The sea was quiet for the first time in hours. Only the groan of wounded currents and the slow collapse of ruined reefs broke the silence. Poseidon knelt, his trident buried in the seabed to hold himself upright, blood clouding the water around him. Zeus stood near, his shoulders lit faintly with sparks, his breathing heavy but steady.
Then, the ocean itself stirred. From the remnants of Varuna's body rose two lights—one burning deep crimson, the other glowing with the pale gleam of drowned stars. The core and the essence of the fallen god-king. They floated before Zeus, pulsing like hearts, raw and alive with the abyssal dominion they carried.
The storm bent toward them, but Zeus did not claim them. His gaze dropped to his brother. Poseidon's eyes burned even through the exhaustion, his body battered but unbroken. He had fought in his waters, had nearly bled them away to keep Olympus safe. The sea was his, and so too should be the spoils.
