The city was silent now.
Not the silence of peace, but of aftermath.
The waves had retreated, leaving behind streets carved into salt-laced canals. Bodies drifted in doorways, tangled with seaweed that had no business growing on land. Statues of forgotten saints leaned sideways, half-swallowed by brine. And amid it all, Poseidon stood barefoot upon the broken seawall, the tide bowing at his feet like a loyal beast.
The mortals who had survived—those who clung to rooftops or floated on driftwood—stared at him with equal measures of awe and terror. Some whispered prayers. Others spat curses. Yet none dared to approach.
The drowned bell had silenced their city, and Poseidon's presence had crowned it in fear.
He tilted his head back, inhaling. The scent of blood and brine mingled like incense, an offering that rose unbidden. The ocean inside him exhaled, and every wave rolled outward as if the world itself breathed in time with him.
