CHAPTER 157: BY DECREE OF WHOM?”

The ruins of the drowned harbor still smoked with salt and silence.

The night was heavy, though no storm clouds marked the skies. The sea itself had become the storm, and at its center stood Poseidon.

No longer a whisper in Dominic’s veins. No longer a boy struggling against a god’s hunger.

He was the sea given form. And the sea did not ask permission.

The tide licked the ruined city like a beast claiming its kill. Fishermen’s huts floated in pieces. The bell tower lay broken in half, its bronze heart muted beneath brine. Where once streets bustled with life, only gulls circled, shrieking at corpses bobbing on the water.

Poseidon walked barefoot across the tide as though it were marble. With every step, ripples curved outward—small gestures of dominion that pulled the eyes of survivors watching from rooftops.

They didn’t cheer.

They didn’t weep.

They stared, frozen, between terror and worship.

One woman dared to kneel, clutching her child to her chest. "Lord of the Deep," she whispered, her voice carrying strangely across the water. "Spare us."

Poseidon’s gaze drifted to her. His eyes glowed the dark blue of trenches untouched by sun, layered with sorrow and inevitability.

"You fear me," he said, voice not thunderous but tidal—low, constant, endless. "And yet... you call me lord."

The woman lowered her forehead into the water at her knees. "Who else can stand against what has come?"

Poseidon paused. The words struck deeper than they should have. Not because they were false, but because they were true. The gods of Olympus plotted above. The Azure Council whispered decrees. But here, in the mortal realm, only one power had made itself undeniable.

Him.

And for the first time, Poseidon felt the pulse of something dangerous—recognition.

---

The Whispers of the Sea

Far below, the drowned bones of the harbor creaked. Currents slid through cracks in stone. Barnacles shifted against wood. But beneath it all, deeper still, came the whispers.

They kneel. They remember. They will not stop you.

Poseidon closed his eyes. The voice was not his own. Not entirely. It was the abyss, the fragment of Thalorin that still coiled in the corners of his being, speaking through the folds of water.

"You mistake worship for survival," Poseidon murmured.

Survival becomes worship, when repeated enough, the whisper replied, laughter like bubbles in black trenches. Do not deny it. You feel it too.

Poseidon exhaled. The tide swelled with him, flooding higher against the ruins. Yes—he felt it. And that was the danger.

He had set out to tilt the harbor, to claim foundation. But foundations, once taken, spread roots. Already, the city’s survivors were bending. Already, mortals weighed their fear against their need.

And gods feared nothing more than mortals who found a new god to kneel to.

---

The Envoys of Olympus

The stillness broke with light.

Above the horizon, three burning streaks carved the night, descending like comets. Survivors gasped. Children cried. Poseidon turned his head slowly, already knowing what approached.

The Olympian envoys.

The first struck the shoreline in a burst of sparks—Athena’s owl-winged guard, silver-armored, carrying spears that glowed with runes.

The second landed with thunder—Ares’s chosen, clad in bronze red as blood, sword steaming from divine heat.

The third descended last, quiet but more dangerous than the others. A woman wrapped in pale blue flame, her eyes blank and seeing everything at once. Hera’s messenger.

They stood knee-deep in the tide, water steaming where their divine auras met Poseidon’s will.

One spoke—the warrior of Ares. "By decree of Olympus, you will cease."

Poseidon tilted his head. "By decree of whom?"

"By Zeus’s throne," Athena’s envoy barked. "The drowned god shall not walk the earth again."

The water at Poseidon’s feet trembled with his laughter. "And yet... here I walk."

---

Clash at the Shore

The envoys moved as one, faster than mortal sight. Spears thrust. Blades cut. Divine light scorched the sea.

But the sea is not so easily slain.

Poseidon raised one hand. The tide obeyed. A wall of water surged upward, catching blades mid-swing. For every cut, water flowed back together. For every thrust, currents bent the strikes away.

Athena’s guard cried out as their spears were torn from their hands, swallowed into a whirlpool that spun upward like a serpent. Ares’s chosen roared, charging with brute force, only to be dragged waist-deep into sand liquefied by Poseidon’s will. Hera’s messenger whispered a word of binding, threads of light curling around Poseidon’s wrists—

—but he broke them with a flex of tide, the bindings dissolving like foam on rocks.

"Return to Olympus," Poseidon said coldly. "Tell your masters their decree carries no weight in my sea."

The envoys hesitated. To yield was shame. To fight was death.

Hera’s messenger’s eyes narrowed. "This is not finished."

She snapped her fingers. Light exploded, dragging the three upward in retreat, streaking back toward the heavens.

Poseidon watched them go. He did not pursue. He did not need to.

They had seen enough. They would carry tales of what he had become.

And Olympus would tremble.

---

The Mortal Response

When the light faded, the survivors on the rooftops looked to Poseidon again.

Now, they were not just afraid.

Now, they were certain.

He had faced the gods’ will... and remained.

Whispers spread, rippling like waves. "He is the sea." "He is stronger than Olympus." "He cannot be stopped."

Poseidon closed his eyes. He could almost feel the mortal belief gathering, congealing into something heavier than prayer. It wasn’t worship born of temples or hymns. It was survival turned to reverence.

And it was power.

Thalorin’s whisper purred inside him. Yes. Let it flow. Let them fill you. The more they kneel, the deeper you become.

Poseidon clenched his jaw. "I am not your abyss."

But the tide beneath him rolled in agreement with the voice, not with his denial.

---

Olympus Stirs

Far above, in halls of cloud and marble, Zeus himself stood at the edge of the council chamber, lightning coiling down his arms.

"So... he dares to rise," Zeus said, voice like rolling thunder.

Around him, gods muttered—Athena sharpening her spear, Ares grinning bloodthirsty, Hera’s lips a tight line.

Only one sat silent: Hades, watching from his throne of obsidian, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Perhaps the world needs drowning," Hades murmured.

Zeus’s glare turned to him. "You would see our reign undone?"

"I would see balance restored," Hades replied. "And Poseidon may be the tide that restores it."

Zeus raised his hand. Thunder cracked. "Then let the war begin."

---

Poseidon’s Resolve

Back in the ruins, Poseidon stood at the edge of the drowned harbor, waves breaking gently against his legs. The survivors watched, waiting, afraid to breathe too loudly.

He turned, surveying the broken city one last time. Then, in a voice that carried across the waters, he spoke:

"Rise, if you will. Kneel, if you must. But know this: The sea does not ask permission. It takes. And what it takes... it keeps."

The tide surged forward, sweeping through the ruins with a final roar, claiming the city fully.

And with that, Poseidon vanished into the depths.

Not retreating.

Not fleeing.

But preparing.

For Olympus had declared war.

And the sea never forgets.