Chapter 114: Poison in the veins of the sea
The vault was not meant to be opened.
It lay beneath the Temple of the Drowned Scrolls, deeper than the catacombs where Myrrha’s order kept their sacred relics. The air here was colder than the deep ocean and heavy with the taste of salt that burned the tongue. Walls of living coral pulsed faintly, as if the vault itself were breathing.
At the center, bound in a sarcophagus of blackened pearl, lay the Black Salts of Morvaine — grains that shimmered like obsidian dust, each one said to hold the hatred of a dead ocean.
Lady Myrrha stood before them, her hands clasped tightly around the ceremonial key. "Once removed, there is no going back," she warned, her voice echoing through the chamber.
From the shadows stepped Maltheus, robes trailing like smoke. "That is the point, Lady Myrrha. This is not a war we intend to lose."
Two others followed — the crimson-clad Lord Kareth and a silent figure in steel-gray armor, face hidden. They carried urns carved from bone, each inscribed with the sigils needed to carry the Salts without waking them prematurely.
Myrrha’s pale eyes lingered on the urns. "You do not understand what you ask. The Salts do not merely kill — they unmake. They strip the memory of water itself. The seas poisoned by them will not heal for centuries."
Maltheus’ gaze was unyielding. "Then perhaps your sea-god will think twice before claiming dominion."
She hesitated. Every instinct in her told her this was folly — but the Council’s word bound her as tightly as the oaths she had sworn to the temple. Slowly, she turned the key in the sarcophagus.
The lock hissed like an angry serpent.
---
The lid shifted, releasing a faint cloud of black vapor that curled toward the ceiling. Even Lord Kareth’s usual smirk faltered.
Inside lay the Salts — dry despite the damp chamber, glinting with an oily shimmer that made the eyes water. The grains seemed to move if one stared too long, rearranging themselves into shapes that vanished the moment you blinked.
The silent armored figure stepped forward, producing tongs of gold. With slow, careful movements, they lifted the first handful into an urn. The moment the grains touched its surface, the bone hissed and smoked.
The air grew colder. Somewhere deep in the temple, waves crashed against the stone — though no tide had been near these halls for centuries.
By the time the urns were filled and sealed, every living coral on the walls had turned gray and brittle.
---
The Council’s plan unfolded quickly.
Lord Kareth would take one urn north, to the merchant ports that fed Poseidon’s coastal cities. The armored figure — a shadow known only as the Harrow — would carry the second south, to the whaling routes where Poseidon’s influence was strongest.
Maltheus himself would hold the third urn for the most critical strike — the heart of Poseidon’s own territory.
Within days, ships with false flags were moving across the horizon. Under cover of night, small amounts of the Black Salts were poured into currents where they would disperse unseen, spreading sickness through the waters.
---
Poseidon felt it before any mortal could.
It was not pain, not exactly — but a wrongness, like breathing air that had turned to smoke. The waves at his feet felt heavy, sluggish. When he called the tide, it came with less vigor, as if laboring under an unseen weight.
He plunged beneath the surface, his eyes cutting through the dark like a predator’s. Schools of fish darted erratically, their silver bodies marred with black streaks. The coral below was pale, its color leached away.
Nerissa, his voice boomed through the water, echoing into the minds of his closest lieutenants. Something is poisoning the currents. Find the source.
In minutes, his allies were moving — merfolk scouts, abyssal serpents, and even the great Leviathan Neryx, whose massive shadow glided silently across the trench.
But the Black Salts were not like any natural toxin. They did not drift visibly. They dissolved into the very memory of the water, making it impossible to track in the usual way. Every current they touched carried their corruption further.
---
The first casualties were the coastal settlements.
Fishermen returned with empty nets or worse — nets filled with rotting, half-formed things that dissolved into sludge when touched. Drinking water drawn from the sea grew foul overnight. Even the tides began to shift unpredictably, stranding ships on sandbars that had never existed before.
On the northern coast, Nerissa herself found the first clue — a merchant vessel drifting aimlessly, its sails torn and hull blackened as if by acid. In the captain’s cabin lay an urn of bone, cracked and leaking faint traces of the black dust.
She brought it to Poseidon personally, placing it at his feet on the shore. "I think this is what’s doing it."
The moment his hand hovered over the urn, he felt it — a pull, not of gravity, but of memory. The Salts called to the sea inside him, whispering in a voice like a thousand drowning men.
Join us.
Poseidon’s eyes narrowed. "This is not mortal work. This is Council craft."
---
That night, he summoned the Court of the Abyss. The ocean floor shook as its denizens gathered — merfolk generals with spears of coral, whale-guardians whose songs could split stone, and abyssal horrors whose names had not been spoken in centuries.
Poseidon stood at the center, trident in hand, the moonlight from far above glinting off the weapon’s tips.
"The Council seeks to bleed the ocean dry," he said, voice carrying through the water like thunder. "They think to cage the tide. They poison what they cannot conquer."
A low growl rose from the gathered forces — a sound that made even the sharks keep their distance.
"They believe the sea is my strength," Poseidon continued. "They are wrong. The sea is yours. And it will answer."
He lifted the trident, and the currents around him surged in a spiral, pulling the gathered army closer. "We will hunt them in the dark. Every ship that carries their taint will sink before it reaches land. Every hand that spills this poison will be broken. And when they are found—" His voice dropped to a deadly calm. "—we will not return them to the surface."
The court roared its approval, the sound rolling like an undersea quake.
---
Far to the east, aboard the black-glass flagship, Maltheus stood at the prow, watching the poisoned waters churn in the moonlight.
"Let him rage," he murmured. "The more he strikes at shadows, the closer he walks into the net."
Behind him, Aegirion said nothing. He only stared at the horizon, feeling the weight of what was coming. For the first time in his long service to the Council, he wondered if they had made a mistake not by fighting Poseidon — but by waking him at all.