Chapter 116: The Tide Hunts back
The war table in the Council chamber was made of black obsidian, polished to a perfect mirror sheen. Its surface reflected the faces of the Twelve — though reflection was perhaps the wrong word, for their forms in the glass seemed subtly different, as though the table showed not what was, but what might be.
A storm still lingered outside the spire, its winds battering the tower’s crystal shutters. The news had arrived only an hour ago, carried by a soaked and shaking courier whose ship had barely outrun the wreckage.
Maltheus, First Voice of the Council, stood at the head of the table, his fingers drumming slowly against the obsidian. "Three ships destroyed outright," he said, his voice low but edged with steel. "Two more lost to the depths. The Black Salt urns — compromised."
On his left, Lady Vorrha of the Seventh Seat leaned forward, her crimson silks whispering against the chair. "You mean destroyed."
"Not all," Maltheus admitted. "One urn broke at sea. Its contents were... dispersed. The others sank with the ships."
"And Poseidon?" Vorrha asked, voice curling around the name like a threat.
Maltheus’ gaze darkened. "Alive. Stronger than we calculated. And he walks the surface of the storm as though it were stone."
A murmur ran around the table — a ripple of unease disguised as debate. The gods were not supposed to be this... present. For centuries, they had been content to watch, or to fight one another, or to remain locked in their distant realms. To face one in person, in the mortal seas... it was an escalation none of them had truly planned for.
---
From the far end of the table, Archon Drathos, the war strategist, spoke at last. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise like a blade. "Then the plan has changed. We can no longer bleed the seas in silence. If Poseidon hunts the convoys, every shipment becomes a battle. That is his aim — to force us into his element."
Maltheus’ eyes flickered toward him. "You have a counter?"
Drathos nodded once. "Yes. We stop running."
---
The idea landed heavily.
Most of the Council’s strength was not at sea — their influence lay in the ports, the guilds, the merchants whose wealth kept the fleets moving. The Black Salts had been meant to rot Poseidon’s seas from within, to turn the tide before he could rouse the great beasts of the deep. If they now had to meet him openly on the water...
"You propose war?" Vorrha asked.
Drathos gave her a thin smile. "We’re already at war. You’re just reluctant to admit it. Poseidon knows we poisoned his waters. He will not rest now. Every wave is his ally, every storm a weapon. The longer we wait, the more the seas will belong to him alone."
---
Maltheus turned his gaze toward the Harrow’s empty seat — the assassin’s absence a silent reminder that their most efficient killer had failed. Not destroyed, not confirmed dead... but missing.
"That god will drown us in our own harbors if we do nothing," Drathos continued. "I say we draw him out. Lure him where the tides are weak and the seabed is treacherous. A false convoy — rich with bait he cannot resist. And when he comes..." He spread his hands. "...we close the net."
---
But another voice, rasping and cold, spoke before Maltheus could answer.
"You assume he can be baited."
The room shifted subtly, and all eyes turned to Seat Nine. The figure there was robed in gray, their hood casting their face in shadow. The Oracle. Their voice was neither male nor female, but something older, something that sounded as though it came from the cracks between stones.
"I have seen him," the Oracle whispered. "Not in visions of smoke and water, but in the marrow of the world. He is not the god he once was. Something has changed in him. This is not the tempest-child who played at storms for sport. He has taken the hunt into himself. When the sea moves now, it is not with him. It is him."
A faint shiver passed through the room.
"If you bait him, you do not choose the battle. He does," the Oracle finished.
---
Drathos’ jaw tightened. "Then what? Sit in our ports and wait for him to tear our ships apart one by one? Let him decide the pace until we have nothing left afloat?"
The Oracle turned its hood toward Maltheus. "No. You must force him from the sea entirely."
The room went still.
"That is impossible," Vorrha scoffed. "The sea is him."
"No," the Oracle said slowly. "It is his throne. And thrones can be shattered."
---
Maltheus leaned forward, his eyes sharp as a knife’s point. "Speak plainly."
The Oracle’s voice dropped lower. "The Trident is not his birthright — not truly. It is a seal, forged in the first wars of gods, bound to him by pact. Break that pact, and the sea will turn against him."
The words were dangerous even to speak. Gods could be fought, banished, weakened — but to sever a god from their dominion was to unmake them.
"And how," Maltheus asked carefully, "would one break such a pact?"
The Oracle did not hesitate. "With a storm greater than even he can master. One that will not answer his call. One born not of water, but of fire and sky."
Lightning flashed beyond the tower windows, briefly throwing the chamber into stark relief.
"A volcanic storm," Drathos murmured.
"Yes," the Oracle said. "There is a place, far to the south, where the seabed boils and the air tastes of ash. Draw him there. Force him to meet you where the sea is sick already, where the earth itself will rise against him."
---
The table fell into silence as the idea took root.
It was a gamble — a deadly one. If they could lure Poseidon into such waters, his control would be weakened. The volcanic vents would churn up currents he could not predict, while the ash and molten rivers would cut his sight and scorch his allies in the deep. The Leviathans would not follow him there.
But luring him would not be easy.
Maltheus finally spoke. "We will prepare the false convoy. But this time it will not be undefended. Vorrha — you will send your corsairs. Drathos — your ironclads will form the outer ring. And Seat Ten..." His gaze shifted toward a man with silver hair and blackened hands. "...your stormforges will be needed."
The man grinned thinly. "Then we will give him a storm of our own."
---
Outside the spire, the storm over the city began to fade. The winds slackened, the clouds tore apart.
But in the Council chamber, the air only grew heavier.
Because for the first time, they were not speaking of poisoning Poseidon’s waters or stealing his prey. They were speaking of killing a god.
And in the silence that followed, each of them wondered the same thing — whether the sea would ever forgive them if they failed.