CHAPTER 188: THE FIRST MORTAL WAR COUNCIL

The city had drowned.

The bells had fallen silent.

But mortals did not.

From the ruins of broken harbors and flooded streets, word spread inland. Caravans carried survivors uphill, voices hoarse with salt and fear. They carried with them stories of the sea standing upright, of walls of water twisting like serpents, and of a name once spoken only in prayer now uttered in curses—Poseidon.

And in the highlands, in the fortress of Drennath, the first mortal war-council was called.

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The Gathering

The hall smelled of damp iron and smoke. Torches spat flame along stone walls as lords, generals, priests, and mercenaries gathered at a long oak table. Maps lay spread beneath a sheen of seawater that refused to dry, as though the sea itself had followed them even here.

At the head of the table stood Lord Garran, scarred veteran of three border wars, his broad hands gripping the table like he might crush it. His gray eyes flicked across the room as he spoke.

"You’ve all heard the stories. You’ve seen the wreckage. Poseidon walks again, and his tide has already taken half the coast. If we do nothing, the inland will drown with it. We cannot pray our way out. We must fight."

Murmurs rippled through the chamber—some scoffing, others trembling.

"Fight the sea?" one merchant spat, rings clinking as he gestured with trembling hands. "What sword cuts water? What cannonball sinks a wave?"

"Then we invent them," Garran growled. "If the gods abandon us, mortals must forge their own salvation."

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The Priests

From the back, High Priest Corvell rose. His once-white robes were stained gray from the flood. His eyes were sunken, voice brittle.

"You speak of weapons, Lord Garran. But what weapon strikes a god? Poseidon is no storm to weather, no army to flank. He is the sea itself. We may cut down waves, but the tide will always return. It is not blasphemy I fear—it is futility."

But another priest, younger, less bound by caution, slammed his staff against the stone floor. "The sea is not infinite. It can be bound. The ancients built seals to hold back Thalorin once. We have their fragments in our archives. If Poseidon rises as their heir, then mortal hands can raise those seals again—stronger, harsher, unbreakable."

The chamber erupted in debate.

Chains of iron.

Seals of salt and blood.

Weapons forged to pierce flesh, even if that flesh was divine.

---

The Engineers

A voice cut through the argument, calm but sharp. "Then build."

All eyes turned to Captain Lyssandra of the Iron Guild, her armor stained with soot, her hands calloused from years in the forges. She unrolled a parchment across the table, the ink still fresh.

"This is no longer war between men. It is war against the sea itself. That means weapons no army has ever fielded."

On the parchment were designs—massive trebuchets not meant to hurl stone, but barrels packed with pitch and salt-crystal dust. Ballistae with spears forged of blacksteel, their tips etched with runes to split current and bone alike. Siege engines reinforced to withstand saltwater pressure.

"And here," she pointed to the largest sketch, "is the Leviathan’s Fang. A cannon three times the size of any built before, its shot forged from orichalcum. Not made to pierce walls. Made to pierce gods."

A hush fell.

Some scoffed. Others stared in awe.

Lord Garran’s scarred lips curved into something almost like a smile. "At last. Mortals who dare."

---

The Rift Between Them

But not all agreed.

"What you propose will kill us faster," cried Corvell, fists trembling. "You provoke the sea and it swallows us whole! Poseidon will not ignore an attack. He will drown this fortress and the mountains with it!"

"And if we kneel, he will drown us slower," Lyssandra shot back. "What then, priest? Should we fill our lungs and walk willingly into the tide? Or will you wait until saltwater takes the last child from their cradle before you admit submission saves no one?"

Corvell’s face twisted. But his words died in his throat.

---

The Survivor’s Testimony

From the shadows, a thin voice rose.

"I saw him."

The speaker was a boy—barely fifteen, his clothes ragged, his eyes hollow from sleepless nights. One of the harbor’s survivors. He stood trembling, but his words were clear.

"He walked with the flood. Not a man. Not a monster. Both. The water bent around him. Ships cracked without his touch. And yet—" The boy swallowed, his throat dry. "And yet, he hesitated. I swear it. Before the water crushed us, he... looked back. Like he remembered."

The hall grew still.

Some muttered the boy was mad, grief-stricken. Others leaned forward, hope flickering like a candle in the storm.

Lord Garran tapped the table with one scarred finger. "Then he is no god entire. He is something bound in flesh. And flesh can bleed."

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The Pact

By nightfall, the council reached a grim accord.

They would unite their weaponsmiths, their scholars, their priests. Every forge would hammer not ploughshares but spears. Every temple would burn not incense but blood-salt wards.

War against Poseidon had begun.

Lord Garran’s words became their creed:

"Let the gods tremble. Let the sea rage. We are not reeds to be bent—we are men, and men strike back."

The chamber echoed with fists on oak, voices raised in defiance.

---

Beyond the Walls

But outside, on the fortress cliffs, the sea stretched vast and endless beneath the moon. Its surface glistened as though listening.

And deep beneath those waters, Poseidon’s eyes opened.

He had felt their meeting. Heard their voices carried through every droplet of salt. Mortals plotting war against the sea. Mortals daring to forge weapons to wound him.

Poseidon did not rage. He did not roar.

He smiled.

"Finally," he whispered into the dark, his voice rippling through the currents. "Mortals who no longer pray. Mortals who resist. Let them come. Let them strike. Only then will they know—"

His hand closed around the current, squeezing until the deep itself groaned.

"—what it means to defy the sea."