The Edge of Power

  They set up camp beneath a whispering sky. The ridge was too quiet. The sea, too strange. And no one dared push forward with night crawling in.

  No fire tonight. Just wind, hissing between stones. Waves breathing slow against the cliffside. Somewhere beyond the tents, Phinx sat like a statue—his gaze locked on the sea.

  Hiro knelt alone.

  A ring of scorched earth surrounded him, marked by half-burnt scrolls and blank parchment awaiting purpose. His fingers, blackened with ash and coal, moved carefully.

  “If I connect this node... with this tether.”

  He drew a spiral nested in a triangle—meant to hold lightning in a controlled arc.

  It pulsed.

  Then cracked.

  A sharp spark leapt skyward, vanished into the cliff.

  Hiro sighed and rubbed his brow. “That one almost worked.”

  A rustle behind him.

  Elysia stepped into the moonlight, her cloak tight around her shoulders. She didn’t sit. Just watched.

  “Thought you were asleep,” he said.

  “Was. You woke me up trying to burn half the camp down.”

  He smirked. “This is harder than I thought. Casting glyphs is nothing like channeling them. Elemental convergence makes sense in theory—but making it work?” He shook his head. “Whole different storm.”

  He summoned a bolt into his palm. A tight arc of white-blue lightning, crackling softly.

  “Now watch.”

  He fed fire into it.

  The glow twisted—blue flaring into molten red. But instead of merging, the elements fought. The arc warped and drooped like wax.

  “It’s like they’re at war.”

  “Maybe you’re adding too much fire.” She finally sat, folding her legs beneath her. Then: “I was wondering… why don’t you use lightning like Zeus?”

  The question hung longer than it should’ve.

  Hiro stared at the glyph still glowing faintly on the scroll. “Because I didn’t even know I had it.”

  He paused.

  “The first time it happened… I died. Two great birds died with me. One of them… was Phinx.”

  Elysia blinked. “You… died?”

  He nodded slowly. “Briefly. I don’t remember the in-between. Just darkness. Then flame. And him.”

  She didn’t move. Some part of her had already known.

  “Hiro,” she said softly. “That’s not something you just say in passing.”

  He almost smiled. “It wasn’t in passing. I’m still here.”

  He dug his fingers into the dirt.

  “When I fought Alecto… I lost control. A bolt tore out of me. Ripped through the arena. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

  His jaw clenched. “I could’ve killed everyone.”

  She was quiet.

  “My mother taught me control. But what if it slips again?”

  Elysia stood.

  “You’re not wrong to fear your power,” she said, eyes lifting to the horizon. “Zeus is the God of Kings for a reason.”

  She turned. Then paused.

  “One day… you’ll need more than reach. You’ll need precision. Something clean. Long-range.”

  A glance over her shoulder.

  “Get over the fear. Become more than Zeus. He wields. You channel. But if you did both?”

  She vanished into the dark.

  Hiro stayed.

  Then he rose.

  This time—not to channel. To cast.

  Lightning gathered in his palm. Soft at first. Then bold. Crawling across his arm like memory made real.

  Phinx stirred—but didn’t call out.

  The bolt grew. Controlled. Focused.

  Hiro pulled back his arm—and hurled it to the sea.

  It struck.

  A flash. A sky-born bolt answered, slamming into the waves. The sea roared—a tide rising like something waking.

  He stared at his hands. The brand on his chest pulsed, slow and knowing.

  “I wanted to carve my own path,” he murmured. “But maybe it’s foolish to ignore what you were capable of… Grandfather.”

  He looked toward the harbor—the future throne of tide and lightning.

  He walked past the sleeping camp. Past the stone where Poseidon once stood.

  To the edge of the water.

  The tide shifted.

  Beneath the deep: a golden light stirred.

  An eye opened.

  It did not rise.

  It did not shine.

  It watched.

  “I see you,” Hiro whispered. “I’m not here to harm you. I’ll free you from Olympus’ chains. The ocean will be yours again.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The light dimmed.

  The sea stilled.

  Above, an owl perched from the cliffs.

  The Warmth Beneath the Waves

  The morning light stretched long across the sand, thin as a blade.

  Hiro stirred in it, lying where tide met earth. His back ached, and his palms were gritty with salt—but he didn’t move.

  The sea was still whispering.

  Phinx was beside him, curled in a loose ring of feathers and smoke. His tail twitched gently in sleep, the embers dull. At the edge of Hiro’s vision, soft footfalls approached—then stopped.

  "You slept here all night?" Elysia’s voice. Tired, but not scolding. Curious.

  Hiro sat up slowly, brushing sand from his arm. "Felt like the right place to be."

