The ocean was calm again, but only in the way a predator lay still after feeding.
Poseidon stood knee-deep in the surf, trident in hand, staring at the horizon where the Council fleet had vanished. The salt wind stung against the cuts on his face, and the waves whispered in a language only he now fully understood. Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on NovᴇlFire(.)nᴇt
They’ll be back, Thalorin’s voice murmured in his mind. The sea may be yours, but the land will never stop testing your claim.
He knew it. And somewhere beyond the reach of mortal eyes, that truth was already taking shape.
Far from the coast, beyond the reach of any spyglass, a vessel unlike any other drifted in still waters. No sails, no oars — only a slow, deliberate glide as though the sea itself parted for it. The hull was black glass, drinking in the moonlight, and its prow bore the shape of a serpent swallowing its own tail.
Within, the air was heavy with incense and the faint scent of brine. The Table of Nine had been summoned.
At its head sat Archon Maltheus, the First Voice of the Council. Draped in robes the color of stormclouds, his presence alone seemed to weigh down the room. Around him, the others took their seats — the most feared wielders of divine and mortal power across all realms.
Aegirion entered last. His armor, still cracked and scorched from the abyss, was a silent testament to his failure. He carried himself with dignity, but the slight hitch in his stride did not go unnoticed.
Maltheus’ eyes were sharp as obsidian. "You’ve returned sooner than expected, High Lord. I take it the pretender was... less than cooperative."
Aegirion set the black-wrapped Tidebreaker on the table, its surface scarred and lifeless. The sight alone sent ripples of unease through the assembly.
"He is not a pretender," Aegirion said flatly. "He is Poseidon. Thalorin’s power flows in him — and more besides."
A murmur rose among the Nine. Some scoffed, others frowned. But one figure, a woman with hair like silver kelp and eyes as pale as deep ice, leaned forward.
"Then the prophecy was true," whispered Lady Myrrha, Keeper of the Drowned Scrolls. "The Abyss stirs again."
Maltheus steepled his fingers. "Prophecies are for children and fools. What matters is this: can he be killed?"
Aegirion hesitated. He remembered the crushing pressure of the trench, the alien eyes of leviathans surrounding him, the way the sea itself seemed to obey Poseidon’s every thought.
"...Not as he is now," Aegirion admitted.
Silence fell. It was not the answer they wanted.
One of the Nine broke the stillness — a man swathed in crimson silk, his lips curled into a sly smile. "Then we do not fight him as he is now. We break him before he grows stronger."
"And how do you propose to break a god who commands the abyss?" Aegirion’s voice carried a sharp edge.
The man’s smile widened. "We take what he cannot protect. The sea is vast... but his people are not."
Lady Myrrha’s gaze darkened. "You speak of the coastal settlements. They are under his guard."
"Guard," the crimson man repeated, savoring the word. "Yes. Let us see how far his reach truly extends when fire spreads across a dozen shores at once."
Aegirion’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Maltheus’ voice cut through the tension. "We will not win with brute force alone. If Poseidon is what you say, then the ocean itself is his fortress. We must bring him to land — strip him from his element."
"Impossible," Aegirion said. "He will not step willingly onto ground."
"Then we make the sea uninhabitable to him," Maltheus said, his eyes glinting with cruel intent. "We poison it."
Several of the Nine shifted uncomfortably. Even for them, it was dangerous work. The Sea of Eternity was not a tame body of water — it had moods, tempers, and grudges. To foul it was to invite catastrophe.
"Only one substance can do it," Myrrha said reluctantly. "Black Salts of Morvaine. Dissolved in the right currents, they will drive even the abyssal creatures to madness. But..." she hesitated. "They are sealed for a reason."
"Unseal them," Maltheus ordered.
Her eyes narrowed. "You may command armies, Archon, but I command the vaults. And I say the Salts cannot be moved without waking what sleeps beneath them."
"Then wake it," Maltheus said coldly. "Better to risk a sleeping beast than let a new god rise unchecked."
Aegirion’s mind was elsewhere — not on Salts or vaults, but on the weight of Tidebreaker’s absence from his hand. He had never before returned from a mission without his weapon. And yet, he knew why Poseidon had spared him.
He met Maltheus’ gaze. "If you go forward with this, understand that he will not wait for your traps. The next time we face him, he will come for you directly."
Maltheus’ lips curved in a faint smile. "Then let him come. The land does not fear the tide."
But Aegirion wasn’t so sure. He had felt that tide rise — and it was not the kind that receded.
Back on the coast, Poseidon stood alone under the moonlight, the trident planted in the sand. The sea was quiet now, but his mind was anything but. He could feel faint disturbances in the water far to the east — ripples that did not belong to storms or ships.
"They’re already moving," he murmured.
Nerissa approached from behind, her voice tentative. "Do we strike first?"
He looked out over the water, listening to the abyss breathe. "No. We wait."
Her brow furrowed. "Wait for what?"
Poseidon’s grip on the trident tightened. "For them to make their first mistake."
That mistake was already in motion — in the black vaults beneath Myrrha’s temple, where ancient locks clicked open for the first time in a thousand years, and the faint, sulfurous scent of the Black Salts began to fill the air.
Far above, the moon dipped behind clouds, and the wind carried with it a whisper from the deep.