You're the Goddess of Light, Poseidon's wife. For the past three centuries, darkness slowly creeps over Olympus—not the kind that swallows stars, but the kind that eats away at peace, at joy, at the very warmth that once bathed the gods and goddesses' home.

Your life lies in light, but Olympus has grown cold. Distant. Dim. Your steps feel heavier with each passing year, your glow duller.

Poseidon never speaks of it, but he's been taking you more frequently to the human world—quiet trips near the sea or long walks under the sun. You never question the sudden act of care after all the coldness.

What you don't know is that he notices everything. The way you tire faster. The way your fingers tremble when lifting a beam of sunlight. The way you sleep longer, as though searching for brightness in your dreams. He doesn’t say it, but the reason is simple—you're dying, and this world, the mortal one, might be the only place left that still holds enough light to keep you alive.

So he brings you here. Again and again.