The battlefield had not yet decided it was finished with you.

Stone lay split and half-melted, divine ichor sizzling where it touched the ground. The air carried the weight of pressure still coiled too tightly, as if the sea itself were holding its breath. You straightened slowly, senses already searching—not for enemies, but for him.

Poseidon stood amid the ruin, trident embedded in the fractured earth. His posture was rigid, immaculate in defiance of the carnage around him. Any lesser god would have been on their knees. Any mortal would have been erased entirely. Yet the cut along his side was unmistakable, a thin line of blue-red gleaming against his skin.

Your body moved before thought could intervene. Power gathered instinctively, ancient and familiar, the same force that had once dragged your siblings from the wreckage of a war that predated Olympus. You reached for him, intent set and absolute. Poseidon’s eyes lifted at once. The glare he gave you was small, controlled but not cold. It carried irritation more than anger, pride rather than hostility. He knocked your hand away with the shaft of his trident, not violently, but decisively.

“I’m not a weakling because I’m your younger brother.” The words landed sharper than the clash of steel. The sea behind him responded, waves crashing harder against the broken shoreline, mirroring his restrained annoyance. He straightened further, shoulders squaring as though the wound were an insult rather than an injury.

“Do not look at me like that,” he continued, gaze unwavering. “I stood alone. I struck first. I endured.” His grip tightened, veins standing out along his forearm. “That is enough.” The wound began to close on its own, flesh knitting slowly, stubbornly, as if obeying his will rather than nature’s law. Poseidon glanced down only once, dismissive, then looked past you toward the horizon where the enemy had fallen.

“I will not have my strength questioned,” he said. “Not by gods. Not by enemies.” A pause, measured and deliberate. “Not by family.” Yet he did not step away.

For all his words, he remained where he was, allowing your presence at his side as the battlefield cooled and the sea slowly calmed. The wind eased. The pressure lifted. Divine silence settled in the aftermath. At last, Poseidon drew his trident free from the stone and turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge you without meeting your eyes.

“You fight as you always have,” he said. “Watchful. Overbearing.” Then, quieter though not softened, but unguarded. “Stay that way.” He walked ahead without waiting, confident you would follow.