The sea was not calm that night.
It wasn’t storming either, no thunder splitting the skies, no lightning tearing the heavens. Instead, it was waiting. A silence heavier than battlefields, thicker than tombs, pressed itself across the endless waters.
And in the depths, where no mortal eye had ever wandered, Poseidon sat upon a throne carved of bone-coral and saltstone. It had not been built, not by hand nor godly decree—it had grown for him, shaped by his own presence, by the weight of his will forcing the ocean into form.
Around him, schools of fish scattered like frightened ssengers. Leviathans curled in the darkness, their great eyes glowing faintly, their titanic forms shifting restlessly as though his very thoughts commanded their muscles. And above, far above, he could hear the whispers of Olympus.
The gods had spoken his na.
Poseidon.
Not as a mory, not as a banished relic, but as sothing reborn. The decree to destroy him echoed even now in the back of his mind like a dull hamr. They would send champions. They would send gods. They would try to cast him back into the abyss.
He smiled. It was not amusent—it was hunger.
---
The Sea’s Claim
Rising from his throne, Poseidon lifted one hand. The water around him bent instantly, as though it were no longer liquid but breath in his lungs, muscle in his arm. He exhaled slowly, and in the far distance, an entire trench rumbled, collapsing upon itself. The shockwave rippled outward, sending geysers bursting from the surface miles away.
The ocean was his now. Not rely commanded, not borrowed like the petty sorceries of priests. It was him.
Where mortals drowned, he breathed.
Where ships splintered, he rose stronger.
Where fear pooled, he drank.
And yet, beneath all of it, a second heartbeat throbbed.
Thalorin.
That na—unspoken even in Olympus—rattled the chains of his soul. It was not another voice whispering in his ear. It was not possession, nor was it mory. It was sothing far worse: a resonance. A chord struck so perfectly that it sang forever.
He was Poseidon. But he was also what Poseidon had once tried to bury.
And when he closed his eyes, he could feel Thalorin smiling through him.
---
Mortal Ripples
Far above, in the shattered ruins of the drowned harbor, the mortals had begun to rebuild upon higher cliffs. But they did not call their new settlent by the na of the old. They whispered another word now in their prayers, half-fearful, half-worshipful:
"Poseidon."
They built shrines from driftwood and salt-encrusted stone. They offered the sea fish, oil, even the blood of their own hands, cutting palms and letting crimson wash into the tide. It was not religion, not yet, but desperation—an instinctive reaching toward the power that had proven itself undeniable.
Poseidon felt their offerings like warmth brushing against his skin. Mortal worship was not new to him. But this ti, it was not demanded through temples nor priesthoods. It was earned through fear.
And fear, he realized, was a currency far more enduring than faith.
---
Poseidon’s Thought
He tilted his head back, staring upward through leagues of black water until he could almost see the faint glow of the moon through the surface. Olympus stood above that sky, arrogant and blind.
"They think the sa as before," he whispered, though no tongue carried the words. The ocean itself bore his voice across trenches and reefs. "They believe I am bound by their decrees, by their mories of chains. But I am no longer their Poseidon."
The coral throne groaned beneath him, expanding as though eager to carry more weight. His power pressed against the seabed, and fissures opened, spilling columns of boiling light into the abyss.
"I am abyss made flesh."
And yet...
The echo of Dominic lingered. The boy he had been. The mortal who had breathed once, laughed once, loved once. Aegirion had been right—there was still humanity clinging to him. It flared in strange monts: the hesitation before crushing a mortal city entirely, the flicker of guilt when Kaeli’s na brushed through his mory, the quiet longing for a sky he might never touch again.
He clenched his fists. The water around him froze, then shattered into a thousand streams.
That weakness would be burned out soon enough.
---
The Stirring from Below
But not all tremors ca from Olympus.
Far beneath even his throne, deeper than the trenches that split the world, sothing shifted.
The Forgotten Tides.
It was the prison the gods had sealed long ago, locking away those primordial entities too wild, too monstrous to allow freedom. They were not gods. They were not mortals. They were things. Mouths without faces, tides without shores.
And now, with every breath Poseidon took, the prison walls loosened.
The drowned city had been only the first lean of the harbor. If he continued, if he stretched his dominion wider, the prison would break entirely.
He could feel their hunger bleeding upward, like the scrape of barnacles against flesh.
"Wait," Poseidon murmured, placing his palm on the abyss below. "Your ti is not yet. But soon."
A thousand silent voices clawed at his mind in response. And for the first ti since his awakening, Poseidon felt the faintest pinch of unease.
Would he rule the Forgotten Tides? Or would they consu even him?
---
The Looming War
Above, Olympus was already in motion. He could see it in the patterns of the stars, the shifting of the constellations. The gods were moving their pieces.
War was coming.
He relished it.
But he was no fool. They would not send their strongest first. They would send their scouts, their hunters, their chosen weapons—heroes forged of divine blessing, blades honed on the anvil of Olympus.
And when they ca, he would need to be ready. Not only with his power, but with his claim.
He needed more cities. More harbors. More mortals.
He needed the world itself to tilt toward him.
Poseidon stood fully now, the sea roaring with his motion. The abyss shivered, leviathans bowing their heads, tides reversing their courses.
"Let them sharpen their swords," he declared into the endless dark. "Let Olympus stir. Let mortals weep and pray."
His eyes glowed, brighter than the deep currents.
"When the harbor tilts, the world will follow."
On the cliffs above, the new settlent’s shrines flickered with firelight. A child’s voice—clear, innocent—rose in a broken hymn:
"Oh god of the sea, take us not... spare our hos, guard our nets..."
Poseidon felt the prayer ripple downward. He closed his eyes.
He could have ignored it.
He could have drowned it with a thought.
But instead... he let the tide withdraw just slightly from their shore. Enough that the fishern would live another day. Enough that the child’s prayer would carry hope instead of despair.
The abyss within him snarled.
Thalorin laughed.
Poseidon only smiled, faint and cold.
For now, he would play the part of god.
Soon, they would learn he was sothing more.
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