CHAPTER 189: THE FIRST MORTAL WAR COUNCIL 2

The sea was silent.

Not calm. Not still. Silent.

It was the silence that followed collapse, when walls broke, when lungs failed, when prayers turned to bubbles that could no longer rise. The drowned harbor lay beneath the black surface, broken towers and splintered ships stacked together in watery graves. Above them, the moon shone like a silver coin on Poseidon’s palm.

And Poseidon—no longer Dominic, no longer a vessel, but the tide given flesh—stood barefoot on the ruins of the seawall. His cloak of brine clung to him, dripping endlessly into the waves as if the ocean itself was sewing garments around him.

The mortals who had survived did not cheer. They did not pray. They watched him from rooftops and hillsides, wide-eyed, their breaths shallow, waiting to know whether he was savior or destroyer.

He did not speak to them. Not yet.

Instead, he listened.

Every mortal heartbeat was a drum. Every drop of seawater in their blood was an oath. The city’s survivors had already been claimed. Whether they accepted him or not, their bodies knew him now. They belonged to the tide.

And above, beyond stars and air, Olympus quivered.

---

The Pull of Olympus

Poseidon closed his eyes and stretched his senses. Where once Olympus had been unreachable—aloof, locked away in its ivory sky-fortress—it now pulsed like a wound he could smell through leagues of atmosphere. The gods stirred, restless, alarmed. Their gaze bent toward him like sunlight focused through glass.

"They watch," he murmured, voice rolling like surf. "They plot."

He felt their decree even without hearing it—the binding judgment of the pantheon. He had been marked. Hunted. Declared an infection to be cut out.

But Olympus was not the only power watching.

Beneath his own bones, deeper than mortal seas, deeper than time, a darker whisper stirred. Thalorin—the abyss without bottom, the drowned hunger—moved inside him, not as a parasite, but as marrow.

They fear you. As they feared me. Show them why.

Poseidon’s jaw tightened. He would. But not yet. Timing was the weapon of the tide. Waves destroyed not by force alone, but by rhythm—pull, retreat, return.

First, he would gather strength.

---

The Survivors

From the ruins of the upper docks, a group of mortals dared to approach. A boy no older than twelve staggered forward, clutching a piece of wood like a shield. Behind him, his mother tried to pull him back, but he shook her off.

His voice trembled but carried:

"Are you here to drown us... or save us?"

The question cut through the salt air, sharper than any blade. Mortals behind him froze, their gazes flicking between their ruined city and the figure on the seawall.

Poseidon lowered his eyes to the boy. The tide whispered answers—cruel, merciful, inevitable. He let the silence stretch until the child’s knees shook.

Then he spoke.

"I am the sea."

No promise. No threat. Just truth.

Some wept at those words. Some fell to their knees. Some turned and fled into the night. But all of them knew their fates had already been bound.

The sea gave. The sea took. The sea did not ask.

---

The Priests’ Defiance

From the shattered temple of the Seven Currents, robed priests staggered out, clutching broken relics. Their leader, a gray-bearded man with eyes red from salt, raised a coral staff and shouted over the water:

"Blasphemer! You wear Poseidon’s name, but you are no god of ours. You are corruption! A drowned shade!"

The priests gathered their breath, their hands glowing with pale green light as they invoked wards older than the harbor itself. Chains of woven water, imbued with faith, lashed outward, seeking to bind him.

Poseidon did not move.

The chains touched his skin... and dissolved into foam.

"Your faith is drawn from me," he said softly. "Your chants are stolen from my currents. You cannot bind the tide with shells and string."

With a single step, he lifted his hand. The water beneath the priests surged upward, grasping them like fingers. Their screams echoed briefly, then cut off as the sea pulled them under.

The ruins of the temple vanished into the surf.

---

Olympus Reacts

Far above, in the halls of Olympus, thunder cracked against marble ceilings.

Zeus, king of the sky, slammed his fist against the council table, lightning crackling from his knuckles. "He dares. He dares drown what is ours!"

Around him, gods murmured and raged. Hera’s lips pressed into a thin line. Athena’s eyes narrowed, calculating. Apollo’s fingers tightened on his lyre until strings snapped.

But it was Hades who finally spoke, voice slow and weighty as falling earth:

"He does not drown what is yours. He claims what always belonged to him. You fear not a thief, but a king returning to his throne."

Zeus turned, eyes blazing. "You would side with him?"

Hades gave a thin smile. "I side with inevitability. Do you not feel it? The seas lean toward him. Even your storms cannot turn the tide."

A murmur swept the chamber. Aegirion, young sea-god of tides, stood with fire in his gaze. "He is no king. He is a hybrid of Dominic’s soul and Thalorin’s hunger. If we do not strike now, Olympus itself will tilt."

"Then gather the host," Zeus thundered. "We march at dawn."

But as his voice carried across Olympus, the marble beneath them shuddered. A ripple of water ran across the floor, though no fountain had broken. The gods froze.

Poseidon’s influence was already here.

---

The Night of Drowning

Back in the mortal world, Poseidon turned from the survivors. He did not need their worship. He had their blood, their fear, their breath. They were his current, whether they accepted him or not.

The drowned city behind him still groaned—wood creaking, towers collapsing, bells silenced forever. He inhaled, and the sea inhaled with him. He exhaled, and the tide slid further inland, claiming fields, swallowing roads.

Every breath redrew the map.

He walked down from the seawall, each step spreading ripples across cobblestone and soil alike. His shadow was not cast by moonlight but by tides.

"Tomorrow," he murmured, "Olympus will tremble."

And as if in answer, thunder growled across the sky.

But no rain came.

Only silence.