  She looked toward the water. "Did it show itself again?"

  "No," Hiro said. "But it’s still there. Watching."

  She nodded once, then turned her gaze inland.

  Further up the hill, Thalos and Leonidas were already trading blows. Wooden blades cracked against each other like war drums, their training loud in the quiet dawn.

  Hiro stood, cracking his neck. "Have them chart a trail back to Athens," he said to Elysia. "Mark every elevation, cave, and lookout point. It’s a two-day trip—we need to cut it in half."

  "And us?" she asked.

  "You and Phinx should scout the cliffs. Look for spots we can turn into checkpoints or coastal towers. If this is going to be our harbor—we’ll need a lighthouse."

  "You’re starting to sound like a commander," She gave a faint smirk. "What will you do?"

  "I’m trying," Hiro said. "But for now—I’m going back to the harbor. That thing… it hasn’t left."

  She hesitated, then nodded. "Be careful."

  ---

  The cliffs folded around him like broken wings. Hiro returned alone to the harbor’s mouth, letting the waves lick his boots.

  The pull was stronger now.

  Something familiar; in his chest—the brand. It pulsed in time with the tide.

  He stepped forward. One more. Then another.

  And he dove.

  The cold struck first. But then came the heat—glimpses of divine essence swimming through the dark. The sea was vast and veiled, but not empty.

  And there—curled in a trench of glowing stone—was the beast.

  It wasn’t hiding. It was chained.

  https://i.imgur.com/BtlvlP7m.jpeg

  Massive links ran across its wings and spine, carved in glyphs Hiro couldn’t yet read. The beast’s gills fluttered weakly. Bioluminescent waves shimmered beneath its scales, pulsing like the heartbeat of the sea itself. A wound throbbed near its chest—slow, steady, dying.

  Its eye opened.

  Not violently. Not defensively.

  Just… tired.

  You called me, Hiro thought. Why?

  The beast didn’t speak. But something passed between them—a flash of memory: stormlight striking a crib of coral, pain wrapped in silence, Olympus above like a ceiling made of chains.

  Then Hiro’s breath gave out.

  He kicked hard and rose—bursting through the surface, gasping, soaked and shaking.

  The air tasted sharper.

  Like it knew what he had seen.

  ---

  He didn’t stop running until he reached the edge of camp.

  Thalos and Leonidas were gone and Elysia had just returned, Phinx gliding behind her.

  "Hiro?" she called. "What’s wrong?"

  "I saw it," he said, breathless. "It’s real. It’s still down there—but it’s wounded. And I finally saw it up close—it’s chained."

  Elysia moved toward him, frowning. "The glyphs at the harbor are restraining it? You mean it really is Olympus?"

  "Yeah," Hiro said quietly, the weight of it anchoring his voice. "They weren’t just watching it—they sealed it. And I think I can help it."

  She blinked. "Help it? Wait, how?"

  Hiro’s voice dropped, low and almost unsure. "There are times when I’m fighting… and something ignites in me. A warmth that isn’t mine. I can feel it… bringing me back when I’m close to breaking."

  He looked up at her, eyes clear now. "If I was reborn in phoenix flame, maybe that flame can heal more than just me."

  For a moment, she said nothing.

  Then she turned sharply and ran to the supply tent. "The scrolls—where are the scrolls from Nyrion?"

  Phinx gave a low cry as if understanding.

  The camp stirred.

  The tide waited.

  And somewhere beneath the waves, a divine creature stirred in silence… waiting to be unbound.

  The Healing Flame

  The sun was climbing when Leonidas and Thalos returned.

  Dust clung to their boots, and the maps they carried were frayed at the edges—scrawled with fresh ink, symbols, and notations. Thalos dropped his satchel near the fire pit and stretched with a groan. Leonidas said nothing, but his eyes scanned the camp, lingering a second too long on the sea.

  “The coast curves east,” Thalos said between sips of water. “Natural cliffs, some ruins. Could house lookouts.”

  Leonidas nodded. “There’s a pass between the hills. Could shave a day off our return to Athens if cleared.”

  “Good,” Hiro said, not looking up. "Athena's owl's should be around, leave the maps and they'll take them to her."

  He was crouched over a scroll from Nyrion, its edges weighted down by stones. His hands were blackened with soot and ash, the remains of glyphwork attempts. Beside him, Elysia flipped through another text—her finger tracing lines of ancient phoenix script.

  “Still think this is going to work?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hiro admitted. “But it’s the only lead we’ve got.”

  The scrolls spoke of the Flame That Remembers—an echo of rebirth carried through divine fire. Not a healing spell. Not a miracle. A memory. One that could awaken what had been silenced—but the fire would combine soul and flame.

