Reincarnated As Poseidon-Chapter 55: Dominic 1

The sea had gone quiet again—but it wasn’t the same silence as before.

It was the kind of stillness that came after something enormous had stirred and simply... decided to wait. The kind that made even the bravest creatures slow their swimming, and the oldest gods look over their shoulders.

Dominic stood at the edge of the altar ruins, breathing heavily, though no real breath passed through his gills. The trident had grown warm in his hand, pulsing in rhythm with his heart now, not the ocean’s. That scared him more than the seal cracking.

Because the ocean had accepted him—but not surrendered to him.

Beside him, Maelora still knelt. Her eyes were closed, head bowed slightly, almost in reverence. She didn’t speak. Neither did Varun, who stood at the boundary of the ruins, silently watching the trench below.

Dominic finally spoke.

> "This wasn’t the end."

Varun nodded. "It never is."

Maelora opened her eyes. "The ocean didn’t destroy you. That means something."

Dominic looked at her, quiet for a moment. "It means we’ve been given a chance. Just one. And if we mess it up—"

He didn’t finish the thought.

Because they all felt it.

The sea... leaned in.

It was no longer just water.

It was listening.

Again.

---

Hours passed.

Or maybe minutes. Time beneath the sea wasn’t always trustworthy.

They made camp near the ruins, shielded by coral growths that pulsed faintly with protective wards. Varun had traced them with a blade dipped in leviathan ink—old magic from the silent trenches of the south.

Maelora lit a flickering orb of sea-fire that hovered overhead, its soft green light casting shadows on the stone.

They sat.

Finally breathing.

And Dominic asked the question he had avoided all day.

> "What if the First Fallen comes back?"

Varun’s eyes flickered. "She will."

Maelora nodded. "She was just a messenger."

Dominic frowned. "A messenger for who?"

Maelora and Varun exchanged glances, then looked at Dominic.

Maelora leaned forward.

> "There was a name whispered once. Before sirens existed. Before gods shaped oceans. A being so ancient it was referred to only in reactions, not words."

She paused.

> "The Deep Choir didn’t create her. They feared her. She was the first to sing without being taught. Her notes shaped trenches. Raised storms."

Dominic’s voice was barely above a whisper. "What was she?"

Varun looked straight at him.

> "She was the ocean’s first pact. The one who asked nothing and gave everything."

> "The Siren Queen?" Dominic asked.

Maelora shook her head.

> "No. Not a queen. Not royalty. She had no throne. No armies. Just power."

Dominic looked down at his trident.

> "And if she returns?"

Varun’s face darkened. "She won’t come alone."

---

Suddenly, the water above them shifted.

Not violently.

Like a cloak being lifted.

They all stood.

Above the camp, a massive figure descended.

Clad in robes made of sea mist, with eyes like twin whirlpools and a crown of living coral. His body shimmered, translucent at the edges, as though he existed halfway between memory and matter.

It was Thalorin.

Dominic immediately stepped forward, prepared to speak—but Thalorin raised a hand.

> "This is not a warning. This is a pact."

He hovered before them, his voice both soft and absolute.

> "The sea has changed. You have changed it. And now, you must protect what it has chosen to remember."

Maelora bowed her head. Varun simply stood still, tense.

Dominic didn’t move.

> "I didn’t ask for any of this," he said.

Thalorin’s gaze didn’t waver.

> "But the sea didn’t ask for the gods either. And yet, here we are."

He reached forward—and placed a single drop of glowing water onto Dominic’s forehead.

The water didn’t fall.

It merged.

With his skin. With his blood.

With the trident.

> "This is the Deep Pact," Thalorin said. "Not a bond of command—but of memory. You will not control the sea. But you will remember what it once was. And protect what it wants to become."

Dominic’s vision blurred.

He saw the world as the ocean did.

Vast. Deep. Scarred. Beautiful.

But full of danger.

Storms rising in the west. Lyrielle’s Choir shifting again. Olympus watching—planning.

And in the very edge of vision...

Her.

The First Fallen.

Standing on a ridge of black coral.

Singing.

Not to summon destruction.

To invite it.

Dominic gasped, blinking.

The vision faded.

Thalorin was already gone.

But his voice remained:

> "When the Deep Choir sings again, choose what voice you follow. Memory. Or silence."

The sea’s mood had changed again.

Not in waves or temperature—but in tone.

