Chapter 115: The God who walks in the wave
The storm had been his gift.
It had begun as a whisper in the clouds, far out where no mortal eye could see. Poseidon had called the wind with a tilt of his trident, and the sky had obeyed, pulling the black stormfront into existence. Lightning bled across the horizon, illuminating waves that rose like mountains.
Far beneath them, leviathans stirred in the deep, their eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.
The merchant convoy ahead — or so it appeared on paper — carried no honest trade. Beneath their false cargo, locked in holds warded by sigils and bone, were urns filled with the Black Salts. Their orders were clear: slip quietly into key harbors and "spill the offering" into the sea.
They never made it that far.
From the crow’s nest of the lead ship, a sailor saw it first — a shadow walking on the water, not in it. For a moment, he thought it a trick of the lightning. Then the figure raised a weapon, and the sea itself rose in answer.
"Gods above—" the sailor began. His words ended in a scream as the mast beside him splintered under the force of a wave that struck like a battering ram.
---
Poseidon walked the storm as if it were solid ground. Each step sent ripples surging outward, waves rearing like serpents around him. The trident in his hand hummed with an old and dangerous song.
He could feel the Black Salts ahead — like hot ash scattered through cold water. It burned against his senses, daring him to come closer.
The first ship turned broadside, desperate to flee, but he swept his weapon in a wide arc. The water beneath its hull twisted, lifting the vessel completely from the surface before slamming it back down with such force that the keel split in two.
Men screamed as seawater swallowed them. Some tried to swim. Others simply vanished beneath the surface, pulled down by unseen hands.
---
From the second ship, a volley of arrows rained toward him. They burned with faint green light — charms meant to wound even a god.
The first arrow struck his shoulder, biting deep. He didn’t flinch.
Instead, he caught the second in his free hand, snapping it in half. "You think your tricks will hold against the tide?"
His voice rolled over the storm, carrying to every ear aboard the fleet. The water around him began to spin, forming a whirlpool that spread wider with each heartbeat. Ships strained against the pull, ropes snapping, masts creaking.
The whirlpool wasn’t meant to sink them — not yet. He wanted them to see what was coming.
---
From below, a shape the size of a fortress rose from the depths — Neryx, the Leviathan, his scarred hide glowing faintly in the stormlight. The beast circled once, then surged upward, shattering the hull of a smaller escort vessel in a single pass.
The crew’s screams turned to bubbling silence as the sea claimed them.
Poseidon leapt from the water onto the nearest deck. His arrival cracked the planks underfoot. The men nearest him fell back, clutching cutlasses and harpoons like children holding sticks against a wildfire.
"Where are the urns?" he demanded.
No one answered.
He strode forward, seizing the nearest man by the front of his coat and hauling him off his feet. "The poison in my waters — where?"
The man spat seawater in his face. "You can kill me, sea-devil, but the Council will—"
The trident’s butt slammed into the deck beside his head, splitting it wide. "I asked you once."
Terror finally cracked the man’s defiance. "Below... the hold... guarded by—"
He never finished. A flash of movement — a blade from the shadows — and the sailor’s throat opened in a spray of red.
From the dark at the far end of the deck, a figure emerged — tall, in steel-gray armor that reflected none of the lightning. The Harrow.
---
"I thought you’d send lackeys," Poseidon said, lowering the sailor’s corpse to the deck. "Instead, they send you."
The Harrow’s voice was low, mechanical — altered, perhaps, to mask the original. "The Council sends its executioner to finish what was started."
They moved without further warning.
The Harrow’s blade was a length of black metal etched with shifting symbols, its edge singing as it cut the air. Poseidon met the strike with the trident, sparks scattering where the two weapons clashed.
The ship groaned beneath the force.
Again and again they struck, each blow strong enough to shear through mortal steel. Lightning danced across the deck as the storm closed in, rain hissing against their skin.
The Harrow moved like shadow and steel — every strike precise, every step calculated. But Poseidon was the storm made flesh. Where the Harrow pressed forward, he answered with the weight of the ocean itself.
A sharp twist of his trident hooked the Harrow’s blade, yanking it sideways. With his other hand, Poseidon drove his fist into the armored chest, sending the figure skidding across the deck.
The Harrow rolled, coming up on one knee, weapon ready. "You fight well, god," they rasped. "But this isn’t about winning. It’s about time."
Poseidon’s eyes narrowed. Time for what—
Then he felt it.
From below deck, the urn had been broken. The Black Salts were already spilling into the water.
---
With a curse, he slammed the trident into the planks. The wood shattered, opening a jagged hole through which the poisoned seawater churned. He could feel it spreading, tendrils of corruption racing away into the depths.
He dove through the gap without hesitation.
The hold was half-flooded already. Floating crates bumped against the walls, their contents spilling into the water. In the center, the bone urn lay on its side, cracked wide, the last of the black grains dissolving into the sea.
He reached for it, but the Salts recoiled from his touch, their essence slipping away like smoke. Even for him, it was too late to reclaim them all.
A shadow fell over him — the Harrow had followed, blade ready.
In the cramped space, the fight was brutal. Wood splintered, water surged, and for long moments, the only sound was the clash of steel on steel.
Poseidon caught the Harrow’s blade between the tines of his trident and forced it aside, slamming the figure into the wall hard enough to dent the timbers. "This ends," he growled.
The Harrow’s voice was calm, almost mocking. "This began long before you."
Then, with a sudden twist, they drove the black blade into the side of the ship, letting the sea rush in fully. The impact knocked them apart. By the time Poseidon regained his footing, the Harrow was gone — carried into the deep by the collapsing wreck.
---
He surfaced moments later, the storm still raging. The convoy was in ruins — masts broken, decks flooded, and bodies drifting among the wreckage. Only one vessel remained intact enough to limp away, sails torn, its crew rowing frantically.
He could have pursued. He didn’t. Not yet.
Because even as the storm began to fade, he could feel the Black Salts’ corruption spreading through the current — a stain that would take weeks to purge. And that meant the Council had won this round.
But only this round.
Standing atop the broken mast of the flagship, Poseidon raised his trident to the storm. "You poison my seas and think you will live to see the tide turn? You will drown in your own treachery."
The waves rose in answer.