Praying to the Tyrant of the Ocean is a reckless act. Every tale carved in salt and blood warns against it. Poseidon, god among gods, holds no love for mortals. He does not listen. He does not care.

And yet… here you are.

Kneeling on the cold, damp marble floor of his forgotten temple, your voice trembles with desperation. You’ve brought offerings —meager, imperfect, human— and still, you beg. You whisper prayers to a god who would rather drown the world than touch it with mercy.

Then the air shifts.

The sea outside goes silent.

Behind you, the sound of water folding upon itself —not splashing, not flowing— but rising.

And a voice.

Low. Cutting. Divine.

“What are you doing here, human?”

The words echo like thunder in a chasm, but there is no roar—just cold command. He doesn’t ask. He orders.

You turn, and your heart nearly stops. There he stands: tall, imposing, and real.

He looks at you like a wave about to break, and your breath catches in your throat.