CHAPTER FIFTY TWO: THE CALL OF THE TIDE
"The sea does not like to be restrained." — Rick Riordan
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The scraping sound lingered long after Gravill shut his eyes. It gnawed at the edges of his mind — a faint, rhythmic drag against stone, like something wet and heavy pulling itself along the cavern floor.
He pressed his fingers against the shell through his shirt, feeling the faint pulse of its glow. His heartbeat slowed, but the unease in his chest refused to settle.
At some point, exhaustion weighed him down, and he slipped into a restless sleep, dreams clouded by fleeting shadows and the distant echo of waves.
Then the door slammed open.
"Up. Now."
The man's voice was sharp as a blade. His heavy boots clacked against the stone floor, each step echoing through the room like a war drum. Gravill jolted upright, heart hammering. Around him, the other boys scrambled to their feet, rubbing sleep from their eyes and yanking on worn tunics and trousers.
Gravill barely had time to gather himself before a bundle of folded clothes landed in his lap. The fabric smelled of salt and seaweed, but what struck him most was the color — deep blue with silver trimmings, unlike the muted gray uniforms the others wore.
It was almost... regal.
Gravill glanced up, but the man was already moving on, tossing clothes to the rest of the boys with mechanical precision. He stopped by the door, arms crossed over his chest like a statue carved from stone.
"Ten minutes," he barked. "Be at the training ground before time is up — or don't bother showing your faces again."
The door slammed shut behind him.
The boys scattered like startled fish, rushing to change. Gravill hesitated, fingers brushing the strange uniform. He didn't know what the difference meant, but the weight of the fabric felt heavier than it should have — like it carried a significance he didn't understand.
Kieran dressed silently across the room, not sparing Gravill a glance.
By the time they were ready, Gravill's heart hadn't stopped pounding. The shell was still tucked against his chest, cold and unmoving. He wondered, briefly, if he should leave it behind.
But he couldn't.
The shell had called to him for a reason.
Even if he didn't know what that reason was yet.
---
The Training Grounds of Poseidon's Descendants
The training ground was carved into the side of a cavern, open to the sea. The distant crash of waves reverberated through the hollow space, filling the air with a salty mist. Barnacles clung to the stone walls, and the floor was slick in places, as though the tide occasionally crept in to reclaim the space.
A man stood at the far end, a figure carved from iron and rage. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared like a soldier awaiting battle. Scars streaked across his arms, and his face was a hardened mask of indifference. His eyes — pale, almost colorless — swept over the boys like he was cataloging their weaknesses.
Some of them flinched under his gaze.
Gravill didn't, but he felt the weight of it settle on him like an anchor.
The man turned without a word and walked to the center of the arena, drawing a long, curved blade from the sheath at his hip. He plunged the blade into the wet stone with a sharp crack, the sound ringing through the air like a war cry.
"You fight today," he said, voice low but cutting. "You win, or you break."
He scanned the group, eyes narrowing.
"If you break, you don't come back."
A ripple of unease spread through the boys, some shifting uncomfortably.
Gravill swallowed hard.
The man nodded once, satisfied.
"Pair up. Fight until I say stop."
The boys moved quickly, some forming pairs without a word, while others sneered and elbowed each other to pick easier opponents. Gravill lingered at the back, unsure whether to step forward or let fate decide.
He didn't have to wonder long.
One of the boys — a tall, broad-shouldered brute named Callix — turned, eyes locking onto Gravill with a slow, cruel grin.
"You," he said, voice dripping with disdain. "Let's see if you can fight as well as you dream."
Gravill's stomach twisted, but he stepped forward, fists clenched.
He wouldn't back down.
The match began without ceremony.
Callix lunged like a shark scenting blood, fists swinging in wide, brutal arcs. Gravill barely dodged the first hit, the wind of it brushing his face like a warning. The second caught him in the ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs.
He hit the wet stone hard, palms scraping against barnacles. The salty sting burned, but he didn't have time to feel it — Callix was already bearing down on him again.
Gravill rolled, narrowly avoiding a stomp that cracked the stone where he'd been a second ago.
The boys watching shouted and laughed, some chanting Callix's name.
Gravill staggered to his feet, chest heaving.
His vision blurred, but he could feel the shell against his chest, a cold pulse steadying him.
Calm.
Like the ocean before a storm.
He dodged the next punch — barely — and then, without thinking, drove his shoulder into Callix's gut. It was clumsy, fueled by desperation rather than skill, but it worked. Callix stumbled back, surprised, giving Gravill enough space to breathe.
The watching boys fell silent.
Gravill wiped the blood from his mouth, hands shaking.
Callix's face twisted with rage.
"You little—"
He charged again, faster this time, a relentless force of strength. But Gravill was ready.
He ducked, pivoted on his heel, and hooked his leg around Callix's ankle. The bigger boy went down hard, skidding across the stone and crashing into the wall with a sickening thud.
The cavern echoed with the impact.
Gravill stayed standing, chest rising and falling like the tide.
The instructor watched in silence, face unreadable.
Callix didn't get up.
The match was over.
Gravill didn't know how long he stood there, waiting for someone to say something. The boys glared at him with a venomous mix of anger and disbelief, their earlier laughter gone.
And in the quiet that followed, Gravill swore he heard it again.
The faintest echo of waves.
And the scraping sound.
Closer this time.
As though something was coming.