Page 65 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

In the quiet hollow, beneath the branches of flowering dogwoods, the air was bright and sun-warmed.

There, mortal mothers gathered beneath the open sky, their laughter lilting like birdsong as Aglaia and her sisters moved among them, blessing each infant.

From the edge of the glen, Hephaestus watched in silence. He leaned against the rough bark of a tree, arms loosely folded across his chest.

His gaze followed her.

Her sisters were taller, their gold-burnished hair catching the sunlight like polished bronze, radiant and sunlit, undeniably beautiful.

But Aglaia, smaller in stature and dark-haired, shimmered with a more elusive brilliance.

While her sisters gleamed like daybreak, she burned with the quiet clarity of starlight—cool, luminous and rare.

A star among flame. A diamond set in gold.

Barefoot in the grass, she moved with easy grace, her fingers grazing small fingers and toes. Her laughter rippled in the air, the breeze stirring the soft folds of her chiton around her legs. That same unassuming grace that had steadied him a thousand times before.

One of the children babbled at her, nonsense spilling into the air. Aglaia’s eyes widened in delighted surprise, and her smile bloomed bright and instinctive.

The corner of Hephaestus’s mouth lifted as he watched, something shifting warmly in his chest. Everything about her—every quiet laugh, soft touch—was a chisel to the center of him, breaking away pieces of iron.

Her voice carried softly to him.

“May the beauty of life flourish in you, little one,” she said, her hand cradling a round cheek. “May you live in goodness and abundance for all your days. ”

It was a gentle rite, yet no less sacred than the flame and heat of his forge.

As the mortal women began to drift away, Aglaia stood watching them go. Something wistful lingered in her gaze, tenderness in the curve of her mouth.

When the last mortal vanished, he stepped forward.

Thalia noticed him first. “Lord Hephaestus,” she said, dipping into a graceful curtsey.

Aglaia turned at once, startled. Surprise lit her eyes as they found him, then faltered. In its place, a swift flicker of apprehension rose before she glanced down.

But he’d already seen. The sight pricked deep, like a thorn to flesh.

He inclined his head to her sisters, though the weight of his attention never left her. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said. “I’ve come for my wife. I believe she sought refuge here.”

A knowing glance passed between Thalia and Euphrosyne. Then they bowed and slipped away without a word, vanishing like mist among the trees.

Leaving her to him.

The silence held heavy, thick and trembling between them.

Hephaestus strode forward, closing the distance across the glen. As he neared, he watched her breath quicken. The rise and fall of her chest tightened, pulse fluttering swiftly in her throat.

He stopped before her. For a moment, he simply looked, letting his gaze drag over her.

She was beautiful. Achingly so.

Not in the way of a goddess gilded in vanity, cloaked in ageless divinity.

Her beauty was nothing so paltry. Instead, it was deep and pure, the way dawn is beautiful after the long bitterness of a winter night.

Flushed with warmth, uncertain in its brightness, and yet steady—wrapped in a quiet strength he’d come to recognize as hers alone.

The sight of her struck him with a force he hadn’t braced for, pulling something tight within him. For one unguarded heartbeat, he could scarcely breathe through it, forcing himself to swallow hard.

When he spoke, it was gruff. “You are very fond of children.”

Aglaia’s brows drew together. She blinked up at him, unsure. “Yes.”

“Tell me why.”

It came out sharper than he intended, less a request than a demand. But he needed to hear the answer, cared more deeply about it than he could admit even to himself.

Her gaze flicked away, then returned steadier, but soft. “They are pure, full of hope. They carry the seed of so much good.”

Her words struck bone. Cutting through old scars, burning through walls he’d long thought impenetrable.

Hephaestus dragged a hand across his jaw, the scrape of calloused fingers doing little to ease the turmoil churning beneath his skin.

Long ago, he had made a vow—not of innocence, but of bitter clarity.

He’d sworn never to sire a child into a world so steeped in cruelty and betrayal. The world that had shaped him.

Desire had not eluded him. He had known it well in mortal women bold enough to seek out a god, drawn by fire-warm skin and hard hands. In nymphs enticed by an Olympian who did not give chase or burn for worship.

Some sought novelty, others comfort. He’d answered, at times, sharing warmth and pleasure in the night when it asked for nothing but flesh and breath.

But never—not once—had he been tempted to cross that final, sacred threshold.

Creation.

Never had he allowed himself to shape life from that intimacy.

His vow had been ironclad for good reason. Nothing recommended begetting a child into turmoil, into needless tragedy. Into the world where a mother cast her son aside like refuse. Where marriage was leverage—his to Aphrodite a twisted arrangement, thrust upon him like shackles.

His own history had been reason enough to make that vow. And for millennia, it had held fast.

Until now. Until her.

