Page 77 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

“I will see Agamemnon punished.” Apollo’s words rang harsh through the throne room of Olympus.

Twelve thrones were occupied, the air thick with weariness and resentment. Overhead, the sky was a flat, dull gray.

“Agamemnon crossed into the Underworld yesterday,” Hades remarked from his seat. “It seems his wife was struck with madness. She met him in the baths, blade in hand, as he returned to Mycenae.”

A ripple of silence spread across the hall.

Every eye slid toward Dionysus, who reclined in his throne with infuriating ease, idly twirling a grapevine around his finger.

“We agreed the Greeks would be punished, did we not?” Dionysus asked silkily. “Believe me, it took the gentlest whisper to nudge her toward his demise.”

“Yes, but now you’ve brought blood to her hands,” Artemis snapped. Irritation etched lines against her serene brow, a withering glare aimed at Dionysus.

“What good does it do now?” Ares growled, his fists curled against the arms of his throne. “We should have killed him before his war killed most of Greece.”

“Blame will help no one,” Athena interjected firmly, her steely gaze on Ares.

“Troy least of all,” Ares taunted, leaning forward menacingly.

“Enough.”

Zeus’s voice cracked through the hall, silencing the discord. The dais stilled as his wrathful gaze swept over them. “Agamemnon will face judgment in the Underworld. As for his wife—” He glanced toward Hades. “I trust she will not be responsible for Dionysus’s... influence? ”

“No,” Hades replied flatly.

A tense pause barely settled when Poseidon’s voice rumbled. “And Odysseus? What of his punishment?”

“I will not see him harmed,” Athena declared sharply. She stood swiftly, her white chiton rippling around her. “He cannot bear the blame for the brutality of an entire army.”

“No,” Poseidon agreed. His eyes gleamed like turbulent waters, betraying the rising storm.

“But it was my temple defiled by his men. My heraldry that he used to deceive the Trojans.” His voice deepened ominously.

“I supported the Greeks, but my patience has limits. Odysseus will be punished for his daring.”

Reluctantly, Athena eased back onto her throne, her fingers tight against the arms.

“We tread too far.”

Zeus’s voice shook the air as he rose. “Troy is no more, its ruin still smoldering. Agamemnon’s fate is sealed, Odysseus will pay his due. There, it ends .”

The words rang out of the hall, silencing all dissent. The gods stilled as his glare swept over them.

“The Greek fleet lies at the bottom of the sea. The mortals have endured plagues, war, famine. If they are to survive, our vengeance must end now.”

He offered Demeter a nod, a rare concession. “Their fields begin to yield again.”

Demeter’s flinty gaze met his. After a pause, she gave a stiff nod.

“But it will take generations,” he said gravely, “for them to rebuild what has been lost. To replenish their dead.”

For a breathless span, none spoke.

Aphrodite shifted in her seat, eyes downcast. “Eros and I attend to them,” she softly promised. The sensual note in her voice was gone, stripped to something uncharacteristically somber. “They will love again. Bear children to rebuild their cities and fill the homes left empty.”

A hush fell over the chamber, thick as Troy’s ash.

“And what of their faith in us?” Zeus’s voice was quieter now, more dangerous. “Can any of you restore that?”

None answered.

Then—the soft creak of metal.

All eyes turned as Hephaestus rose from his seat. His dark gaze steadily swept the dais, then settled on Zeus .

“Father,” he said. “I have no answer for their faith. But Aglaia may offer one with the birth of our child.”

A murmur rippled across the chamber. It broke the silence like dawn’s first light after a long, merciless night.

Zeus’s gaze flicked to Demeter in silent question.

Demeter’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “A girl,” she murmured. “A new goddess.”

Hephaestus’s head bowed, a hand touching his heart in solemn pride.

The air turned heavy with divine will as Zeus straightened. When he spoke, his voice resounded across Olympus: “She will be called Euthenia, goddess of prosperity. A gift of goodwill to mortals from Olympus.”

It was a decree. A destiny. A spark of renewal.

“She will stand as a beacon of new beginnings,” Zeus continued, “after the long ruin of war.”

Around the chamber, goblets shimmered into existence, brimming with golden nectar. They were raised in unison, voices rising in a swell that carried beyond Olympus’s halls, across the mountaintop, vibrant with hope.

“To Euthenia.”

The name rose in a divine vow, carried on the winds to the heavens beyond.

“Euthenia!”