Chapter 296: Let’s oblitate him
The air on Olympus did not breathe like mortal winds. It shimmered with gold mist, the breath of prayers rising from below, woven into threads that fueled the divine court. Yet tonight, the air was restless, buzzing with currents that even gods struggled to still.
The Hall of Aegis, a temple older than kingdoms, stood in silence—until a single voice cut through.
"We cannot wait for him to rise any further."
The one who spoke was Zephyros, God of Judgment, his voice like a hammer upon stone. His wings curled tight against his back, feathers burning with light. "Already two harbors are gone. The drowned bells toll across the mortal seas. Poseidon has stepped beyond his vessel—he is becoming what Thalorin once was."
Across the obsidian table sat the others, their faces reflecting flickering light from the sacred brazier. Each god carried power, but tonight they carried fear as well.
Nymera, Goddess of Shadows, let her words drip like oil into the silence. "And whose fault is that? You chained the Rift poorly. You allowed the vessel to survive." Her lips curved faintly. "Now you seek to silence him, when it is far too late."
Her words made Aegirion, the youngest of the sea gods, slam his trident against the floor. "It is not too late!" His ocean-blue eyes burned. "He is Poseidon, yes, but there is still mind in him. He saved mortals when he could have drowned them all. We must speak to him—"
Zephyros’s golden gaze cut him like lightning. "Speak to him? Do you not hear yourself? You would parley with a tide that eats shorelines? You would beg reason from a storm?"
The brazier hissed louder, smoke curling toward the ceiling. For a moment, it was as though the flames themselves leaned in to listen.
Then, from the end of the table, a frail but piercing voice rose.
The Oracle of the Depths, draped in kelp and salt-crusted bone, whispered:
"You are all wrong."
Silence gripped the hall. The Oracle’s blind eyes glowed faintly, their pupils drowned long ago. "Poseidon does not march as a storm. He does not rage as Thalorin did. He... waits. And what waits may yet be called."
The words tasted like prophecy, and the chamber trembled in response.
Zephyros’s expression hardened. "Then we shall call him."
Gasps broke the silence. Even gods rarely dared say such a thing aloud. To summon a god directly was not worship, not prayer—it was binding. A ritual that defied the balance of realms.
"Madness," Seraphin, Goddess of Flame, spat, her crimson hair blazing brighter. "Do you know what you speak of? To summon Poseidon here is to bring the sea itself to Olympus. The marble will crack, the sky will drown."
"Better Olympus cracks," Zephyros replied coldly, "than the world below breaks entirely."
Nymera’s smile sharpened. "So that is your scheme. Not just to call him—but to trap him."
The word hung like blood in water.
Aegirion stood violently, his trident sparking seafoam against marble. "You will not bind him like an animal! He is more than a curse! He is—"
Zephyros’s hand struck the table, and thunder rolled across Olympus. "He is a threat to every throne in this hall."
The Oracle’s voice rose again, ragged and thin. "The tides shift toward you, whether you wish it or not. Already, the strands of summoning are being woven. Three cities have been marked, their prayers twisted into anchors. You will summon him, whether you mean to or not."
At that, every god’s face darkened. The ritual was not theirs alone. Mortal cults, priesthoods, and hidden cabals had begun weaving their own offerings, calling not to Olympus but directly to the deep. The drowned god’s name had returned to tongues in whispers and screams alike.
Seraphin’s flames sputtered uneasily. "So mortals themselves aid his coming..."
Nymera’s eyes glittered. "Then let us not resist the tide. Let us prepare the cage."
For the first time that night, there was agreement.
---
The Scheming
The council splintered into murmurs. Each god began speaking over the other, their voices filling the chamber like a storm of wings and waves. Yet beneath the noise, the ritual began to form.
Zephyros demanded chains forged of lightning itself, woven with the justice of the skies.
Seraphin offered flames that burned even beneath the sea, fire to sear a tide.
Nymera wove shadows into the plan, to smother the drowned one in silence, a prison of forgotten places.
Even gods who had once resisted the idea now whispered their contributions—every fear turned into a binding thread.
Only Aegirion stood apart, fists trembling. "You will doom us all. Bind him, and you provoke him to wrath. He will not forget."
"Then he will not live to remember," Zephyros said.
And with that, the council sealed the scheme.
---
The Mortal Anchor
Far below Olympus, the cults of Poseidon stirred. Fishermen painted their nets with salt-inked prayers. Priests drowned goats in tidepools. In drowned harbors, bells tolled without hands to ring them. Each act bled into the summoning, pulling Poseidon closer.
On a cliff above the sea, a child stood staring at the moonlit waves. He whispered a name not taught by priests, a name that bubbled in his blood:
"Poseidon."
And the water answered.
---
Olympus Prepares
Back in the Hall of Aegis, the brazier flames turned ocean-blue. The ritual was no longer possibility—it had begun.
Zephyros stood, his golden wings stretching wide, his voice shaking marble. "Let it be written. We summon him. We bind him. For Olympus, for the world, for the throne of the gods!"
The council roared in answer, though unease flickered beneath their cries.
Nymera alone whispered, too softly for others to hear:
"And if he does not bind... but breaks?"
Far beneath mortal seas, Poseidon opened his eyes.
He had felt the tug.
The pull of summoning.
The net of schemes tightening.
And he smiled.
"They wish to call me," he murmured to the abyss. His voice rippled across trenches and ruins, making leviathans quake. "Then let them. I will answer."
The sea itself shifted.
And Olympus would soon learn what it meant to summon the ocean.