Reincarnated As Poseidon

The Council of Twelve convened beneath the ancient marble dome of Olympus, the skies above unnaturally turbulent. Crackling streaks of divine lightning forked across the clouds, yet the summit remained untouched. Tension clung to the air like the chill of a thunderstorm on the brink of eruption.

Zeus sat in his grand throne at the head of the crescent. But there was no pride in his posture, no arrogance in his gaze—only suspicion. The recent omens had been too consistent, too many. The vision from the Fates, the dead silence from Atlantis, and the uneasy stillness in Tartarus were signs of something more ancient than war.

Hera stood by his side, draped in regal purple, her hands tightly clenched around her sceptre. "It's not just Poseidon," she said, eyes sweeping over the gathered gods. "There's something beneath the sea. Something old."

Apollo leaned back in his chair, golden hair shimmering faintly. "You speak as if the end approaches. What are we really afraid of here? Poseidon rising? Or something he carries with him?"

Hephaestus, still half-burnt from his forge's fury, slammed his hammer on the obsidian tile. "We all felt the tremor. The same energy that once split the oceans during the Primordial Wars. Thalorin, they say. The name's returned to the lips of the Underworld."

"Thalorin is a myth," Ares growled. "A bedtime story used to scare demigods. If Poseidon has returned—truly returned—it only means we must tighten our ranks. We've crushed Titans before. We'll do it again."

But it was Athena, ever silent, who spoke what no one else dared.

"What if Poseidon is not the one who returned?" she said slowly. "What if the boy is merely the vessel?"

A horrified silence fell. Even Dionysus, usually too drunk to care, sobered instantly.

Artemis stepped forward from her moonlit seat, voice solemn. "I've sent hunters to the edges of the mortal realm. Oceans are stirring, unnatural beasts surfacing in forgotten tides. The seals we once buried are failing."

"Then what do we do?" Hermes asked, his winged sandals twitching anxiously beneath the table. "Sit and wait until this vessel becomes the storm?"

"No," Zeus replied, his voice low and crackling with restrained power. "We act. We bring together the scattered Pantheon."

His words startled many.

"You mean—summon the forgotten gods?" Hera asked.

"Yes," Zeus said. "We need every blade, every shield. Even those we cast out. The fate of Olympus depends on unity now."

Athena looked to the storm. "What of Hades? He has not spoken since the breach."

"He is watching," Hera muttered. "Always watching. But he will not move until the dead rise screaming."

At the mention of the Underworld, a cold shadow swept through the council chamber.

Suddenly, a deep rumble echoed through the heavens. The very foundation of Mount Olympus trembled.

And then came the voice.

Not from the skies.

Not from beneath.

But from everywhere at once.

"The tides have chosen. The throne of the sea is no longer vacant. You call me Thalorin, but I am beyond your names. Your reign is borrowed time."

Lightning shattered the marble dome, revealing an expanse of blood-red clouds above.

And the gods knew—they were no longer the rulers of their world.

They were prey.

Beneath the scorched sky of Delphi, where once the Pythia uttered truths that shaped empires, silence reigned.

The last Oracle had collapsed that morning, eyes rolled back, mouth agape in a silent scream. The priests said she had tried to speak, to warn them. But no voice came — only blood spilled from her lips, forming a single symbol etched into the stone beneath her feet:

"Thalorin."

The world was shifting. Mortals could feel it. Tides that no longer followed the moon's command. The sun rising blood-orange with each dawn. Nightmares walking into reality. And amidst the tremors, one soul burned with a purpose not yet understood.

Cassian, the bastard of Ares.

Tall, sharp-jawed, with ember-colored eyes and a jagged scar that ran from his left brow to the edge of his chin. He was born not in Olympus, but in a war-torn village near Thessaly. His mother, a healer slain by raiders, had whispered to him with her last breath: "Your fire is not your curse. It is your sword."

He'd fled Olympus' gaze for years, fighting in the pits of Sparta, hunted by Hades' bounty hounds, living in exile. But now, something ancient had begun to stir in his blood.

The mark of the Warbringer.

Cassian stood atop the ruined battlements of Delphi, watching the panicked crowds gather. Rumors of Olympus falling. Of Atlantis rising again. Of gods bleeding.

"Never thought I'd live long enough to see them sweat," Cassian muttered, spinning his short-blade idly in one hand.

A hooded figure stepped from the shadows. She moved with the grace of a feline and eyes like moonlit frost.

Selene. Former high priestess of Artemis. Once a loyal voice of prophecy, now an exile herself — cast out for refusing to burn a child fated for rebellion.

"They're gathering in Corinth," she said, voice firm. "Zeus is calling for unity. Even those born in shadow."

Cassian didn't look at her. "So they remember I exist?"

"They remember what you are." She paused. "And what you carry."

He tensed.

Inside his blood, something had been whispering. Since the sky turned red and the waters trembled, he could feel it: a presence in his dreams, deep and cold, dragging him toward the sea.

"They want me to fight their war?"

"They want you to die in it."

Cassian's lip curled. "Let them come. I'll give them a war worth bleeding for."

Selene stepped closer, placing a scroll into his hand. The wax seal bore Athena's mark — not one of invitation, but of warning.

"They fear Thalorin," she said. "But they fear you more."

He opened the scroll. One line written in divine ink:

"The blade of the Rift shall cut the tides."

Cassian looked toward the distant sea, where stormclouds gathered like an army.

"If Thalorin rises," he said slowly, "I'll be waiting."

---

Scene Shift – Atlantis (Ruins of the Deep)

Below the churning ocean, beyond light and sound, the ruined city of Atlantis trembled.

Pillars crumbled as bioluminescent creatures scattered in the black. From the cracked heart of the city, something pulsed — ancient, rhythmic, like a sleeping heart beating back to life.

The waters coiled and danced as a shadow drifted through the halls.

Not Poseidon.

Not Dominic.

Something older. Something hungrier.

The walls whispered in forgotten tongues. The bones of fallen gods stirred.

And from the Abyss, the True Thalorin opened his eyes.