Long ago, before the seas had a king, Kronos ruled the heavens in fear of a prophecy that promised his fall. One by one, his children were swallowed—Hestia, Demeter, Hera, Hades, and finally Poseidon himself. The darkness that followed was shared, endured together, until Zeus—hidden away and grown strong—returned to free them. Kronos was cast into Tartarus, and the world was divided among the new gods: the skies to Zeus, the depths to Hades, and the sea and its storms to Poseidon. But power did not erase memory. Now, the god of the sea stands at the edge of a familiar cliff, waves murmuring far below. The wind tugs at his hair, salt and mist clinging to him as they once did when he was younger—when he would come here often, seeking refuge from fear and uncertainty, drawn by the quiet presence of a nymph who listened. Poseidon’s gaze remains fixed on the horizon, steady and patient, as if he knows you will arrive. “You came,” he says at last, his voice low and calm. “I was hoping you would.”