CHAPTER 187: THE MORTAL STRAIN

The ocean was never meant to sleep.

Not truly.

And in Poseidon’s presence, it had begun to wake.

The mortal world—still reeling from the drowned city—lay in stunned silence. Fishermen who had once prayed to the fickle whims of the sea no longer dared whisper Poseidon’s name. They could feel him now, even in shallow rivers and still ponds. Every trickle carried his weight. Every wave echoed his intent.

But Poseidon was not watching them. Not yet.

Beneath leagues of abyssal water, where mortal lungs would collapse and light had long since given up, Poseidon sat on a throne of living coral and bone. The pressure of the deep pressed around him like a crown of iron. His aura rippled outward, filling trenches that had been dormant since creation. The water bent and swirled at his thought—currents reversing, predators fleeing, leviathans stirring from centuries of slumber.

It was not a kingdom anymore.

It was a claim.

And Poseidon’s mind was fixed on Olympus.

---

The Rising Fury

His fingers trailed along the arm of his throne. With every touch, the stone pulsed like a beating heart. He could feel the gods above—whispers of fire, wind, and light—all stirring uneasily. Olympus, that gilded seat of self-proclaimed order, had begun to tighten its grip in fear of him.

"They will come," Poseidon murmured, his voice carrying through leagues of water like thunder. "Cowards draped in crowns, blind to the truth that tides cannot be chained."

From the shadows of the trench, a shape stirred. Scales like obsidian plates, eyes like molten sapphire—one of the abyssal beasts who had slumbered since before Olympus was carved. It lowered its massive head to him, trembling not in fear, but recognition.

More followed. Serpents the size of citadels. Crustaceans armored in jagged shells. Even the great leviathans who mortals had only ever spoken of as myths curled around his throne, waiting.

Poseidon raised his hand, and they obeyed—not with hesitation, but with the instinct of creatures that knew the sea was whole again.

"You have hidden in the dark too long," he said, his voice low, but it carried to every corner of the trench. "The surface has forgotten you. The gods have denied you. Rise, my kin. Rise, and let the world remember the cost of drowning gods."

The abyssal host roared, their cries a symphony of crushing depths.

And for the first time since his awakening, Poseidon smiled.

---

Olympus — Whispers of Fear

Far above, the marble halls of Olympus rang with unease.

Zeus sat upon his throne, lightning arcing faintly between his fingers. His eyes were fixed on the swirling pool of prophecy before him. Within it, visions of the drowned city replayed again and again—streets swallowed, bells silenced, mortals clutching rooftops before being claimed by the tide.

"Poseidon is no longer a whisper," Athena said sharply, her golden helm gleaming beneath the torchlight. "He is action. He carves the world in his image."

"Then we cut him down," Ares growled, hand gripping the hilt of his spear. "God or vessel, it matters not. Olympus does not bow to drowned kings."

But Hera’s voice cut through them, cold and venomous. "You all speak as though he is still lesser. Have you not seen the waters? The tides do not wait for the moon anymore. They follow him. He is not mortal, nor is he merely the drowned tyrant we once buried. He is something new. Something dangerous."

Zeus slammed his hand on the throne, lightning cracking through the chamber. "Dangerous or not, he is mine to judge." His voice shook the pillars, but even he felt the hesitation gnawing in his chest.

For in the visions of the drowned bell, Zeus had seen something he would never admit aloud.

When Poseidon looked up from the waters, his eyes had not been Dominic’s. They had not been Thalorin’s.

They had been his own brother’s.

---

The Mortal Strain

Meanwhile, across the mortal coastlines, the first refugees began to scatter inland. Towns miles from the sea saw processions of soaked, half-drowned survivors staggering through their gates. They spoke of harbors tilted sideways, of waters that moved against nature, of a presence that pressed into their veins with every heartbeat.

"The sea breathes," one fisherman muttered to anyone who would listen. "It breathes, and we breathe with it now. He is inside us."

Priests of rival temples panicked, breaking idols, rewriting prayers. Some began to kneel, whispering Poseidon’s name in desperate offerings, while others cursed him, calling him the drowned tyrant returned.

But no matter the prayer, no matter the curse—every bucket of water, every droplet of rain seemed to ripple faintly, as though listening.

---

Poseidon’s Resolve

Back in the abyss, Poseidon closed his eyes. His mind stretched beyond the trenches, beyond the swells, beyond the broken city he had left in ruin. He reached further—further still—until he touched the thin veil between sea and sky.

And he felt Olympus.

Their fear.

Their plotting.

Their unity against him.

He could have struck now, risen with his army and drowned their mountain in a single gesture. But Poseidon was no longer the furious god he once had been. He was something else—tempered by Dominic’s mortal heart, sharpened by Thalorin’s abyssal hunger.

"I will not rush," he whispered. "The sea does not rush. It waits. It carves. It takes, and it never gives back."

The abyssal beasts shivered in agreement. The currents themselves swirled around his throne like chains of loyalty.

Poseidon leaned forward, resting both hands on the armrests of coral and bone. His eyes gleamed like endless oceans.

"They will come to me. And when they do..." His lips curved in a smile that chilled even the monsters of the deep. "...they will learn what it means to drown in silence."

---

The First Stirring of War

Far away, in the ruins of the drowned city, the waters shifted again. Not from Poseidon’s command, but from something older—something that had been trapped beneath those stones since the city was first raised.

A temple, half-submerged and forgotten, split apart as seawater poured into its sanctum. From its depths, a faint light flickered. An ancient relic—one of the Seven Anchors of Binding, forged to hold back the primordial seas.

The survivors who stumbled upon it screamed, for the relic pulsed like a beacon, sending its signal not to Poseidon, but to Olympus.

And in the high halls of the gods, the pool of prophecy flared. The Anchor had awakened.

Zeus stood, his voice thunderous. "The sea rises, and Olympus answers. Gather the host. The war begins now."

But Poseidon, deep in the abyss, already felt the Anchor’s light against his skin. He did not flinch. He did not rage.

He only laughed, the sound rolling like waves through every ocean trench.

"Let them come."

Above the waves, mortals gathered in panic. In Olympus, gods sharpened their weapons.

And in the fathomless dark, Poseidon sat with his abyssal army, patient as the tide. For he knew what neither mortals nor gods could yet comprehend:

You could fight the storm.

You could kill the vessel.

But you could never stop the sea.

The tide had turned. And it would never recede.