Page 76 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

The throne room of the Underworld emerged around them.

Before the shadows fully cleared, Persephone’s silver crown settled on her head.

Hades stood beside her, sovereign and still, golden laurel glinting darkly against his hair. His fingers slipped from hers as he turned to the dais where his solitary throne stood in silent dominion.

The air trembled, buckling under the weight of his power.

The marble floor groaned, a sound like the heavens splitting apart. Then, the dais cracked open, a jagged fissure riven across its surface.

From the depths, liquid silver surged upward, bright and alive, like a river of stars rising from the dark—just as it had when he crafted her crown.

The metal danced through the air, shaping itself with fluid elegance, bending to Hades’s will. Delicate patterns bloomed intricately over the surface, like constellations forming in a night sky.

From the whorls of silver, a seat emerged. A second throne, a striking counterpart to the stern onyx seat beside it. Austere majesty tempered by bright beauty—judgment and mercy, power and grace.

Hades turned to her then, offering his hand. “My queen.”

Her breath tightened, but she crossed to him, step by step. His fingers closed around hers, and together, they ascended the dais.

He guided her steadily to the silver throne. The metal was warm beneath her fingertips as she sank into it.

Then, Hades paused. With a solemn grace that shook her to her core, he went to one knee before her. He gazed into her eyes, face to face, soul to soul, then lifted her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

“My queen,” he said again, softly .

Persephone’s heart leapt in her chest, and she knew the warmth in her chest was shining in her eyes as she looked at him—her husband.

When he stood, he rose with the weight of ages. Power unfurled from him across the hall, ancient and endless, as he took the onyx seat beside her.

From the softly shifting shadows, the judges emerged: Minos, Rhadamanthys, and Aeacus. They gazed somberly at the dais, then bowed low—not just to the master of the Underworld, but to the queen at his side.

Taking their places, they waited.

“Minos.”

Minos rose, unrolling a gilt scroll. “Leandros of Sparta and Timais of Mycenae,” he announced.

Two figures appeared before the dais.

They were mortal men, gaunt and hollow-eyed, still wearing the remnants of their last battle. Leather armor hung loose against their wasted frames, streaked with blood and grime.Their gazes darted wildly over the hall. But when their eyes found the thrones, terror rose swift and sharp.

Persephone leaned toward Hades, her voice pitched for him alone. “Who are they?”

Without looking away from the men, Hades reached past the arm of his throne, his fingers brushing hers. “Look closely, you know them.”

Persephone’s gaze swept across the gaunt faces before her, searching. For a moment, they were strangers. Until—

An echo curled through her mind. A woman’s distant scream, raw and tortured.

No! Spare my son, I beg you!

A mother’s anguished cries, followed by an infant’s sharp wail.

Instantly, she knew.

Her head turned sharply. Hades was already watching her, and he gave a slight nod. Silent confirmation of the truth laid bare.

“Justice must find refuge in death, Persephone.” His voice was quiet, but it held solemn weight. “That is our role. Our burden.”

Our.

The word resonated through her, deep and irrevocable—a tether binding them. Stronger than a crown, than a throne or title.

A second realization struck, sharper still.

Judgment.

He was asking her to pass judgment on these men. The men who had ripped Hector’s child away from his mother, mercilessly hurling him from Troy’s ramparts.

The killers of Astyanax.

The vast hall seemed to close in around her, the air suddenly cloying. Her hand in her lap trembled, fingers curling into a slow fist.

The mortals stood frozen at the foot of the dais. Their eyes clung to Hades, blind to her still.

Until she spoke.

“Minos.”

Her voice cut cleanly through the heavy stillness.

The men flinched, their eyes darting to her at last—staring, startled, as if only just noticing her.

Minos inclined his head to her respectfully, then raised the scroll once more.

“Leandros of Sparta and Timais of Mycenae. Soldiers of the Greek forces in Troy. Their ships were lost in a storm three days ago. They drowned,” he finished.

The taller man, Leandros, clutched his chest. “Gentle Kore,” he pleaded, voice cracking. “I was a mere soldier! I was given orders and had no choice—”

Kore.

The name, its unfamiliarity, was as stark as a slap.

Beside her, Hades’s jaw tightened. His fingers curved around the arms of his throne, though he remained silent.

However, Rhadamanthys glared sharply at the mortal. “You would dare to address the queen of the Underworld as—”

“Rhadamanthys, peace,” Persephone called softly.

The silver embroidery on her chiton glinted in the torchlight as she rose. Every eye in the hall watched her as she stepped forward, gazing at the men.

“I am not Kore. You stand before Persephone, wife of Hades.” A beat passed. “Queen of the Underworld.”

For the first time, the mortals faltered under her gaze, recognizing too late the terrible gravity of the moment.

“And I do not believe you,” she finished.

Blood drained from the mortals’ faces, leaving them bone-white. Behind them, the dark waters of the Stygian fountain whispered, rippling ceaselessly.

