Wrath of the Forgotten

Storm on the horizon

The waves crashed violently against the blackened rocks, their thunderous roar swallowed by the howling wind. Amphitrite felt the tremor of the island beneath her bare feet—a slow, steady pulse, like a heartbeat long thought stilled. The scent of brine and storm wrapped around her like a cloak, familiar and unyielding.

She had walked the ocean floor for centuries, commanded tides and currents with a flick of her fingers, but standing here, on land abandoned by gods and mortals alike, felt different. Heavier. As if the air itself pressed down upon them, waiting.

Behind her, Medusa wrung the seawater from her hair, the serpents hidden within her curls hissing softly at the salt-laden wind. “I don’t like it,” she muttered. “This place remembers.”

Athena did not pause. Her golden eyes, alight with something unreadable, traced the jagged cliffs in the distance. “Good,” she said, her fingers tightening around her spear. “That means it still listens.”

Amphitrite reached out, brushing her fingers through the damp air, feeling the power that lingered beneath the surface of this forsaken place. It was old, older than Olympus, older than the gods who had carved their names into history with fire and war. It was a power cast aside, buried beneath shifting tides and forgotten prayers.

Athena pressed forward, unyielding, her sandals silent against the obsidian sands. Amphitrite and Medusa followed, their movements instinctive, their silence filled with unspoken purpose.

The ruins emerged from the mist like broken ribs jutting from the earth, the remnants of pillars and shattered altars barely visible against the darkening sky. Time had worn away the names once carved into the stone, but power clung to them like ghosts.

Medusa trailed her fingers along a fractured column, her gaze unreadable. “I know this place,” she murmured. “Before the gods, before Olympus—there were others.”

Amphitrite felt it too, a memory not her own. The echo of voices long silenced, the weight of offerings left unclaimed. This was no mere ruin. It was a graveyard of forgotten gods, their fury lingering like a storm waiting to break.

Athena turned to them, her expression set. “The gods took what they wanted and left the rest to rot. But power does not die—it waits. And tonight, we wake it.”

Medusa’s lips curled into a sharp grin. “Good. I’ve been waiting too.”

Amphitrite did not smile. Instead, she closed her eyes and let the tide in her veins rise.

The storm above answered.

Tonight, the forgotten would rise.

Lightning crackled in the distance, illuminating the jagged cliffs with eerie flashes of pale light. The ground beneath their feet shifted slightly, as if disturbed by their presence. Amphitrite exhaled, letting the air carry the weight of something ancient stirring beneath the island’s surface.

“This place isn’t abandoned,” she murmured.

Medusa arched a brow. “I don’t see anyone rolling out a welcome feast.”

Athena pressed a hand against a crumbling altar, her eyes narrowing. “Not abandoned,” she agreed. “Only waiting.”

The wind picked up, howling through the ruins, carrying voices—whispers too faint to understand, but thick with urgency. Medusa stiffened, the golden glow in her eyes sharpening.

“They’re watching,” she said, her voice low.

Amphitrite walked to the edge of the ruins, her gaze sweeping over the restless waves beyond. “They never stopped.”

She knelt, pressing her palm to the damp, darkened earth, feeling the thrumming pulse beneath the surface. The water beneath this island was restless, coiled like a living thing, its fury barely restrained. It did not belong to her—not yet—but it recognized her.

Athena stepped beside her, spear held loose in her grip. “It’s time.”

Medusa tilted her head, eyes flickering with curiosity. “Time for what, exactly?”

Athena’s gaze was unreadable as she lifted her spear and drove its tip into the ground. A sound like a low, resonant chime rippled outward, vibrating through the stone. The whispers grew louder.

“To remind the old gods that they were never forgotten.”

The island groaned, the earth beneath them trembling as if something had woken deep below. Amphitrite pulled her hand back, feeling warmth spread through her palm where it had touched the ground. It was not the heat of fire, but something else—something ancient, something restless.

Medusa smirked, though there was an edge of unease behind her confidence. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Athena met her gaze, unshaken. “We’re here to find out.”

The storm overhead rumbled, the clouds swirling into a deep vortex of shadow and lightning. The sea churned against the shore, the waves clawing higher, as if eager to reclaim the land. Amphitrite’s fingers twitched at her sides, the salt in the air thick on her tongue.

And then, the whispering stopped.

A silence heavier than the storm itself pressed down upon them. The ruins no longer hummed with power, but something else—something watchful. Waiting.

Amphitrite swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“They know we’re here.”

The sea pulled back from the shore in a sudden, unnatural retreat. The waves did not crash—they simply disappeared, revealing darkened stone and bones half-buried in the wet sand. Amphitrite felt her pulse quicken, her body responding instinctively to the shift.

Medusa’s smirk faded. “That’s not normal.”

Athena lifted her chin, unwavering. “Neither are we.”

The air thickened, charged with something unseen. The bones in the sand trembled, then—slowly—began to rise. Not by the pull of the tide, nor by the force of the wind, but by something older than both.

Amphitrite did not move. Neither did Medusa.

Athena, still gripping her spear, only breathed one word.

“Rise.”

And the island obeyed , cold and unyielding.