CHAPTER 211: "I WILL NOT FALTER. NOT AGAIN.”

The silence after a drowned city was never truly silence.

It was the sound of dripping water in empty streets, of wood groaning beneath currents where no currents should be, of wind wheezing through shattered windows. The mortals of the harbor clung to their roofs and prayed, their voices hoarse, their prayers brittle. But the sea was deaf to them now. It answered to one will.

Poseidon’s will.

He stood ankle-deep in water that reflected the fractured moonlight. Around him, the wreckage of ships floated like broken offerings—timber, canvas, rope. Yet when he breathed, the debris parted in neat lines, as if acknowledging its master. His bare feet sank slightly into the cobblestones beneath, not because of the water’s pressure, but because the stone itself seemed eager to yield.

A single thought pulsed in his mind: They still do not understand.

He was no longer the boy, no longer Dominic gasping at powers too great for his body. Nor was he merely Thalorin’s hunger wrapped in mortal flesh. He was Poseidon reborn, the tide that carried both memory and wrath. And tonight, the city had become the first verse of his return.

But beneath the triumph, something unsettled coiled in his chest.

The sea whispered to him—not only of drowned souls, but of eyes watching from above. Olympus had stirred. He felt their gaze like cold spears across his shoulders.

He tilted his head, listening. His hearing stretched, not to the waves, but to the vibrations that traveled across them—the faint hum of divine council echoing through the heavens. The gods were speaking of him. Of judgment. Of eradication.

Poseidon smiled faintly. "Let them come."

---

The Forgotten Depths

He turned his back on the ruined harbor, moving toward the water’s edge where the sea lapped at streets as though tasting them. Each step drew ripples that shimmered unnaturally bright, carrying his presence outward. The ocean leaned toward him like a hound toward its master.

He raised a hand. The waters obeyed. They peeled back from the shoreline, revealing a trench that mortals had never seen. Barnacle-coated stones, drowned skeletons of long-forgotten ships, black sand gleaming like oil—all laid bare.

From that trench, a shape rose. Not fully formed, not yet awake, but ancient. It looked like the ribcage of some leviathan, each bone the height of a tower. Within it, shadows pulsed like heartbeats.

Poseidon knew this place.

It was where the Forgotten Tides had been chained—primordial entities exiled when the gods first claimed dominion over the seas. He had opened the seal days ago, but the rift was still yawning, slow, deliberate, patient. Tonight, the ribcage stirred further.

"You remember me," Poseidon whispered, his voice echoing in the trench. "And I remember you."

The shadows within pulsed in response. Not language. Not yet. But recognition.

He placed his palm on the air, and the sea surged back in, sealing the trench once more. The mortals would not see. Not until it was time.

---

The Survivors’ Eyes

On the rooftops above, dozens of survivors watched the god stride across water as though it were marble. Some screamed in terror. Others knelt, pressing their foreheads against wet stone.

A little boy with soaked hair clutched his mother’s arm. His voice was small, yet it carried across the still water.

"Is he going to kill us?"

Poseidon’s head turned. His eyes, oceans without horizon, locked on the boy. For an instant, the god saw himself—not as he was, but as Dominic had once been. Fragile. Confused. Afraid.

The tide inside him stirred restlessly. For a fleeting heartbeat, Poseidon considered mercy.

But then he felt Olympus again—looming, calculating, sharpening blades above. They would not see this moment of hesitation. They would not believe he was capable of sparing mortals. They had already declared him a threat.

So Poseidon only said, voice low and resonant, "Live. Remember whose tide spared you."

The mother pulled the boy close, bowing her head, not daring to speak again.

---

The Whisper Beneath the Waves

That night, Poseidon sank into the sea. Not walking—falling, deliberately, arms outstretched as the water embraced him. The deeper he went, the brighter his aura burned, until the abyss was alight like a drowned sun.

And in that abyss, Thalorin stirred.

You claim mercy, a voice hissed, slithering through Poseidon’s veins. You leave witnesses. Weakness.

"I leave memory," Poseidon replied, his words rippling through salt and pressure. "Mortals who see me will tell of my return. They will spread fear faster than death ever could."

Thalorin chuckled, a sound like riptides dragging ships under. Perhaps. Or perhaps they will beg the gods to save them. And when the gods come... you will falter.

Poseidon’s hand clenched. "I will not falter. Not again."

Then prove it, Thalorin whispered. Do not wait for Olympus to strike. Strike first.

The thought lingered. To rise against Olympus, to unleash the sea upon their mountain, to bring down marble palaces and drown thrones of lightning—it was tempting.

But Poseidon knew the game. He had been cast down once before. A reckless assault would only repeat the cycle.

"No," he said, eyes narrowing in the darkness. "This time, the sea will rise so slowly that even gods will not notice until their feet are already wet."

---

The Harbor Transformed

By dawn, the drowned harbor was no longer ruin—it was a shrine.

The waters had receded just enough to reveal stone pathways sculpted from coral, wrapping through the city like veins. Seashells glittered across rooftops, woven by unseen hands into spirals and sigils. Every statue of another god—Zephyros, Seraphin, even the nameless saints of fishermen—had been toppled, shattered by waves.

In their place, barnacle-encrusted figures rose, faceless and towering. Their arms were outstretched toward the sea.

The mortals woke to this sight in horror.

And yet, when they tried to flee, the water rose against the gates, forming barriers higher than walls. The city was no longer theirs. It was Poseidon’s temple.

---

Olympus Watches

High on Olympus, thunder rumbled as Zeus himself stood at the balcony of his marble hall. His golden eyes narrowed as he watched the mortal city drowned and reshaped below.

Beside him, Athena’s voice was sharp. "He does not hide. He makes shrines of ruin. If you do not act, Father, the mortals will believe he is inevitable."

Artemis, silent and silver-eyed, added softly, "It is already too late for belief. They saw him walk upon water. They saw him turn the sea to his leash."

Zeus’s grip tightened on his lightning. The storm above Olympus churned, though not yet unleashed.

"A tide returns," he murmured. "And tides must be broken before they drown the world."

But somewhere in the storm, Poseidon’s laughter echoed faintly, as if even Olympus could not shut out his voice.

Back in the harbor, Poseidon stood atop a broken bell tower that jutted like a tooth from the water. His gaze swept over the city that now bore his mark. The mortals below huddled in silence, their fear and awe mingling until it was indistinguishable.

The drowned bell, half-submerged, tolled faintly as the tide shifted.

Poseidon closed his eyes. He felt the pulse of the world—the oceans leaning toward him, rivers whispering his name, storms bending to his hum.

"Let Olympus sharpen their blades," he said softly, the words carried by waves to every ear in the city. "I am not the boy they banished. I am not the shadow they feared. I am the tide that remembers."

The sea answered with a roar, waves crashing in perfect rhythm.

And far beneath the surface, in the trench of the Forgotten Tides, something vast stirred awake.