Reincarnated As Poseidon

The storm above Olympus was not Zeus's doing.

That, more than the thunder, chilled the gods.

Lightning arced across a sky that should have obeyed only one master. The air trembled with raw charge, bolts striking peaks and splitting marble columns at the temple's edge. But Zeus—King of the Gods, Lord of Olympus—had not raised his hand.

He sat upon the High Throne, his knuckles pressed against the lion-carved arms, his jaw clenched like a stone wall ready to crack. His eyes, golden with fire, tracked the rolling clouds above as though searching for a treachery hidden in their depths.

Poseidon's reach had grown too far. His tide had spilled into realms it should never touch, and now even the sky whispered his name.

The council chamber stood silent, gods arrayed along the crescent hall. Ares leaned forward on his spear, restless for war. Athena's sharp gaze never left Zeus's face, her mind calculating strategies already. Hera, regal and cold, sat to his right, her hands folded but her eyes glinting with old bitterness. Hermes fidgeted with the strap of his sandals, too restless to stand still while the heavens trembled.

And Dionysus—half drunk, half divine—snorted into his goblet. "Perhaps it's time you admit it, Father," he slurred, "the sea is louder than your thunder now."

Zeus's gaze snapped to him, and the hall darkened in an instant. A rumble shook the marble floor, the pillars trembling under the sudden storm that rolled from his body. Even the goblet in Dionysus's hand cracked.

"Careful, boy," Zeus growled, his voice reverberating like the crash of a thousand storms. "My patience is as thin as the air above these peaks."

Silence followed. Even Dionysus looked away.

Athena finally broke it. Her tone was level, though firm. "He isn't wrong. Poseidon has grown… and not by mortal prayers. Something older, something deeper fuels him. You feel it too, Father."

Zeus said nothing, but his silence was answer enough.

It had been centuries since he had felt the sting of fear. Not fear of mortals—those were insects under his heel. Not even of gods, for all bowed to Olympus. But the sea… the sea had always been different.

Poseidon had always been his brother, his equal in blood but not in throne. Their rivalry was ancient, a contest carved into the very bones of the cosmos. Yet now, what returned from the deep was not the Poseidon he had known. This was something else—something merged, something monstrous, something inevitable.

And Zeus, King of the Gods, felt the tremor of challenge.

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The Crack of Authority

"Then let us march," Ares said suddenly, voice booming as he struck the butt of his spear on the marble. "Call the legions of Olympus. Send Hermes to rouse the demigods, call the Hekatonkheires from Tartarus if you must. Let us drown him in war before his tide drowns us."

Hera scoffed, her voice sharp. "Always eager to fling yourself into slaughter, Ares. But what if war is what he desires? What if every spear we throw is swallowed by his waves? Poseidon is no mere rebel; he has become something… more."

"Then what do you suggest?" Ares snapped, baring his teeth. "That we cower in our halls while he drags Olympus into the sea?"

Athena's gaze cut between them, cool and calculating. "Neither cowering nor charging blindly will suffice. We must think. Poseidon's strength is not raw alone. The sea carries memory, old and endless. If Thalorin's essence truly stirs within him, then he carries not just power—but hunger. Hunger older than the Pantheon itself."

The name hung heavy in the chamber. Even Zeus's grip tightened at it.

"Thalorin…" Hera whispered. "The drowned king. The abyss that devoured the old gods. I had hoped his name would never be spoken again."

Zeus stood. Lightning cascaded down his frame, arcing across his shoulders, running along his arms until it snapped and shattered at his fingertips. The chamber filled with the smell of ozone, gods shielding their eyes from the sudden brilliance.

"Names have power," Zeus declared. "But so does thunder. So does Olympus. Let him rise with his abyss. Let him march with his tides. I will remind the sea who rules the heavens."

The storm above answered his words, a jagged bolt splitting the sky in two, striking so far below that even mortals must have seen it.

Yet beneath the bravado, Zeus felt the crack. The storm outside Olympus was not his. And that meant his dominion was no longer absolute.

Hermes cleared his throat, stepping forward nervously. "If I may, Father… news from the mortal coast."

Zeus's eyes narrowed. "Speak."

Hermes unrolled a scroll, its parchment dripping seawater though it had never touched the sea. His voice wavered as he read.

"The city of Veyrus… gone. Entirely. Its bell tower drowned, its markets sunk, its temples shattered. Survivors—those who did not sink—claim the waters themselves rose and walked. They whisper Poseidon's name as though it were the tide itself. Mortals no longer curse him. They pray."

A low murmur filled the chamber. Hera's face paled. Athena's lips pressed tight.

"Prayers…" Zeus said darkly. "So the mortals return to him."

"And not just mortals," Hermes added quickly, eyes darting nervously toward Zeus. "Some demigods too. Sons of sailors, daughters of the tide. They say Poseidon's call is stronger than Olympus's decree. They kneel when the waters rise."

The words hit like a dagger. For Zeus knew well the danger of worship. Power was not infinite—it was fed. Fed by belief, by sacrifice, by the countless voices that cried out to the heavens.

And Poseidon was feasting.

"Then we silence their prayers," Zeus thundered. "We burn their altars, we crush their temples, we remind the mortals who holds the sky above their heads. If they kneel to the sea, let the sky smite them where they stand."

But even as he said it, a thought lingered: Could thunder silence the tide?

That night, when the council had dispersed, Zeus stood alone on the highest balcony of Olympus. The storm still raged, unnatural, its rhythm not his own. Every bolt that struck carried a taste of salt. Every rumble of thunder carried an undertone of waves.

He looked down upon the world, upon the seas that stretched like endless silver in the moonlight. He thought of his brother—not as an enemy, not yet, but as he once had been. They had carved the world together, divided it like spoils: sky, sea, underworld. Brothers. Equals. Rivals.

But now…

"Poseidon," Zeus muttered, the name sharp on his tongue. "What have you become?"

And then he saw it.

For a moment, in the reflection of lightning upon the clouds, he saw a face staring back. Not his brother's. Not the god of horses and harbors. But something vaster. Something drowned and endless, with eyes like trenches and a mouth that hungered without end.

The vision flickered and was gone.

But Zeus staggered back, sweat on his brow. For he understood at last what the council feared. Poseidon was no longer only Poseidon.

And for the first time in an age, Zeus wondered if Olympus could fall.