Well, this was the worst possible outcome.

The sea lay in ruin, jagged shipwrecks jutting from the waves like broken teeth, remnants of what had once been Odysseus’s fleet. The air carried salt and sorrow, the ghosts of six hundred men whispering through the crash of the surf. And there, clinging to the remains of shattered timber, stood the King of Ithaca himself—ragged, scarred, yet still breathing. Still standing.

Poseidon’s voice rumbled from below, deep and resonant, a sound more felt than heard. “There you are, coward.” The word was laced with venom, carried by the currents, seeping into Odysseus’s bones. Beneath the waves, his form shifted—glimpses of divine terror, half-seen through murky depths. The sleek, terrible silhouette of a horse, mane flowing like strands of kelp, eyes glowing an unholy blue. His massive shape circled beneath the surface, predator toying with prey, letting fear gnaw before the strike.

The god did not rise immediately. He lingered in shadow, letting silence stretch, broken only by the creak of wreckage and the lapping waves. Then, his voice came again, reverberating with storm and hate.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment… for the perfect time to strike.”

The water trembled with each syllable, ripples spiraling outward. “When your home's so close and you've reached your coast.”

The waves swelled, pushing higher, black with Poseidon’s wrath. Slowly, impossibly, he began to surface. First came the glint of a scaled mane breaking the foam, then the towering rise of his equine head, crowned with streaming water. His gaze burned through the mist, fixed on Odysseus with the weight of years of fury.

“That is when our paths collide.”

The words rolled like thunder. His massive form rose higher, shifting between god and beast, horse and man, a nightmare born of the sea itself. He emerged in full, dripping and colossal, his shadow blotting out the horizon. The ocean surged behind him like an army awaiting command.

The game was over. The hunt had ended. Now came judgment.