CHAPTER 215: DIVINE REALM

The sea was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Waves that should have crashed in thunderous rhythm now lapped like timid breaths against the jagged cliffs. The harbor lay broken, drowned ships bobbing like corpses. Above it all, on a crumbling promontory of black stone, Poseidon stood swaying—blood, salt, and divinity dripping from his skin in equal measure.

The three gods had struck him hard.

He could still feel their wounds burning inside him: Zephyros’s judgment like molten lightning through his veins, Seraphin’s flames eating at his ribs, and Nymera’s shadows still trying to coil around his heart. He had broken their assault, torn down their banners of pride, and drowned their voices in tidal wrath—but at a cost.

Each step he took now sent pain searing through his legs. His trident dragged against the stone, leaving grooves like scars. Even the ocean, ever his ally, felt distant—its roar faint, hesitant, as though it too feared what had awakened inside him.

He knelt, one hand pressed against the rock. Water rose to meet him, cradling his fingers, soothing them with a healer’s gentleness. But beneath the surface of that comfort, something else stirred.

A whisper.

They bleed, yet you falter. Why, vessel? You are not meant to break. You are meant to consume.

Thalorin.

The abyssal voice rolled through him like undertow, both temptation and poison. For the first time since the battle began, Poseidon felt his knees buckle. He slammed his palm against the ground, forcing the whisper back.

"No," he growled, his teeth bared. "I am not your hollow."

But Thalorin’s laughter seeped through his bones. You think yourself more than me? You are me. The salt in your veins is mine. The hunger gnawing at you now—that is not your own will. That is mine, reborn.

Poseidon staggered to his feet, eyes blazing, though his body trembled. He turned toward the sea, staring into its endless black horizon. He should have felt mastery. He should have felt triumph. Instead, he felt the ache of mortality, the cracks where godhood strained against flesh.

---

The Mortal Shore

Below the cliffs, survivors crawled out from the ruined harbor. Fishermen clutched their drowned nets. Mothers carried children atop driftwood. Their voices were hoarse from crying, their prayers fractured by fear.

"Is it over?" a child whimpered.

"No," whispered an old man, staring up at Poseidon’s looming figure. "It has only begun. That... is no man. That is the sea itself, wearing skin."

Some knelt, pressing their foreheads to the wet stone, offering prayers they hadn’t spoken in generations. Others spat curses, blaming him for their ruined homes, their lost families. The city was divided in its despair—half in awe, half in hatred.

And Poseidon felt both pressing against him. Their worship was a balm. Their curses, a knife. Both fed the tide within him, and both made Thalorin stir with glee.

---

The Divine Realm

High above, Olympus reeled from the aftermath.

The council chamber of marble and cloud lay in uneasy silence. The three gods—Zephyros, Seraphin, and Nymera—had returned, battered and bloodied. They bore their scars openly, divine ichor dripping like molten light onto the polished floor.

"You failed," hissed Hera, her crown of starlight trembling with fury. "Three against one, and still you let him walk the mortal shore!"

Zephyros slammed his fist on the table, cracks splintering through the marble. "We did not let him walk. We barely survived. That creature is not the boy Dominic, nor merely Poseidon reborn. He is something... worse."

Nymera’s shadows writhed uneasily around her shoulders. "He is becoming Thalorin. The abyss whispers through him. We felt it."

Seraphin’s flames flickered low, her voice ragged. "And yet... he fought against it. For all his wrath, for all the tide he summoned... I saw hesitation. A fracture. As if he himself fears what lurks inside."

The gods exchanged glances. None of them wanted to admit it aloud: that hesitation was the only reason they still breathed.

---

Poseidon’s Vigil

Back on the cliffs, night thickened. The stars glittered over the black sea, but Poseidon did not rest. His wounds needed mending, his spirit needed silence—but neither would come easily.

He sat cross-legged, trident across his lap, and closed his eyes. The ocean’s pulse moved through him, slow and steady. Every breath drew salt into his lungs, every exhale misted with brine.

The mortals behind him watched in terrified silence. None dared approach. None dared run. The sea itself would not let them leave.

Hours passed.

The pain in his ribs dulled. The lightning in his blood dimmed. But the whisper in his mind did not fade.

Let me rise, vessel. You cannot hold me forever. Why struggle against inevitability?

Poseidon’s fists clenched. "Because I am not your shadow. I am the sea given flesh."

Thalorin’s chuckle was like the groan of a sinking ship. So certain. Yet every tide returns to me. Every drop of salt belongs to my abyss. You can wear the crown, you can wield the trident, but in the end... you will kneel.

Poseidon forced the voice down, burying it beneath his will. His body ached, his mind throbbed, but still he endured.

And as dawn’s first light broke the horizon, the mortals saw him rise—taller, steadier, his wounds laced with living water.

He had not healed fully. He had not silenced Thalorin.

But he had endured.

And in endurance, he found strength.

The Omen

As the sun climbed higher, gulls shrieked over the drowned harbor. From the east, a black ship appeared—its sails stitched with symbols no mortal kingdom claimed. Its prow cut through the rising tide with unnatural grace, leaving no wake behind.

The survivors whispered in fear. Some claimed it was a ghost ship, others that it was an envoy of the gods come to strike again.

Poseidon narrowed his eyes. He could feel the aura before he saw the faces.

Not mortals. Not divine. Something in between.

Hunters.

The first of Olympus’s decree had arrived.

He gripped his trident, the salt in his veins singing, his wounds still raw.

The battle had only just begun.

And deep within, Thalorin laughed again.