“But I desire to be fair.” She lifted a hand, gesturing toward the fountain. “If your claim is true, then drink. ”

The men stiffened, eyes flicking to the fountain. Sweat beaded across their brows, summoned by a truth that could not be escaped.

“Please, my lady—” the second man croaked.

Her eyes slid to him.

“Drink.”

The word fell cold, final as judgment.

Leandros stumbled to the fountain. With trembling hands, he caught the water and brought it to his lips. His throat bobbed.

But as he raised his head, the terror that had glazed his features was already sliding away. A bitter sneer twisted across his lips, hatred stark in his features.

“Speak,” Persephone commanded quietly.

His voice was venomous. “The Trojans slaughtered us while we lay dying on that cursed beach under the sun lord’s plagues.” He spat the words furiously. “When we finally took Troy, we found Hector’s bitch, his whelp clutched in her arms.”

His eyes glinted, bright with malice. “After what we endured, it was my right to fling that little bastard from the highest rampart—”

“Silence.”

Persephone’s voice lashed through the hall, and even the air recoiled.

Fury rolled off her in waves, burning cold through her veins. Chilling clarity settled in her like frost creeping over glass.

Beside her, Hades did not move. From his throne, he watched, steady as stone, offering no command, no interference. And she knew he would not.

Justice must find refuge in death.

Once, Kore might have faltered. The goddess of spring might have pitied these men for their roles in the war. Might have been swayed by excuses, the na?ve hope of redemption.

But Persephone—she had seen the black depths of their hearts.

The darkness in their souls, a darkness that rivalled only the beautiful eyes of Astyanax, the infant whose tiny hand had reached for her as she knelt beside him on the riverbank. Astyanax, who had been carried gently to the Underworld by Thanatos after being cruelly murdered.

By these men. The very same who now begged her for the mercy they’d never given a child.

The warmth she had felt for Astyanax hardened into something colder, reforged into iron.

She stepped to the edge of the dais. “Leandros of Sparta and Timais of Mycenae, for the murder of Astyanax of Troy, you now stand in judgment. As you showed no mercy to the child you killed,” she continued, “you will find none here.”

The men’s eyes widened in horror.

“I condemn you to Tartarus for eternity.” The words were stone, cold and final. “Under the guard of Alecto, you will hear the screams of the child you murdered. His cries will be an eternal echo in your ears. His terror is now yours.”

She paused, then straightened.

“Alecto.”

At once, black flames erupted in a roar. From the heart of the inferno, Alecto emerged. Her leathery wings unfurled in a violent snap as she made a deep bow to Persephone. Then she rose, those black wings slicing upward as the Fury sought her prey.

Raw screams ripped from the mortals’ throats, echoing wildly. In wild panic, they scrambled, feet shoving against the marble floor. But there was no escape.

With ruthless precision, Alecto struck. Flames coiled through the air, lashing Leandros in searing chains. Timais was seized by her talons, his body wrenched from the ground as he shrieked in vain.

Their anguished cries ricocheted off the walls, bounding against the marble. The Fury swept them away into black flames, disappearing into the waiting torment of Tartarus.

Then—silence.

The righteous fire that had burned through her faded, cooling to embers. In its place, a strange, settling calm rooted deep. The wrong to Astyanax was made right. Eternally. The storm of wrath passed, leaving only the quiet waters of justice in its wake.

When she turned, the judges were gone. Only Hades remained in the hall.

He rose from his throne, watching her in contemplation. And under the weight of his gaze, she felt utterly, achingly known. There was no pity in him, no attempt to lift the burden from her shoulders. Only unshakable understanding carved into his stance, lingering in his eyes.

“You were just, my queen.” No hollow reassurance, only truth .

Persephone lowered her gaze, her hands clasped before her. Hands that had woven garlands, coaxed life from the earth—now rendered justice. Now rewarded... and condemned.

Her fingers curled slightly, as if the weight lingered against her skin. “Will it always feel this way?” she asked softly.

Hades’s presence enveloped her like a shield, his shadow stretching over her. His thumb grazed the edge of her jaw, a simple, soothing touch.

“Judgment is a burden,” he said. “It should never be easy.” Then softer, the words brushed with quiet intimacy— “But you do not carry it alone.”

She exhaled softly. Her hand found his, their fingers interlacing, holding fast.

He drew her gently away. Away from the thrones, from the heavy echoes of verdict and flames. Out toward the ancient garden where the kingdom rose in endless, wild wonder, crowned by a brilliant sky of stone and gems.

But at the threshold of the throne room, Persephone paused, glancing back.

The silver throne glittered beside the onyx seat. Her place. Her purpose. The role the Fates had woven for her long before she had known to seek it.

A stillness wrapped around her, not heavy, but sure—an embrace shaped from twilight and memory, welcoming her home.

Then she turned away and the shadows of the Underworld rose to greet her, folding around her like a hymn sung only for her.

Ahead, Hades waited.

Together, they walked into the deep, enduring realm that would always be theirs.