cheek to the drowsy baby’s head. Her breath hitched. “My little Achilles.”

“Kore!”

A shout shattered the dream.

Persephone startled awake, breath ragged, heart pounding a frantic drumbeat. The vision tangled like smoke, fading swiftly. The dark goddess cradling her child. The desperation in her voice.

One name echoed through Persephone like a cry in a cavern, reverberating deep—Achilles.

The child was Achilles. The warrior revered among the Greeks. And the dark goddess, his mother, had taken him to the Underworld.

Her fingers curled into the moss beneath her, soft and damp with dew. She tried to hold the dream together, to call back its fleeing images. There had been purpose in the goddess’s descent, anguish tempered with hope. A cost. A cause. A matter of life and death.

Shakily, Persephone pushed herself to her feet. Overhead, a canopy of morning glories trembled, indigo blooms unfurling in the rising dawn .

Far off, atop a sunlit hill, Demeter stood. Her figure was stark against the brightening sky, one arm lifted in a sharp summons.

“Come along, Kore!”

Persephone flinched, the name striking like a lash.

A name that no longer fit—too soft, too small. It grated against her skin like an ill-fitting garment.

Still, she stepped forward, leaving behind the moss-lined bed beneath the pergola’s shade. Flowering vines brushed against her shoulders as she passed, clinging gently, reluctant to let her go.

Ahead, green fields of wheat rippled in the wind. She reached out as she walked, trailing her fingers over the ripening heads of grain.At her touch, the field brightened, surging with new life. The stalks flushed green, bending toward her in silent worship.

Her return to Eleusis had been less than joyous.

In the weeks that had followed, Demeter’s silence had only deepened. She did not speak of the Underworld. Did not utter Hades’s name, as if denying it could unmake the truth. As if silence might sever what had become rooted in Persephone’s soul.

Life resumed without change.

Bless the fields. Accept the sacrifices. Guide the mortal women in childbirth. Day after day, the same ritual. The same invisible chains shackling her to that role.

Kore . Eternal maiden. Goddess of spring.

There was only one solace: the mortals no longer suffered Demeter’s wrath. The earth flourished once more, warm and green.

Yet everything had changed. She felt it in every breath. In every heartbeat.

Demeter clung to Kore, but she might as well have clung to shadows—Kore had not returned from the Underworld. The wild maiden of wildflowers and sunlight was gone, lost to the darkness that had shaped someone else entirely.

The Underworld had stripped away the mantle of innocence long draped over her shoulders. In its place, something deeper, truer, had crystallized.

Persephone.

She had become a queen, standing at the side of a god as powerful and fathomless as the kingdom he ruled .

From across the ages, Hades had seen her. And he had called forth her truest self.

In his realm, she had walked beside him as an equal. She had shared his burdens, watching the tides of war churn between mortals and gods. She had worn the mantle of his authority in a kingdom where she was neither daughter nor maiden. But queen.

And he had loved her.

Not with the flattery of a lover offering promises meant to charm or chain. His devotion had been stark, unadorned—pure. Fierce enough to outlast her fear, steady enough to wait until she saw him clearly.

In the words he spoke, in the commanding touch of his hands, in the unflinching way his russet eyes found and saw only her, he’d told her again and again—

She was his. And, in every measure, he was hers.

As the Fates had intended.

Now, torn from him, she was hollow—a silent rupture bleeding something vital from her. Diminished once more to the maiden of blossoms and rainfall.

At night, she lay awake, her fingertips tracing the gilded leaves of her silver crown.

She clung to the memory of his hands, broad and warm, claiming with a strength that had only ever worshiped her.

Of his voice, low and steady, wrapping around her like a vow.

His eyes, dark and smoldering with promise, stripping every doubt from her.

She belonged with him. For eternity.

“Kore!”

Demeter’s distant call wrenched her from her thoughts.

Swallowing the resentment rising in her throat, Persephone moved toward her mother, each step dragging with silent rebellion.

A glimmer caught her eye.

A streak of silver tore across the sky, drawing her gaze up. It was a bright flash, plummeting toward the earth like a fallen star.

Beside her, Demeter’s lips flattened into a hard line, her sharp eyes tracking its descent.

A soft gust stirred the wheat. Then Hermes landed lightly before them, the wings of his sandals folding back as he straightened.

“Demeter.” He inclined his head with formal ease, though his gaze flicked briefly to Persephone. There was something in it, an apology perhaps. “Zeus summons the council. ”

Demeter’s expression didn’t shift. “For what purpose?”

Hermes’s usual levity was gone, replaced by rare solemnity. “The Trojans have secured new allies. The Greeks have reinforced their ranks as well. More mortals rally to war, eager to fight beneath Achilles’s banner. Zeus fears their losses spiral beyond remedy.”

A chill feathered across Persephone’s skin. Her dream resurfaced—dark, heavy, ominous.

Demeter’s brow narrowed sternly. “This is not my concern. I will not attend.” She turned away, dismissing Hermes with a wave of her hand. “Come, Kore.”

Before Persephone could move, Hermes’s gaze shifted to her.

“The Underworld is drowning in souls.”

He spoke softly, his words stripped of his usual teasing cadence.

Persephone stiffened, her eyes locking to his. “What?” she whispered.

“Hades will petition Olympus to intervene,” Hermes continued, his eyes grave. “To protect the innocents of Troy.”

Her heart leapt, breath catching.

But then, in a voice heavy with resignation, he added, “Zeus will refuse.”