Like a choir warming up its voice, low and soft. Unsettling. Harmonic in a way that didn’t comfort—it unnerved. The kind of harmony that signaled something ancient stretching awake after too long.

Dominic stood at the edge of the coral camp, his hand pressed against a smooth wall of ancient sea-stone, eyes staring into the blue-dark distance. He could feel it coming.

Not just the storm.

The Choir.

He didn’t know how he knew.

He just felt them.

And they were near.

---

Maelora surfaced beside him, silent, arms folded. Her armor still shimmered faintly with the mark of Thalorin’s blessing, a ghost-glow that hadn’t faded since the pact.

> "You hear it too," she said softly.

Dominic nodded.

> "It’s not just a song. It’s a... command. Calling things back that should’ve stayed lost."

Varun joined them from the far trench wall, dragging a deep-scale creature with twisted eyes and too many fins. The thing had drowned hours ago from the pressure, and yet it still twitched in his grip.

> "The dead are moving toward the singing," Varun muttered, tossing the creature onto the coral floor. "Even the ones that shouldn’t be able to."

Dominic stared at the beast. It blinked once... then collapsed into stillness again.

> "She’s calling them," he said.

> "Lyrielle?" Maelora asked.

Dominic shook his head.

> "No. Not her. The First Fallen."

---

Far away, at the edges of the western reef—the Choir gathered.

They did not walk.

They did not swim.

They drifted—like memory itself.

They were not bound by the sea, but part of it. Each one was a fragment of the forgotten—drowned lovers, lost gods, ancient warriors, and voices never born. Their eyes glowed not with life, but with regret.

And at their center...

She floated.

The First Fallen.

Her hair flowed like ink in clear water. Her song barely left her lips. But still, it traveled. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t fast.

But it was deep.

With every verse, the tides responded. Whales turned toward it. Sharks swam beside her as if entranced. Even the corals bent toward the music like flowers seeking sun.

Her gaze was empty.

Yet every soul who met it... remembered pain.

---

Back at the ruins, Dominic turned sharply.

The coral under his feet began to hum.

A single note.

Low.

Endless.

The Deep Choir had arrived.

And they weren’t hiding.

> "They’re not attacking," Varun said, confused.

> "They don’t have to," Maelora muttered. "They’re inviting us."

Dominic felt a chill go through his bones.

> "Inviting us to do what?"

She looked him straight in the eye.

> "To join them."

---

Across the trenches, ancient sirens rose from their hibernation. Some looked beautiful. Others monstrous. All of them followed the song.

Some willingly.

Others screaming.

And in Olympus...

Ares gripped his spear tightly, stepping to the edge of the divine sea gate. "It’s beginning again."

Athena narrowed her eyes at the glowing map of the ocean, a frown tugging at her lips. "They’re not rising for war."

> "Then what?" Zeus asked from behind her, lightning dancing across his shoulders.

Athena turned.

> "They’re rising to remember."

---

Back below, Dominic placed his hand over the trident.

> "What are we supposed to do?" he whispered.

The sea didn’t answer.

But the scar beneath the altar pulsed once more—slower now.

Almost... watching.

And from the depths behind him came a whisper carried on a current:

> "The Choir has returned. And your memory... is incomplete."

Dominic turned.

Behind him floated another.

A boy.

His age.

Eyes like his.

But hollow.

> "Who—" Dominic began.

The boy tilted his head.

> "You forgot who you were before Poseidon."

> "I died," Dominic said. "I had no choice."

The boy smiled gently.

> "You had one. And soon, you’ll have to choose again."

He vanished like mist.

Dominic stood frozen.

> "What the hell is happening?" Maelora asked.

Dominic clenched the trident. His voice low.

> "They’re not just singing to raise the dead."

> "Then what?" Varun demanded.

Dominic turned toward the west, where the First Fallen’s melody rippled through the waves.

> "They’re singing to remind the sea of what it once loved—and what it lost."

The sea trembled—not with violence, but with longing.

Currents that had once been calm now drifted with purpose. Old shipwrecks creaked as if sighing awake. And even the deepest predators of the trenches paused their endless hunts to float still in the silence.

A memory tide had begun to roll.

It wasn’t water.

It was a wave of emotion.

Dominic braced himself against the coral outcropping, the trident’s glow pulsing to the same slow rhythm he had heard echoing from the First Fallen’s choir. The sound wasn’t meant to destroy.

It was meant to draw out.

To unbury the past.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is fre𝒆w(e)bn(o)vel