Page 67 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

Persephone watched the sun bleed into the horizon, an ember dragged behind a chariot of gold.

He would return soon.

At the heart of Mount Olympus, all was still. Above her, the gleaming twin of the Underworld’s temple rose in white marble and gold, perched atop the summit.

In the east, the moon was rising, silver chasing gold. The sun’s final rays lingered on the mountain’s lower slopes. Wind whispered, carrying salt from the sea spray.

Then the sun slipped over the world’s edge.

In its wake, Apollo returned. His arrival burned across the heavens—a streak of fire against black velvet as his chariot cut through the night.

Persephone followed its burning arc.

A winding trail curled along the mountainside to the stables, a humble structure of smooth-hewn stone and warm cedar, tucked beneath shadowed alders.

As she approached, her gaze caught the gleam of the chariot—burnished gold, glinting like a fallen star.

Clad in golden armor, the driver stood at the helm like the sun reborn. Four crimson horses pawed restlessly at the stone, hooves striking sparks that danced along the ground.Where Hades’s black steeds devoured light, Apollo’s mounts scattered it, wild and dazzling.

A golden lash cracked the air sharply.

As the chariot rolled forward, Persephone followed, her steps light across the grass.

She had nearly reached the stable door when one of the horses reared violently, its fiery eyes locked onto her. The horse’s scream raked the night air, flames curling from its nostrils like breath from a furnace.

“They are not overfond of strangers,” Apollo called over his shoulder without turning.

She paused beneath the stone columns of the arched entryway. There, she waited, watching.

Methodically, he unfastened the reins and led each beast to a stall.

His movements were fluid, an ancient rite of return.

Ambrosia spilled into the troughs, followed by a generous splash of violently red whiskey.

The scent of it rose like heat, mingling with the steam rising off the horses’ sweat-slicked coats.

Once finished, Apollo turned. Golden eyes met hers—brilliant, unyielding. Utterly devoid of warmth.

“Kore.” The curve of his lips was too tight to be a smile. “Or is it Persephone yet again?” he asked, his head tilting. “I’ve quite lost track.”

The insult landed cleanly. She ignored it, holding his gaze. “Apollo.”

The silence grew taut. Behind him, the horses snorted and stamped, loud in the stillness.

He ran a hand carelessly through his golden hair. “You’ve come far to see me.” Amusement laced his voice, a smirk deepening at the corner of his mouth. “I am honored. It’s not every day that one climbs up from the Underworld.”

A flicker of surprise rippled through her.

He glanced at her, marking it. “I see all from the sky,” he added, almost lazily.

“Then you know where I came from,” she replied, the words edged in frost. “And the position I hold there.”

“And yet…” His brow arched, torchlight catching brightly in his gaze. “I saw you only days ago, trailing your mother’s skirts. Hands in the earth, growing myrtle.”

He let the silence settle, eyeing her. “Which is it, I wonder?” he mused condescendingly. “Daughter of a powerful goddess, or consort of a powerful god?”

That, she felt. Heat surged beneath her skin, anger rising swiftly. But she held it tightly, kept her spine straight.

“I didn’t come from the Underworld to argue titles.” Her words fell clean, cutting. “I came to speak of the Greeks.”

All trace of amusement vanished from him. The golden warmth drained from Apollo, revealing a blistering inferno beneath .

“You waste your breath,” he said, his face hardening. “I will not be swayed to mercy, not even by Hades. Their fate is sealed.”

“I do not seek mercy, only to limit the senseless slaughter,” she replied tersely.

Apollo’s jaw tensed, his fingers flexing at his sides. Firelight caught the shift in his frame, wrath barely restrained.

“My retribution is not senseless,” he growled. “They’ve earned my wrath with each arrow loosed, each sword swung.”

She almost scoffed at his arrogance. Once, she’d thought of Apollo as noble. Beautiful. A god of light and reason. Now, there was only fire and pride.

“Their war is consuming everything,” she said, her voice turning cold, razor-edged. “The banks of the Styx are thick with the dead. Not just warriors—women, children, the old. Trojans and Greeks alike. The war devours them all.”

For a breath, regret flickered across Apollo’s face. A crack in the golden armor. But it vanished just as quickly.

“Mortals are born to die,” he said woodenly. “But the Greeks began this slaughter, and I will repay it with my own. To the last soul.”

Prideful ass.

“What of Troy’s people?” Persephone demanded, stepping forward. “Do you care if they survive, or do you only love the city out of flattery to yourself?”

Silence.

