Chapter 329: The Spear of Trium
The skies above Olympus were restless. Clouds coiled and boiled, not with storm but with anticipation. It was not thunder that cracked across the horizon, but the tension of gods who had gathered for one purpose—the destruction of Poseidon, the drowned god who now walked as conqueror.
Inside the Hall of Pantheon, marble columns trembled as three figures took their seats at the center dais. Zeus, lord of the sky, sat upon a throne of lightning wrought into gold. Beside him, Hades, pale as ash and draped in shadows. And the third seat—Poseidon’s, empty since his defiance—stood cold and abandoned, its trident sigil carved into stone like an accusation.
Around them, dozens of gods whispered, some fearful, others resolute. But all eyes turned forward when Zeus raised his hand, and the storm-light dimmed into silence.
"It has come to this," he began, his voice carrying like a decree written into the marrow of the world. "Our brother... Poseidon... no longer answers to Olympus. He no longer holds to the order we forged. He has drowned cities, shattered harbors, and called storms without heed. His sea rises not as domain, but as dominion."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Some gods nodded. Others scowled, unwilling to admit that one of their own had slipped beyond them.
Hades leaned forward, his eyes dark pits. "This is not simply Poseidon. We all feel it. His essence has deepened. Something stirs beneath his tide. Thalorin’s abyss runs in him still."
The name twisted the chamber into unease. Thalorin—the primordial drowned one. The abyss that had once threatened to consume creation itself.
Zeus’s hand tightened on the haft of his thunderbolt. "Then words and decrees are useless. If he rises as more than a god, then we must strike as more than gods."
At that, Hera frowned, her voice like a knife drawn across stone. "What do you propose? Our strength already fractures when matched against him in the tides. His will is ocean. No blade can pierce it."
Zeus’s gaze fell to the empty dais. His tone dropped into finality.
"Not one blade. Three."
The chamber grew still.
Even Hades’s shadows recoiled at the implication.
"You cannot mean..." murmured Athena, her gray eyes widening.
Zeus rose, his thunderbolt blazing brighter until even divine eyes blinked against it. "Yes. The Spear of Trium."
The words struck harder than lightning. Every god knew the legend whispered in the forges of Olympus—an ultimate weapon, not of single dominion, but of balance, born only when the three primal forces of cosmos converged.
Sky. Sea. Underworld.
It was forbidden for good reason. To forge such a weapon was to fuse the most destructive cores of creation into one. The Spear of Trium was no mere blade—it was a judgment.
Hades’s lips curled into a thin smile. "At last, brother. You admit only obliteration can stop him."
Zeus’s eyes flared. "This is not triumph. This is necessity. My thunderbolt. Your pitchfork. His trident. Only their essences can bind."
"Poseidon will never give his willingly," Athena cut in sharply. "You speak of tearing his soul apart."
"Yes," Hades said smoothly. "That is exactly what he speaks of."
A bitter silence fell. None denied the truth—they had tried council, warbands, wards, storms. And Poseidon had broken them all. His dominion spilled farther with each passing day. Mortal kingdoms crumbled beneath rising seas, and even the divine temples now wept saltwater through cracks in their stone.
"If we wait," said Ares, pounding his spear against the floor, "the seas will swallow Olympus itself. I say forge it now. Hunt him. Strike him."
Demeter shook her head, voice trembling. "And risk breaking balance forever? Sky, sea, underworld—they were divided for a reason. Fuse them, and what remains of us?"
But her words were lost beneath Zeus’s thunder.
"Without it," he roared, "what remains of us will be bones in salt."
The council fractured into argument. Some demanded haste, others feared the price. But all knew the same truth: Poseidon would not stop. He was no longer guardian of the seas. He had become the sea itself. And even gods drown.
---
The Forge of Olympus
The decision was made.
By decree of the council, the three rulers of the cosmos would descend to Hephaestus’s forge, where the molten heart of Olympus burned hotter than suns.
The forge-master awaited them, one eye glowing like ember, the other clouded with soot. He bowed, not to Zeus, not to Hades, but to the empty space where Poseidon should have stood. Even in absence, the sea’s presence haunted the chamber.
"You seek Trium," Hephaestus said, voice heavy with dread. "Then you seek to bind the first laws of creation. Sky. Depth. Below. Do you understand what it costs?"
Zeus’s hand sparked around his thunderbolt. "We do."
Hades’s lips thinned. "We do not care."
The smith nodded grimly. He raised his hammer, and the forge roared brighter, rivers of molten celestial fire flowing around them.
"Then bring them," he said. "The three cores. Without each, the Spear is nothing. With them... it is everything."
The First Gift — Thunder
Zeus stood first. He held his thunderbolt aloft. The weapon, forged from storm and sky at the dawn of Olympus, pulsed like a living heart. He closed his eyes, murmured words older than language, and drove it into the anvil.
The forge shook. Lightning cascaded outward, filling the air with the scent of ozone and ash. A core of pure stormlight bled from the thunderbolt, a sphere crackling with the essence of the heavens.
Zeus staggered, pale, gripping the air as though part of himself had been torn away. The thunderbolt dimmed in his hand, still powerful, but no longer absolute.
The Second Gift — Pitchfork
Hades stepped forward. From the shadows, his pitchfork materialized, its tines dripping darkness that ate the forge-fire. He lifted it high, and the chamber temperature plummeted. Flames froze mid-air, their light swallowed.
"This is no gift," Hades said, his voice like a grave opening. "This is debt."
He drove the pitchfork into the anvil.
The forge screamed. A shard of void tore free, a core darker than night, heavier than stone, pulsing with death’s inevitability. Hephaestus caught it with tongs, sealing it in a sphere of starlight.
Hades withdrew, his pitchfork weaker, his eyes colder. Yet hunger glimmered in him. He was ready to see Poseidon broken.
The Third Gift — Sea
The chamber fell silent. All eyes turned to the trident’s empty pedestal.
"The sea must bleed its heart," Hephaestus said softly. "Without it, there is no Spear. Sky and underworld alone cannot bind."
The words rang like doom.
Poseidon’s trident. His essence. The very breath of the ocean.
To forge Trium, they would have to tear it from him.
Zeus gripped the edge of the anvil, fury sparking in his veins. "Then we hunt. We pierce the drowned god, and we strip his soul for the weapon that will end him."
Hades’s smile widened, thin as a knife. "He will rage. He will break. But in breaking, he will fall."
And above them all, in the hall’s shadows, a whisper curled like foam along the tide.
"You think to forge my end."
Every god stiffened.
The forge trembled.
The water in the molten channels rippled—though there had been no water to ripple.
Poseidon’s voice echoed, not from air, not from sea, but from within their bones.
"You would steal my heart. Forge my death. But remember, brothers..."
The shadows thickened. The forge fires guttered low.
"...the sea does not lend. It only takes back."
And then the presence was gone.
Only silence remained. But fear clung to the gods like salt to skin.
The hunt for the trident had begun. And Poseidon already knew.