Kymopoleia's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The morning after her first true mastery, Kymopoleia could not go back to the training hall. Guards lined its doors now. Her mother's eyes followed every current near the palace. If she practiced under watchful stares, someone would see what she could do, and fear would follow. Sophronios had warned her. Power others could see, they would try to control. She needed a place with no eyes at all. She slipped out of Atlantis before the glow-coral woke. A school of fish scattered as she swam past the city's edge, their bodies flashing silver and gold. She kept going, past the market gate, into dark water where no patrols reached. She was looking for somewhere her storm could scream without a witness. Far out, the seafloor dropped away. A volcano rose from the dark, its black sides split by glowing cracks. Lava bled from the fissures in slow orange ribbons. The heat warped the water. No guard would follow her here. No fish lingered. It was empty and ugly and perfect. Near its base lay a shipwreck, a broken hull half-buried in ash. Torn timbers jutted up like ribs. Kymopoleia circled it. The dead ship meant no one sailed these waters. She had found her secret place. She lifted her trident and let the old grief rise. The giant's hundred hands. Her father's cold decree. She breathed, as Sophronios taught, and pushed the feeling down the shaft toward the silver prongs. The aquamarine crystals blazed. The storm poured out of her and struck the wreck. Timbers exploded. Ash boiled up in a black cloud. Kymopoleia stayed standing. Unhurt. She laughed, shaking, and did it again. Harder. The current tore through the hull and slammed into the volcano. A fissure cracked wider. Lava gushed free, brighter than before. She stopped, breathing hard. The wreck was ruins now. But the volcano groaned. The ground shuddered under her. The crack she had split kept spreading, and more lava spilled out, climbing toward a vent above. She had not just practiced. She had wounded the mountain. A deep rumble rolled through the water. Kymopoleia backed away. Her secret place held fire she did not understand, and she had just fed it her storm. If the volcano burst, the quake would travel. It would reach Atlantis. And if her mother felt the sea shake, she would ask what caused it. Kymopoleia stared at the widening glow. She had her hidden ground at last. But she had woken something under it, and now she had to choose: flee and hope the mountain settled, or stay and learn to aim her power before it tore the trench open. She gripped her trident tighter and turned back toward the fissure.