Aglaia.

As different from Hera and Aphrodite as dawn from shadow.

She was gentleness unbroken. Light untarnished by power, undulled by bitterness. Strength in its quietest, most breathtaking form.

Now, standing close enough to feel her breath stir the air, he looked into her face. Into the softness there, though it was currently tightened by uneasiness. Even so, the way she looked at him cleaved through him, striking a place long hardened against hope.

It came then, a vision. Clear and consuming .

Aglaia, radiantly silhouetted in the firelight of their home, one hand resting lightly on the soft swell of her belly. A child.

Theirs.

Not born of obligation or mistake, but of her warmth and light. Of his strength. A child shaped not by Olympus, but by something older, simpler. The force rising in him like sunrise breaking the horizon, still unnamed.

He nearly staggered.

When he found his voice, it was hoarse, roughened by more than restraint. “Do you run from me?”

Aglaia’s gaze flickered, pain rising in her eyes like stormclouds. “No,” she whispered, but the word trembled.

“You were troubled before,” he said, his voice edged with concern he had no intention of hiding.

Her gaze fled him again. Her fingers twisted together in a silent knot of nerves. “No,” she said again, softer still.

“Then why did you leave me?”

The question was harsher than he meant. Frustration coiled hotly inside him, tangling with something colder, deeper. Fear.

Her gaze fell to the grass, as though answers might sprout there. “It seemed... right. To give you privacy.”

But he heard it. Felt it—the silent hurt pressing between them.

“Did it seem so?” His brow arched, echoing the faint bite in his voice. “You are my wife. And still, you felt like an intruder in her presence?”

Silence settled thickly as tension drew sharp along Aglaia’s shoulders. “I… I do not know,” she whispered, the words laced with quiet misery.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He let out a rough breath, then he reached for her. Rough fingertips touched her cheek. “Aglaia.”

His thumb traced the soft curve of her face. She was so close to him, and yet the distance between them felt vast. A frozen waste of silence.

“She came to ask for my aid on Troy’s behalf,” he said. “Nothing more. I denied her.”

She remained silent, eyes fixed on the ground.

Hephaestus sighed. “Aphrodite and I were never suited.” The truth, plainly put. His jaw flexed, muscles tightening against the weight of old wounds. Then he released the tension, letting it bleed out through his breath.

“Our marriage was a hollow thing, arranged by Hera for her earlier cruelty. Her heart was never mine,” he said, softer now. “And I never wished to possess it. ”

“She admires you.” The words tumbled from Aglaia in a whisper. “And she’s very beautiful.”

The truth of it landed hard, twisting deep in his gut. Bitter not for what it was, but for how it sounded falling from her lips.

“ You are very beautiful,” he countered sharply, daring her to refute him. His arms crossed over his chest, tension cording his muscles like tempered steel.

“Our marriage was unconsummated,” he said bluntly, the words crashing into the silence between them. “I never shared my bed with her. She has never had me in hers.”

Color rose in her cheeks, a deep, helpless bloom. But he ignored her embarrassment.

“Look at me.” The command was heavy.

But still, she didn’t move. The silence stretched too long. His mouth opened, preparing to demand, to argue, but then—he saw it.

The slight quiver of her lips. The way her fingers gripped her chiton so hard, her knuckles blanched. A flicker of raw vulnerability that doused his anger like a pitcher of cold water.

With a slow breath, he gentled. He leaned in, his head bowing toward hers in quiet pursuit. The space between them narrowed until his breath ghosted against her temple.

“Look at me, Aglaia.” His voice came softer now, deep and coaxing. “Would you hide your eyes from me,” he whispered against her brow, “as though I were a stranger to you?”

A breath shuddered from her. Then, slowly, she looked up. Tears clung to her lashes, glittering like fragments of starlight. Her eyes met his, dark and aching.

The sight was piercing. Sharp as a hot blade to the chest, it drove the air from his lungs. The ache inside him deepened, radiating outward like a fracture through stone. Threatening to crack him open from within.

He exhaled harshly, then moved. His arms closed around her, drawing her into the furnace of his body. She yielded without hesitation—instantly, entirely. Her shaking form melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, clutching at him with quiet desperation.

His throat burned.

“What is this?” he asked against her hair, the words ragged and fraying. His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. “Why are you crying?”

Her breath hitched. “I do not know,” she said, a broken whisper. But she pressed closer, as though she sought to vanish into the shelter of him, disappear into his warmth.

His grip tightened around her. One hand splayed wide across her back, the other cradling her head as she buried her face against his chest.

Fire rose to answer him.

Flames stirred, curling to life in a slow, encircling dance—neither fierce nor wild, but alive. A flickering veil drawn around them, creating a world made only of breath and heat.

And everything beyond melted away.