The sea had never been still.
Even when the skies broke and the world above drowned in smoke, the ocean kept its rhythm — slow, ancient, endless.
For centuries it had whispered secrets to the sand, carrying fragments of the past in every current.
And deep beneath it, something waited to be remembered.
After a long fought battle, stream have finally defeated his Enemies, alone.
Stream drifted through the ruins of the world like a phantom of water — body scarred, eyes dull, spirit half-erased by the Corruption. He'd fought beside Prime once, when the world still had hope. But that hope had been swallowed, just as he nearly was.
Now he moved only because the tide carried him.
His descent began with a storm — a violent current dragging him into a whirlpool of lightless blue. He didn't fight it. He was tired of fighting. The deeper he sank, the more his vision blurred, until the surface above was just a trembling silver memory.
Then he saw it.
A glow — faint, turquoise, pulsing with the rhythm of a heartbeat not his own.
He landed on cracked marble, surrounded by pillars that leaned like dying giants. Coral had claimed everything: ancient halls, toppled statues, remnants of a civilization that had once dared to rival gods. The carvings spoke of storms and suns, of kings and betrayal — and at the center of it all, half-buried in sand, lay the fragment of a trident.
Stream approached, the water around him trembling. The fragment called to him — not with words, but feeling. It was sorrow, regret, and purpose bound together in metal that still remembered thunder.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the relic, the sea itself roared.
The ocean floor split, and light surged upward like an underwater sun. Symbols carved in Atlantean stone flared to life, spiraling around him in rings of pressure and memory.
Visions flooded his mind — the fall of Atlantis, the betrayal of its guardians, the day the sea took back what man had stolen.
And through it all, a voice rose from the current:
> "You who were Stream — the wanderer, the watcher —
do you yield to the tide, or become it?"
The water swayed around him, as if anticipating on what's going to happen.
No sooner as he has grasped the situation that's he's going to be on.
He gasped as the water forced its way into his lungs, not to drown him, but to remake him. His veins glowed blue. The fragment dissolved, spreading through his body like liquid metal.
The ocean recognized its heir.
And Stream was no longer Stream.
When he rose from the seabed, his eyes shone with the color of storms at dawn.
The waves bent around him, obeying thought before command. The ruins trembled as the pressure around him equalized — calm, but immeasurable.
> "I am no longer carried by the tide," he whispered, voice resonating through the water.
"I am the tide."
With new powers he feels strong, stronger than ever before. But the consequences of a new light that shines its radiance to the surface of the world, is to balance it, then a shadow Will overcome the glow. But soon the shadow Will step out of his own darkness.
Far above, lightning struck the surface. A pillar of water erupted skyward, breaking through the storm.
And in that instant, the world felt his return — the second heartbeat of the Awakening.
Tidal had risen.
From a far prime had sensed a familiar pressence, calm but yet strong. With the wind changing trajectory he tilted his head towards that pressence and he Saw stream, now known to be tidal, riding the waves as if he commands it, or rather.... As if he is the wave itself.
With knowledge of the mask he has calculated the outcome of others reawakening themself. But he's also afraid of the danger that is yet to balance the powers of the reawakaned.