Tightness banded around her chest. “But why?” Persephone gasped.

Hermes grimaced, as if the words soured on his tongue. “The Fates have already foretold Troy’s fall, and Zeus has forbidden interference,” he replied tightly. “Nothing can be done from Olympus—”

“Enough!”

Demeter’s voice lashed the air, her glare slicing toward Hermes. “She is not an Olympian. This is not her affair.”

Bright defiance sparked in Hermes’s eyes. “She is the Underworld’s queen. Its burdens are her affair.”

Demeter’s face flushed hotly. “Her comings and goings are not your concern. Nor are they Hades’s—”

“ Mother !”

The sharpness in Persephone’s voice startled even her. It sliced the air like a shard of glass, silencing even the wind.

Demeter turned slowly, her expression frostbound. “What, child?”

Persephone raised her chin. “I will speak to Hermes. Alone.”

Her mother’s face tightened, her hands bracing against her hips. “For what purpose?” she demanded.

“For whatever purpose I choose,” Persephone replied, her voice low as she met her mother’s glare .

The silence that followed was taut, humming. But Persephone stepped into it, unflinching.

“You may scorch the earth with famine. You may close your ears to the cries of their suffering. But I will not sit idly weaving garlands while crowds of innocents flood the Underworld.”

Demeter’s eyes widened, but Persephone didn’t wait for a response.

Turning on her heel, she strode toward the shade of an ancient oak, drawing a deep breath as she walked.

Hades valued neutrality. He held to it more fiercely than most Olympians held their thrones. Yet now, he had broken that steadfast silence, calling for aid on the mortals’ behalf.

A call for restraint. A petition for mercy. The thought chilled the air around her: a plea borne of desperation.

How much worse had the bloodshed become in the weeks since she’d been torn from the Underworld?

The memory of the Styx’s crowded banks surged, the endless tide of souls, waiting for judgment, for peace.

And there, at the heart of it all, stood Hades, shouldering the deluge alone. She could see his face—lined with strain, his eyes shadowed, broad shoulders rigid beneath the weight of a dying world.

Guilt burned through her. She had left him to bear it alone. And now Olympus, in all its distant splendor, would turn its back. Not just on the living, but on him .

More lives would be lost. More souls would pour into the Underworld. Death would continue to spread like wildfire. Achilles’s fame was the spark, drawing warriors into the blaze like moths to a god-forged flame.

Achilles.

She halted mid-step, her feet rooting to the earth, mind reeling.

Hades had spoken of it before—his unease for the mortal who defied death. Of the bloodshed Achilles would bring, the trail of destruction that followed in his wake.

Now Hermes confirmed it again: Achilles, the head of the great Greek serpent coiled around Troy, poised to strike.

But without its head...

Her mind clawed through the faded fragments of her dream. Achilles had been there, the Underworld. His mother had taken him, and there had been a reason. A secret.

An answer .

“Nothing can be done from Olympus .”

Hermes’s words clanged like a tolling bell, and Persephone’s breath snagged. The truth settled into her with the brilliance of celestial fire. Bright and blinding.

Not Olympus. The answer lay elsewhere.

Silver flashed in the corner of her vision. She turned as Hermes landed in the sun-dappled shade, the folds of his mantle undisturbed, his gaze already fixed on her.

She inclined her head. “Thank you for taking my audience.”

Hermes nodded, remaining uncharacteristically silent. Behind him, Demeter’s furious silhouette still stood in the distance, but Persephone ignored it.

She inhaled slowly. “I must ask you something. But first, I need your oath that you’ll speak of this to no one.”

His eyes sharpened, becoming shrewd. Still, he said, “I swear it by the River Styx.”

A breath of wind sighed through the trees. Oak leaves shivered high in the boughs above them, casting restless shadows on the ground. For a moment, she could almost believe she stood beneath the canopy of the Underworld’s sacred garden.

“As the god of travelers,” Persephone said at last, “you see all who journey. Even those who enter the Underworld?”

“I do,” Hermes replied blankly.

She chewed her lip, then asked, “How would one get there from the mortal world?”

One brow quirked, amusement tugging at his lips. “Mortals are carried there by Thanatos.”

Death. Of course.

“And the living?” she asked, leaning forward slightly. “Has anyone ever entered without dying first?”

A pause.

Then, a flicker of recognition passed through Hermes’s features. Slowly, he shook his head. “Without Hades’s permission, it is impossible.”

Silence gathered like heavy fog.

Then Hermes added, “Zeus will not look kindly on interference with Troy’s fate. Any who attempt it will suffer his wrath.”

“As my mother said,” Persephone replied thickly. “I am no Olympian, and I swore no oath regarding the Fates. My loyalty lies in another kingdom. ”

He blinked. Then, after a moment, his gaze grew weighted with something just shy of admiration.

“I would help you, if I could,” Hermes said finally. “But what you ask... it cannot be done.”

A memory stirred.

Hades’s voice, strong and certain. “The Underworld is not easily breached. Only one has ever succeeded.”

Her heart gave a hard beat—like a war drum before battle.

“It has been done.” Her eyes narrowed. “Once. A mortal crossed into the Underworld alive.”

Hermes was silent a moment. Then, slowly, he inclined his head. “One did.”

Stillness returned, heavy and waiting.

“But he is mortal no longer.”

The words slid over her skin like ice. She swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”

Hermes held her gaze calmly. “The one who entered the Underworld,” he said, “was Dionysus.”