CHAPTER 209: THE AGE OF POSEIDON.

The ocean floor was silent.

Not the silence of absence, but the silence of pressure—an endless, suffocating weight that pressed from all directions. Here, in the deepest trench, light had never dared to crawl. The waters were black, ancient, and full of things that even gods did not name.

And Poseidon stood at its heart.

He had once been a boy. Mortal skin, mortal heart, mortal fears. But those memories were fading faster now, as though they were shells slipping from his grip. The storm of divinity grew louder every day, and with it came the whispers—the voices of the drowned, the calls of the abyss, the promise of power that had once torn pantheons apart.

The drowned city above was only the first offering.

Now, the sea itself trembled with his breath.

---

The Whisper Beneath

Poseidon closed his eyes, the currents parting around him. He could feel them—threads of water like veins stretching across the world. Rivers that fed mountains. Lakes that nourished valleys. Oceans that cradled continents.

All of it was his.

But beneath that awareness lurked something older. A deeper current, running under the seas.

It spoke without words, filling his mind with a rhythm that was not quite thought, not quite voice.

"You lean too lightly... Press harder. Let them drown."

Thalorin’s hunger.

The ancient drowned king had not vanished. He lay coiled in the abyss of Poseidon’s veins, waiting, urging. He was no longer separate—no parasite, no prisoned echo. He was fused, but still distinct, a shadow that breathed in tandem with Poseidon’s lungs.

Poseidon opened his eyes. The abyss glowed faintly around him as if stirred by his awareness. He clenched his fist.

"No. I will not rush."

The water quaked. For a moment, even the abyss seemed startled.

"I am not your hunger. I am not your ruin. I am not Dominic, nor entirely you. I am Poseidon."

The words cracked like tectonic plates, sending shockwaves through the trench. The things lurking in the dark fled into holes, tails trailing like shadows.

But the whisper only laughed.

"Claim the name if you wish. It changes nothing. The sea devours. That is its nature."

Poseidon turned his gaze upward. Even here, leagues below the surface, he could feel Olympus. The gods gathering, whispering his name like a curse. Preparing their blades.

They would come for him.

And when they did, the world would drown.

---

The Mortal Echo

Above the waves, mortals reeled in the aftermath of the drowned city. The survivors huddled on cliffsides, whispering his name like a prayer they didn’t dare finish.

Poseidon could hear them. Every voice that spoke the sea carried to him.

Some cursed him.

Some begged him.

Some worshipped him.

And that worship... it was dangerous.

It fed him.

Not like the old prayers of temples and sacrifices. This was raw, born from fear and awe, the kind of reverence mortals gave to inevitability. They did not choose to worship him—he had become unavoidable.

Every whispered "Poseidon" bound them closer, weaving him tighter into the fabric of their world.

And the gods above... they knew it.

---

Olympus Prepares

In that instant, Poseidon felt it—a flare across the horizon of his senses. A summons. Not to him, but against him.

Olympus had moved.

He saw them in his mind’s eye, through the waters that reflected the heavens: Zeus with his hand on the lightning-forged spear, Athena sharpening her gaze like a blade, Ares howling for war. Even Aegirion, who once spoke for restraint, now readied his trident.

The council had voted.

Poseidon was to be struck down.

The abyss trembled with anticipation.

"Let them come," the whisper purred. "One wave will scatter their thrones. One tide will wash their heavens clean. Let me rise fully, and we will end them."

Poseidon’s hand twitched. His chest burned. For one terrifying instant, he wanted it—the collapse, the release, the satisfaction of seeing Olympus shattered beneath his waves.

But he forced the thought down. His jaw clenched. His voice cut through the abyss.

"No. They will not end me. But neither will I end blindly. I will choose my storm."

---

The Awakening Below

From the cracks in the trench, shapes stirred.

Eyes like lanterns blinked open. Mouths lined with teeth unfolded from stone. Ancient leviathans, bound since the first flood, shivered awake as Poseidon’s power seeped into their prison.

The Forgotten Tides.

Once, the gods had cast them here, locking them away when they proved too dangerous for the balance of seas. Now, their chains were rust. Their dreams filled with hunger.

Poseidon raised his hand, and the abyss obeyed. The waters spun, forming a vast spiral, a gyre that reached into eternity. The leviathans bent, not in worship, but in recognition.

He was not Dominic anymore.

He was not Thalorin’s husk.

He was the ocean itself.

Poseidon.

And the Forgotten Tides would march with him.

---

The Choice

But even as he claimed them, doubt cut at him.

He could still see faces.

Aegirion, who once showed him kindness.

Kaeli, the girl who had believed in Dominic before the abyss swallowed him.

Mortals clinging to rooftops, whispering prayers through salt and fear.

They tethered him to something he wasn’t sure he wanted to abandon.

Could the sea protect as much as it destroyed? Could he be both abyss and shore?

The whisper mocked him again, hissing through his skull.

"You are no guardian. You are the tide that pulls bodies out to sea. Do not pretend at mercy."

Poseidon’s eyes narrowed. He clenched his trident, its silver shaft glowing with abyssal light.

"I will not be what you were," he growled into the dark. "I will not be a god who only devours. If Olympus fears me, let it be because I choose when to destroy. And when to spare."

The abyss thundered in reply, furious, amused, hungry.

But for the first time, it did not overtake him.

---

The Rising Storm

Above, mortals felt it first.

The seas pulled outward in every direction, exposing reefs and sandbars that had not seen daylight in centuries. Fishermen screamed, dragging their boats inland. Children pointed at stranded whales thrashing in the muck.

And then the sound came.

A single, deep heartbeat.

It rolled through every drop of water, from gutter puddles to roaring oceans. Mortals clapped their hands over their ears. Animals bolted. The skies blackened though no clouds had gathered.

Poseidon rose.

From the abyss to the surface, water bore him upward, cloaking him in spirals of glowing blue. His trident gleamed like a star dragged into the sea. His eyes were fathomless, reflecting not just water but the abyss itself.

Mortals fell to their knees, whether in worship or terror, none could say.

And Olympus looked down.

For the first time in an age, the gods felt something stir in their hearts.

Fear.

As he broke the surface, the abyss whispered one last time, slick and cold in his skull.

"You will drown them all, whether you wish it or not. That is the sea’s truth."

Poseidon lifted his trident, the ocean rearing behind him in walls a hundred leagues high.

"No," he said, voice shaking the horizon.

"I will not drown the world. I will tilt it."

And with a single motion, he brought the waves crashing forward—

not to destroy all, but to choose where the water fell.

A new age had begun.

The Age of Poseidon.