  Phinx lay nearby, his wings twitching as if dreaming. Occasionally, he let out a soft sound, low and hollow, almost like mourning.

  “According to this,” Elysia said, tapping the parchment, “phoenix fire doesn’t just revive—it repairs what was meant to be whole. What is broken by nature and not by interference.”

  “Chains,” Hiro said. “Olympus.”

  Elysia gave a small nod. “Maybe.”

  A silence passed between them. The waves whispered below.

  Then Hiro stood, wrapping the scroll tight and strapping it to his back.

  "Are you sure about this?" Elysia asked. "Poseidon said the beast was his—and the text suggests that touching the flame might cause it to merge with you."

  “I’m going anyway,” he said.

  “I figured,” Elysia replied standing up and waving for Thalos and Leonidas to follow.

  ---

  They reached the harbor in silence.

  The wind had shifted—no longer whispering, but watching.

  As if the sea itself was holding its breath.

  Phinx flew ahead, wings stretched wide, tail trailing sparks. He circled once above the tide, then perched on a jagged stone—eyes locked on the water.

  Hiro stepped in without hesitation.

  The cold struck him again. But this time, it didn’t bite. It welcomed him.

  He dove.

  The world turned dark and endless.

  But the trench was waiting.

  The beast had not moved. It lay curled in the same bed of glowing stone, chains wrapped tighter than before. The glyphs across its body pulsed slower now, as though time itself were abandoning it.

  Its eye remained closed.

  Hiro reached out, hand trembling as he placed his palm against the beast’s wound. Nothing happened. No light. No fire. Only silence and the cold pressure of the deep.

  “I don’t know how to help you… but I heard you. And I came.”

  He clenched his jaw. Tried again.

  Still nothing.

  His lungs screamed for air.

  Then—Phinx’s cry.

  It tore through the water like a flame through oil. Pure. Ancient. Grieving.

  The brand on his chest pulsed once—then flared.

  Someone was watching.

  A golden flame erupted from his palm. Not searing, but soft. Not destructive, but whole.

  It flowed into the wound.

  The chains shimmered, glyphs unraveling thread by thread. The water began to glow. The trench around them pulsed with soft light, as if remembering something older than Olympus.

  The beast stirred.

  Its eye opened.

  Not tired.

  Awake.

  It did not rise. It didn’t need to.

  It breathed—and the sea around it shifted in respect.

  ---

  Hiro surfaced, gasping.

  The sea did not resist him this time. It let him go, as if it understood.

  Elysia was there, waiting on the shore, cloak whipping in the wind. Phinx landed beside her, wings flaring wide in triumph.

  She stepped toward him, eyes wide. “You did it.”

  He dropped to his knees. “It’s not free. Not yet. But I think it wants to live again.”

  Then—voices.

  Armored steps. The sound of steel against stone.

  Cainos, Damaric, and Lyessa emerged over the ridge, cloaks flaring behind them. With them was a fourth figure—young, slight, and sharp-eyed beneath a silver-trimmed hood. His robes bore the blue-and-white sigil of Nyrion.

  Kaen.

  Cainos narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been gone too long, Princess.”

  Damaric’s gaze landed on Hiro—soaked, shirt burned open, chest still glowing faintly.

  Lyessa tilted her head slightly, watching the surf.

  “You weren’t the only thing moving in those waters.”

  Kaen stepped forward, arms folded. His gaze landed on Hiro, sharp and calculating.

  "You must be Hiro. The one they branded."

  Hiro raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"

  "Kaen of Nyrion," he said, offering a shallow bow. "Glyph scholar. I was told you’d be interesting, but this…" His eyes flicked to the glowing brand on Hiro’s chest. "...exceeds expectation."

  Elysia stepped in. "Kaen will be assisting with glyphwork. Athena’s orders."

  Kaen gave a faint smile. "The rest of Nyrion stayed in Athens with her. I volunteered to scout ahead."

  Hiro nodded once, then gestured toward the sea. "Think you can break those glyphs—the ones binding it?"

  Kaen turned to the tide, studying the glow deep beneath. "Possibly. Luckily, this one’s old. Almost out of power."

  Kaen turned to the glyphs on the harbor wall.

  "Is that your boyfriend?" he asked, deadpan.

  Elysia froze. "Huh?! What?!" Her face flushed, color blooming to her ears.

  A moment passed.

  Then a deep, thunderous roar echoed from the sea.

  The ocean split—waves parting with divine force—and from the heart of it rose a man draped in seafoam and saltlight, eyes deep as the abyss.

  Poseidon had come.

  The tide didn’t crash—it knelt.

  And the sea remembered its master.