CHAPTER 200: ARES FALTERS

The sea was no longer quiet.

The drowned harbor had been reduced to bones—splintered piers, broken ships, half-sunken temples—but Poseidon stood at its heart, his bare feet planted in water that refused to ripple without his command.

The city’s ruins stank of brine and blood. Smoke curled where lanterns had tried and failed to hold back the dark. Yet he felt nothing but calm. The sea within him stretched endlessly, and for the first time since his awakening, he let it breathe.

Above the horizon, thunderheads were gathering. Not natural storms. These were divine banners.

"They send them already," Poseidon murmured, his voice heavy as rolling surf. His eyes glowed faintly, the ocean within them mirroring the vastness that had swallowed men whole.

Behind him, the Watcher of Tides knelt on the steps of the shattered bell tower. The old priest was drenched, his bones rattled by the flood, but still he whispered prayers—to whom, even he did not know.

"You... are him," the Watcher said hoarsely. "The drowned god. The sea unbound."

Poseidon turned his gaze upon him. "And what will you do with that truth? Kneel? Curse me? Run into the waves?"

The priest’s lips trembled. "I... I will keep ringing the bell. Even if it never sounds again."

A faint smile ghosted across Poseidon’s face. "Then you are braver than the gods above."

---

Olympus Trembles

Far above, on Olympus, the council gathered again.

Marble spires gleamed white in the sun, but the air was charged with unease. Even the hearth of Hestia flickered blue at its edges, tasting the salt that was not meant to rise this high.

Zeus stood at the center, his thunderous presence filling the chamber. "He dares," the Sky-Father roared. "Poseidon dares step upon the earth again, drowning cities as though mortals were shells on his shore!"

Athena’s gray eyes narrowed. "He has not yet declared war. He tests. He roots himself. That is more dangerous than open battle."

Ares slammed his spear against the marble floor, sparks dancing. "Then call it war now! Let me march! Let me bleed him before his tides swell further!"

"Bleed him?" Hera’s laugh was sharp as shattered glass. "How do you bleed an ocean, fool?"

The gods fell into bickering, some calling for action, others urging restraint. But at the edge of the chamber, silent as shadow, sat Nyx. The primordial night had no throne, no voice in Olympus’s decrees—but she was there, and when her darkness stirred, even Zeus hesitated.

Her eyes glimmered like twin stars swallowed by abyss. "You will not chain him," Nyx whispered. "Not now. Not yet."

Zeus growled. "And why should we not?"

"Because," Nyx said, her voice carrying across the hall like the hush before storm, "the tide you fear does not belong to him alone. Another sleeps beneath it. You remember the name. Thalorin."

The chamber fell silent.

Poseidon’s shadow stretched even here.

---

The Tide’s Claim

Back in the mortal realm, Poseidon stretched out his hand.

The waters obeyed instantly, swirling upward into a spiraling column that rose into the sky. Fish and shipwreck debris spun within it like trapped stars. He closed his fist, and the column shattered into rain, soaking the ruined harbor.

Mortals who had survived the flood knelt on rooftops, staring. Their whispers were hushed, but he heard every one of them:

"Poseidon."

"The sea god."

"The drowned one has returned."

Each word was a stone sinking into his depths. Worship, fear, awe—it did not matter. What mattered was that they remembered.

And remembering was the first chain broken.

"Good," he murmured, his voice carrying over the waves. "Remember me. The sea is not yours to tame. It never was."

The horizon crackled. A streak of fire fell from the sky—no meteor, but a spear of divine essence. It slammed into the sand not far from where Poseidon stood, hissing steam rising in plumes.

Ares had come.

---

Clash at the Shore

The god of war strode from the smoke, his bronze armor glowing like molten metal, his spear dripping with hunger.

"Brother," Ares snarled, though his voice carried no warmth of kinship. "The council decrees your end."

Poseidon tilted his head, watching the waves part obediently around his ankles. "You’ve never obeyed the council before, Ares. Why now?"

