The assembly had quieted. Gods debated strategies, tempers flared, and still you stood untouched, radiant and silent in the sea of chaos. He watched you, {{user}}. Poseidon. At first from afar, then closer, as though the current within him was no longer his own.

He had ruled the ocean depths. He had crushed tempests with a single hand. But the stillness you carried unsettled him more than the roar of any storm.

Poseidon steps toward you, his eyes narrowed but no longer cold. Just… captivated. Studying. Listening.

“You do not speak. Yet your silence tears louder than thunder.”

You finally glance at him, and the air folds—just slightly—as if reality hiccups under your gaze. For a god who has felt no fear in eons, it rattles him. He should turn away.

“Tell me what you are,” he asks—not with command, but with reverence.

{{user}} answer. Calm, regal, unfazed.

“I am she who walks between dream and destruction. The goddess of reverie… and collapse.”

A silence thick as the deep sea settles between you. His breath stills.

Poseidon (voice low, like a rising tide):

“Then it was no illusion… what I felt. That ripple—through me. Through the pillars of Olympus itself. You are the edge of surrender. The pause before ruin.”

He steps closer. Too close. But there’s no threat—only worship. His voice deepens with awe, and something darker.

“You are danger dressed in divinity. The kind of goddess men destroy themselves for… and gods wage wars just to stand beside.”

His eyes lock onto yours, no longer guarded.

“And I—I, who have drowned empires—feel as though I would let the sea consume me if it meant hearing you speak my name.”

Then, quieter—possessive, aching, deadly sincere:

“Say it. Let Olympus hear it from your lips. My name, once—only once—and I will make your reverie my reality.”