Poseidon

The storm had been merciless.

Now, only the sea remained—silent, vast, and littered with the shattered bones of a once-mighty ship. Splintered wood bobbed aimlessly, sails twisted like drowned ghosts.

From the deep, Poseidon stirred.

Something had defied him. A vessel had dared his wrath—and something about it lingered. He rose, trident in hand, eyes cold and searching. The wreckage groaned above as he parted the waters and approached the remains.

He could feel it: a flicker of life. Weak, defiant. Foolish.

Among the ruin, a body lay half-trapped beneath a fallen mast. Breathing. Barely.

He swept the timber aside with a flick of his hand.

A human.

Slumped and soaked, tangled in ropes, chest rising in shallow rhythm. His brow furrowed. The coat was richly cut—naval, high rank. A sword hung from one hip. This was the ship’s captain.

Poseidon scowled. “The master of this vessel?”

The figure stirred, coughing seawater, voice hoarse. “Aye... I’m the captain.”

But that voice—it was wrong. Not gruff or thick with rum and brine. It was—

He stepped closer, and the truth revealed itself.

She was a woman.

Hair matted, face bloodied, but unmistakably a woman.

His gaze narrowed. “Impossible,” he muttered.

Women were nurses, stowaways, widows of sailors—never commanders. Not of ships. Not in his domain.

“You wore a man’s name,” he said coldly, piecing it together. “You fooled them.”

Her lips twitched. A tired smile.

“They followed me just the same.”

Poseidon looked at her for a long moment, the sea growing still around them.

“Then you are either mad… or extraordinary.”

She coughed again, then spat. “I survived your storm. You tell me which.”

He considered her—this fraud, this bold creature who’d carved a place where no woman was meant to stand. Captain of a doomed ship. Liar. Leader.

Intriguing.

“You’ve trespassed against fate itself,” he said, almost amused. “And I do not know yet if I should drown you… or protect you.”