The sea had gone quiet.Not calm — quiet. As though something vast had withdrawn its breath.
Three days had passed since Theron vanished. Three nights since Callista had woken to an empty brazier and the soft imprint of where he used to lie. The temple, once warm with laughter, had returned to stillness — the kind that pressed on her chest until she could hardly breathe.
She told herself he would come back. That the sea had not taken him.But each morning, when the horizon remained bare, her hope thinned like mist in sunlight.
She stopped eating. She stopped speaking.Only the waves filled the silence — patient, cruel, endless.
On the fourth night, she went to the temple's edge, the cliffs sharp beneath her bare feet. The wind clawed at her robes, the salt stung her eyes, and she dropped to her knees in the sand.
Her voice trembled as she prayed.
"Lord of the Deep, you who bind the storms and shape the tide — hear me.I have tended your temple faithfully. I have lived in your silence, spoken your name in fear and reverence."
Her breath hitched; she bowed her head.
"But I am no priestess now. I am only a woman who asks for mercy.Bring him back to me. Let him stay.If you take him, let the tide bear me too — I cannot bear the silence again."
The sea did not rage or roar.It only listened.
Then, slowly, the wind shifted.The scent of salt deepened. The waves rolled closer, brushing against the steps where she knelt — as though reaching out, hesitant.
She lifted her head.
Through the fog, something moved.A shadow first. Then a shape. Then — a man.
Her heart stopped.
"Theron…"
He was walking through the surf, the water rising to his knees, his cloak heavy with rain. The silver band around his wrist caught the lightning flash above — alive with faint blue light.
He moved with purpose, not frailty. The waves parted around him as though unwilling to touch him, the water bowing to his steps.
When he reached the shore, she ran to him, the sand splashing beneath her feet. He stopped only when she was before him — her eyes wide, her breath trembling.
"Where were you?" she demanded. "I thought you were—"
"Gone?" he finished softly. His lips curved, though his gaze was shadowed. "So did I."
He raised a hand to touch her cheek — hesitant, reverent. His palm was cold, but his touch made her heart surge with warmth.
"The sea…" he murmured. "It wouldn't let me go."
Her eyes filled. "You talk as if it owns you."
"Maybe it does," he said, with a quiet that felt older than words. "But tonight, it listened to you instead."
She blinked, stunned. "What?"
"You prayed," he said. "I heard it."
Her pulse faltered. "You… heard me?"
"I felt it," he whispered. "Like a current through the deep."
She shook her head. "You're not making sense."
"Maybe not." His thumb brushed her jaw, tender. "But your voice found me where even the tide could not."
The storm broke then — not with fury, but with release. A great wave struck the cliffs behind them, scattering foam that shimmered faintly in the air.
Callista turned, awe and fear tangled in her chest. "What does it mean?"
Theron looked toward the horizon. "Maybe," he said softly, "it means the sea obeys you now."
Her breath caught. "No one commands the sea."
"No," he agreed, eyes returning to hers. "But sometimes, the sea listens."
They stood there in silence — mortal woman and hidden god — the surf swirling around their feet like a vow unspoken.
He didn't tremble. He didn't falter.But when he looked at her, something in him broke — not his strength, not his divinity, but the stillness of a god who had never known what it meant to need.