Ares spat into the surf. "Because drowning mortals is my work, not yours. And I’ll not see a pretender steal it."

Poseidon’s laughter rolled like thunder across the bay. "Then come, little war. Strike your waves against the sea."

Ares roared and charged, spear spinning with divine light. The ground split where he ran, each footfall sparking with bloodlust.

But before his weapon could pierce, the tide rose.

A wall of water surged upward, solid as steel, meeting the spear’s thrust with a crash that echoed across realms. Spray blinded mortals watching from the ruins, and the sea trembled under the force of gods clashing.

Poseidon raised his hand. The water coiled like serpents, lashing toward Ares. But Ares laughed, spinning his spear in brutal arcs, cutting through wave after wave. Each slash turned water to mist, each thrust ignited the air with sparks.

Still, for every serpent slain, three more rose. The ocean was endless.

Ares snarled. "You think to drown me? I was born in blood! My tide is war itself!"

Poseidon’s voice cut through the roar. "And what is war, if not the sea finding land to swallow?"

The ground beneath Ares cracked. Water erupted upward, dragging him into the surf. For a moment, the god of war vanished beneath waves. Mortals gasped, thinking their terror ended—

—but a roar tore through the water, and Ares exploded back into the air, drenched but laughing. His spear glowed red-hot, boiling the sea around him.

"Good!" Ares bellowed. "Make me fight for it, brother!"

---

Beneath the Surface

Far below their clash, deeper than mortal eyes could see, something stirred.

Thalorin.

The drowned hunger. The abyss without end.

Its whispers coiled through Poseidon’s veins, urging him to let go. To stop fighting as a god bound by form and simply become ocean itself. To dissolve flesh and bone into tide, to drown not cities, not harbors, but continents.

You are not enough, the voice whispered. But together, we are everything.

Poseidon’s teeth clenched. For a moment, his vision blurred, waves darkening into ink-black abyss. He forced the voice down, holding his shape.

Not yet.

---

The Mortal Witness

On the shore, the Watcher of Tides crawled higher, his frail body trembling as he beheld gods waging war. His lips moved in prayer, but it was no longer the old hymns.

He was speaking Poseidon’s name. Over and over.

Others began to follow. Survivors of the drowned city knelt, whispering in fear and awe, their voices joining. The name carried across the bay like a rising chant.

And Poseidon felt it.

The worship fed him. The sea swelled with it. His strike grew heavier, his waves faster. Each mortal voice became a drop in the tide, and the tide was endless.

---

Ares Falters

Ares’s laughter began to falter. His spear still blazed, but the water no longer parted so easily. For every cut he made, Poseidon’s tide closed faster, thicker, angrier.

"Impossible!" Ares growled, straining as water wrapped around his legs like iron chains. "The council decreed—"

Poseidon stepped forward, the surf rising with him. His voice was low, final.

"The council has no claim here. Olympus cannot chain the sea."

With a sweep of his hand, the ocean surged. Ares was hurled backward, smashing into the cliffs with a force that shook stone. His spear clattered against the rocks, dimming in its glow.

He rose, coughing saltwater, his armor dented. Rage still burned in his eyes, but he knew—he had been beaten.

For now.

Poseidon raised his hand again, but Ares spat blood into the tide. "Another time, brother. This is not finished."

And in a burst of crimson light, he vanished, retreating back to Olympus.

Silence fell.

The mortals on rooftops trembled, staring at the god who had bent their world. The Watcher wept openly, hands raised to the sea.

Poseidon stood tall, eyes glowing faintly, the ocean swirling calm once more at his feet. His voice rolled across the ruins, not just to the mortals but to the gods above:

"You cannot chain what is endless. You cannot silence what is eternal. I am the sea. And the tide will rise."

The storm clouds on the horizon darkened further. Olympus would not stop. They would send more. Stronger. Smarter.

But Poseidon no longer feared.

For the mortals remembered his name.

And memory was the first tide of worship.