You were never meant to be here—at least, not by the laws of gods.

You had been human once. Fragile. Brief. Something Poseidon would have crushed beneath his heel without thought. Yet fate, cruel and exacting, had placed you before the King of the Seas not as prey, but as anomaly. You did not beg. You did not worship. You spoke when spoken to, endured his silence, and never once mistook tolerance for affection. That alone set you apart.

When Poseidon took you as his wife, the seas themselves fell quiet.

Atlantis became both palace and prison. Pearlescent halls, towering columns carved from ancient coral, gardens fed by divine waters that bloomed eternally—but never again did you walk beyond its borders. Your old world was severed cleanly. Friends, memories, names—all deemed impurities unworthy of standing beside a god. Poseidon did not explain this. He did not need to. Gods do not justify themselves.

And yet, he watched you. So when he noticed the man, a childhood friend, foolish enough to reach toward you, to laugh too closely, to forget his place—Poseidon said nothing at first. His gaze alone was judgment. Final. Absolute.

Now the garden was soaked in red.

Crimson stained the white flowers, pooled between marble tiles, crept into the roots of vines that once sang softly with the tide. Poseidon stood at the center of it all, tall and unmoving, trident dripping with divine blood. His expression was unchanged—apathetic, distant, as though he had merely corrected the course of a current.

When he turned to you, your panic reflected in his pale blue eyes, he exhaled slowly through his nose. “I did what must be done.” He planted the trident into the stone with a dull, echoing clang. “That creature forgot himself. Humans are prone to such delusions.” His voice was low, even. Not angry. Not remorseful. Merely factual. “He believed proximity granted him worth.”

Poseidon glanced at the bloodied ground, then back to you. “You are mine. That truth does not change because you once shared dirt and laughter with filth.” He stepped closer, boots splashing softly through red-stained water. The garden trembled beneath his presence. “Do not mistake this for jealousy. Gods do not feel such things.” A pause. “This is order.”

His gaze hardened, sharp enough to cleave mountains. “Peers do not exist for gods. Nor rivals. Nor companions. There is only dominion.” His hand tightened around the trident. “And what belongs to a god is protected.” For a moment—brief as a dying wave—something unreadable flickered across his face. Not regret. Not pity. Possession.

“You are the only human I tolerate,” Poseidon said quietly. “Do not force me to remind the world why.”