Then Apollo’s eyes flashed, heat coiling around him—wild and crackling, ready to ignite.

“Careful, goddess of spring,” came the warning, low and tight.

But she didn’t retreat. “There is still time to spare the living,” she said firmly. “A way remains.”

He hesitated, then gave a slow shrug. “The Fates have condemned Troy. It cannot be saved.”

“The city, yes. But not its people,” she countered. “Foretellings can be unclear—”

A derisive snort cut across her words.

“—but some may yet be spared,” she continued, voice rising. “The Greeks rally to Achilles. Without him to lead, Agamemnon’s army will collapse in disorder and ruin. It happened once when—”

“I care nothing for allegiances,” Apollo snapped. “I care for vengeance. The Greeks will witness my wrath and despair!”

Light erupted from him, a searing burst that scorched the air. Fury, blinding and unreasoning. Born of his own stubbornness and pride.

Persephone’s patience shattered, her temper rising to meet his.

“If Achilles falls, the Greeks will be scattered,” she lashed out. “Troy’s people may yet survive.”

But Apollo was already turning away. Over his shoulder, he tossed the words carelessly—

“Back to your mother, girl.”

Dismissal. Contempt. As if she were an errant child.

He kept walking. “War holds nothing for the goddess of—”

The darkness came without her calling.

Unbidden, it rose in a whisper that roared like a storm, spilling from the deepest well of her being. Like breath held too long. The flame-born horses fell still in their stalls, hooves quieting against stone.

Apollo halted mid-step. Then, slowly, he turned.

Shadows curled at her feet. They shimmered, uncoiling like silk against her skin. Along the walls, the torches guttered, flames shrinking back as darkness rippled around her.

Not violent. Nor menacing. It was deep, intimate and familiar. A presence that knew her utterly, that moved like memory—brushing against her ankles, stroking her fingertips, pressing featherlight kisses to her cheeks.

A purr hummed in the air, tender and coaxing, almost sweet. But beneath it—power.

Against the inky dark, Apollo’s radiance sputtered like a candle. He blinked once, the look of one who had reached for a flower but found an asp coiled in its place.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, thin-edged. “Your husband’s power suits you.”

But it wasn’t.

Hades’s power was immense and ancient, forged in the first darkness and borne with ease by the broad shoulders it cloaked. Pure and dark as a mantle of onyx, it was vast enough to crush mountains, to chain Titans.

This was different, softer. Wilder somehow.

“Not his,” Persephone said, soft but sure. “Mine.”

The earth rumbled its assent beneath her, a rolling growl of stone and soil. And in it, she felt him—Hades .

Cool silver touched her brow, the weight of her crown settling there. Called forth, not by her command. By his.

For a moment, she was breathless.

He was the iron at her back. The stronghold of patience and formidable strength that had stood beside her, waiting—waiting until she rose into her own. Fierce warmth surged in her chest, steadying her like his hand pressed between her shoulder blades.

Apollo said nothing. His gaze flicked from the circlet on her brow to the goddess who wore it, and she met his eyes.

“I am Persephone.” The words were cut from stone. “For the sake of my kingdom, I seek to help the mortals. All of them.” Her eyes narrowed, cold, clear anger rising in her. “And you are standing in my way, lord .”

The final word was a soft snarl.

For all his blinding radiance, the sun god flinched.

Silence followed, long and weighty. Only the crackle of fire and the restless stir of horses filled the space between them.

Finally, Apollo cleared his throat. “Even if I wished to aid you, Achilles cannot be killed. He’s proven that much.”

“How fortunate for you, then, that I know the source of his immortality.”

The words hung between them, gleaming and dangerous. A blade drawn, waiting.

Apollo stiffened. “Do you speak the truth?”

“I swear it on the River Styx.”

He waited, the air between them taut, expectant. A moment ticked by.

“What will you do?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“I will kill him.”

Though she had expected it— sought it —the finality in his words was stark. She suppressed a wince, pulling a slow breath through her nose.

Apollo, as if seeing her inner turmoil, only shrugged. “If what you say is true,” he said coolly, “his death will spare others. How many has he already sent to the river?”

Countless.

The answer clanged through her mind.

Speaking the secret felt no different than pressing the blade to Achilles’s throat herself. But she had walked the crowded shores of the Styx. She had seen them, warriors, widows, the old and the innocent. At the memory, her resolve sharpened to iron.

“His mother dipped him into the River Styx as an infant.”

Of all the answers Apollo might have expected, it wasn’t that. His brow arched, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face. “What say you?”