CHAPTER FORTY FOUR: BENEATH THE SURFACE

"The strongest souls are forged in the fires of struggle, and every step forward is a victory over doubt." — Unknown

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The air in the chamber pressed down on Gravill like a living thing, heavy with salt and the faint scent of brine. His chest tightened as the shadows rippled across the walls, the faint glow of the symbols reflecting in the water like fractured stars. The old man stood motionless, but his presence filled the room like a storm barely restrained.

Gravill shifted his weight, the sound of his boots scraping against the stone unnaturally loud. "What... what do I have to do?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

The old man didn't answer immediately. He circled Gravill like a predator sizing up prey, his black eyes gleaming like obsidian orbs. "Power without understanding is a danger to everyone — especially yourself," he finally said, voice cold enough to chill. "You were born of the sea, yet you stand on its shores like a stranger."

Gravill's pulse thudded in his ears. "I want to understand," he said, fists clenching at his sides. "I want to control it."

The man stopped in front of him, tilting his head as if weighing the truth in Gravill's words. "Control is not granted. It is taken," he whispered, raising a hand. The water in the pools churned, twisting into thin tendrils that slithered across the floor. "Step onto the platform."

Gravill hesitated, feeling every instinct scream at him to run. But he forced himself forward, stepping onto the raised stone. The symbols beneath his feet flared brighter, and the water crept closer, lapping at the edges like an impatient beast.

The man raised his hands, and the room shifted. The air thickened, the ripples in the water growing violent. The distant sound of waves crashing against rocks echoed through the chamber, though no ocean was near.

"This is not a test of strength," the man said, voice resonating like a distant tide. "It is a reckoning."

Gravill opened his mouth to speak, but water shot up from the pools, encasing his body in cold, suffocating force. He gasped, but the liquid pressed in, flooding his lungs. Panic flared as he thrashed, the world warping as the water pulled him under — even though he was still standing.

He sank into darkness.

And then he was somewhere else.

---

Gravill stood in the middle of a raging storm, the ocean stretching endlessly in every direction. Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating jagged waves that clawed at the heavens. Rain pelted his skin like needles, and the wind howled with an almost human scream.

He stumbled, feet sinking into the water, yet he didn't fall. The sea held him — or perhaps trapped him. He spun around, heart hammering, but there was no land. No horizon.

Just water.

And a voice.

"Why do you exist?" it boomed, low and thunderous, vibrating through the storm.

Gravill's breath hitched. "I don't know," he shouted into the chaos.

The ocean surged, rising higher. "Why do you exist?" the voice demanded again, louder, angrier.

Gravill shook his head, water dripping down his face like tears. "Because I was born!" he cried, voice raw. "Because my father — Poseidon — made me!"

The sea roared, a colossal wave rising like a wall. It crashed down, swallowing Gravill whole, dragging him into the abyss. He tumbled through the depths, salt burning his eyes, lungs aching for air. Shapes moved in the dark — massive, monstrous things that glowed with faint bioluminescent light. He couldn't tell if they were fish, gods, or ghosts.

He kept sinking.

Down, down, down.

Until he hit the ocean floor.

He gasped, somehow able to breathe again, but the pressure of the deep pressed against him. He stood, feet sinking into the silt, staring up into the endless void above.

And someone was waiting for him.

A figure sat on a broken throne made of coral and bone, their face shrouded by a tattered hood. But the trident resting against their shoulder gleamed unmistakably, its three prongs tipped with glistening pearls.

Gravill's heart lurched. "Father?" he whispered.

The figure didn't move.

"You are not ready," the voice echoed around him, vibrating through the sea. The throne and the figure crumbled to sand, dissolving in the currents. The ocean floor split open, a yawning chasm tearing through the earth.

And hands reached out of the darkness.

Human hands.

Dozens of them, pale and bloated, fingers grasping for Gravill's ankles. He staggered back, stomach lurching as he realized what they were.

The dead.

They clawed at him, faces distorted by water and anguish, mouths open in silent screams. Gravill scrambled to escape, but the sea floor dragged him down, cold fingers wrapping around his limbs.

And as the dead pulled him under, he heard Ares' voice echo in his head.

"When gods break rules, mortals die."

Gravill's vision blurred.

Then everything went black.

---

He woke up on the platform, coughing up water. His entire body shook as he collapsed to his knees, chest heaving. The old man stood where he had before, unmoved, as if nothing had happened.

Gravill wiped his mouth, heart racing. "What... what was that?" he rasped.

The man watched him carefully. "The weight of your existence," he said. "You carry the ocean's wrath and its grief."

Gravill swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to steady himself. "I want to try again," he whispered, voice hoarse but resolute.

The man's expression softened — barely — like a distant tide retreating. "Good," he said. "Because the sea never grants mercy."

He raised his hands, and the water stirred again.

Gravill clenched his fists and stood up.

Ready to face the storm.