CHAPTER 183: "AND YOU? DO YOU COME TO KNEEL, OR TO BETRAY?”

The sea was quiet.

Too quiet.

Not a wave rolled against the shore. Not a gull dared to cry. The silence was a weight pressing down upon the world, suffocating in its vastness. And beneath that silence was Poseidon.

He sat upon the jagged throne of basalt that had risen from the trench only nights ago. His crown of dark coral shimmered faintly in the abyssal light, his eyes glowed with an unearthly tide that pulled and released in rhythm with the heartbeat of the ocean itself. Around him, schools of fish swam in perfect spirals, drawn by a will not their own. Sea serpents, creatures that once devoured ships whole, now coiled lazily at his feet like docile hounds.

He had not spoken aloud in hours. Yet his presence spoke for him.

The ocean breathed with him.

Every mortal upon the coasts—fishermen, traders, peasants living in shacks—could feel it. Their dreams were filled with water. Their lungs ached with phantom salt. Their temples began to carve his name into altars again, though some tried to resist. For the sea was not asking. It was reminding.

You belong to me.

---

The Mortal Ripples

Far above, in the drowned city of Eltyra, survivors picked through ruins. The bell tower still leaned, half swallowed by brine, its bronze clapper torn free. Corpses lay where the tide had abandoned them, bloated and pale, staring at the sky with glassy eyes. Children whimpered in silence, too shocked to cry.

Yet among the survivors, a strange madness grew.

Some cursed Poseidon, screaming his name in rage as they shoveled salt-soaked earth over their dead. Others bowed to the flooded streets, kissing the stones as though salvation had been poured upon them.

"The god has returned," one whispered, his voice cracked from thirst.

"The drowned king reclaims what is his," another answered.

A new faith was taking root—not imposed by temples, not sanctioned by priests, but born of fear and awe. Poseidon had not demanded worship. He had only revealed himself. Mortals supplied the rest.

---

In the Deep

Poseidon’s fingers curled loosely around his trident. It no longer looked like the ceremonial staff of old myths. This was raw, living metal—veins of molten blue light pulsed through it like arteries, its three prongs dripping endless seawater though they never rusted.

He turned it slowly, listening.

The whispers were clearer now. The drowned voices of those lost in the tides whispered into his ears, not as screams but as offerings. They told him of cities. Of rulers. Of prayers muttered in secret. Their fear gave him sight. Their awe gave him dominion.

But beyond the mortal voices, he felt them.

Olympus.

Their eyes were heavy upon him, burning from the heights. Their judgment had already been spoken. They would come for him—if not today, then tomorrow. And when they did, it would not be with parley. It would be with blades, lightning, and chains.

Poseidon’s lips curled faintly. "Let them."

The ocean around him surged at the word, an endless pressure radiating outward until even the whales in the far northern reaches turned belly-up in submission.

---

The Stirring of Allies

Yet not all deities had declared themselves his enemies. In the caverns beneath the sea, shadows stirred. Nymera, the forgotten goddess of the drowned, rose from a trench lined with bones. Her body was half mist, half flesh, her hair drifting like a funeral veil.

"You have shaken Olympus," she said, her voice like currents whispering through shipwreck timbers. "But they will not fall easily."

Poseidon’s gaze met hers without surprise. "And you? Do you come to kneel, or to betray?"

Her laughter was hollow. "I come to survive. When they strike, I will not stand between you and them... but I will not stop the tide when it sweeps me forward. Remember that, sea-born."

He did not thank her. He needed no vows. He knew already that once his strength broke Olympus’s grip, the forgotten ones would gather. Gods cast aside, spirits bound to trenches, beings whispered of only in curses—they would crawl back into the world through the cracks he created.

It was inevitable.

---

Above Olympus

The gods of Olympus did not sleep. Their halls glowed with firelight, braziers burning at every corner, banners trembling though no wind blew. Zeus himself sat at the center, thunder crackling faintly along his skin.

"Poseidon has awoken fully," he said. No one dared to contradict.

Athena’s eyes were sharp, her bronze spear gleaming. "The mortals already rally behind him. Fear becomes faith. If left unchecked, he will return to the height of his reign before the Rift."

Artemis’s lips pressed thin. "And if he carries Thalorin within him, no army will suffice. We would face not merely the sea, but the abyss itself."

A murmur of dread rippled through the chamber.

Ares slammed a gauntleted fist against the marble. "Then we strike now! Burn his vessel before his roots spread!"

But Aegirion, who had been silent until now, rose. The younger god’s trident pulsed faintly, answering the call of the sea below. His jaw was tight. "You underestimate him. Poseidon is not what he was. He is more. I felt it. He is not merely flesh carrying divinity. He is the tide. Destroying his vessel will not end him—it will only unleash him."

The chamber grew tense.

"Then what do you propose?" Athena pressed.

Aegirion’s gaze hardened. "We prepare not to kill him. We prepare to contain him. A prison deeper than the Rift. A silence deeper than the sea."

But Zeus’s lightning flashed. "Containment is weakness. The gods do not bind what they can destroy."

The council roared into argument, each voice a storm in itself.

And far below, Poseidon felt every word.

---

Poseidon’s Resolve

He stood from his throne, his figure immense and fluid, his shadow stretching across leagues of dark water. His trident hummed, resonating with Olympus’s plotting.

"They debate like frightened children," he murmured. "As if their words could bind me."

He looked upward, toward the ceiling of the ocean, where the sky lay like a thin sheet of glass. Beyond it, Olympus glittered faintly.

Poseidon raised his hand, and for a moment the water itself froze. Every current halted. Every ripple paused. The ocean stilled, awaiting command.

With a flick of his wrist, he released it again—sending a pulse outward. A silent command.

And across the mortal coasts, harbors tilted. Wells flooded with brine. Rivers reversed their flow. Fishermen awoke from sleep to find their nets full of fish already dead, sacrificed by the tide.

The sea was no longer simply rising. It was answering.

---

The Coming Storm

In the drowned ruins of Eltyra, the Watcher of Tides awoke from a dream screaming. In his vision, the sea had spoken a single word, carved into his bones:

Rise.

And so he gathered the survivors, whispering the new prayer.

Not to the Seven Currents. Not to any pantheon.

But to Poseidon.

One prayer became a dozen. A dozen became hundreds. And with every whispered plea, Poseidon felt his strength deepen. Faith was power, and mortals were giving it willingly now. Not through temples. Not through priests. Through fear. Through awe. Through surrender.

The silence before the maelstrom was ending.

Poseidon opened his eyes. Blue fire lit the trench, blazing in arcs that bent the water itself.

"It begins."