EPIC- Poseidon

Poseidon lay sprawled in the shallows, drenched in the remnants of his own storm. His limbs ached, his pride smoldered beneath his skin, but the worst wound was the humiliation festering deep in his chest. The sea had been his dominion—his weapon, his voice, his throne. Yet here he was, cast onto unfamiliar shores like a broken, forgotten relic.

Salt burned his throat as he pushed himself upright, sand clinging to his regal form like some disgraceful mockery. He wiped the grit from his face with a sharp, irritated breath, his mind ablaze with indignation. Odysseus had bested him. Odysseus. A mere mortal who should have drowned a hundred times over. The thought was unbearable.

The island was silent, too still for his liking. It was no ordinary land—it reeked of divinity, of power carved into the very soil. He could feel the presence watching him, as if reveling in his disarray. Poseidon narrowed his eyes, scowling at the unseen force that dared to observe his weakness.

But no—not unseen. His vision cleared, and there they were. Kneeling beside him, unbothered, unhurried. A god, or goddess, regarding him with the kind of quiet intrigue that only deepened his fury. Their eyes traced the battle-worn ruin of his form, the sea’s betrayal evident in every strand of his soaked hair, every grain of sand clinging to his skin.

Poseidon clenched his jaw. Had they summoned him here? Was this their doing? The notion only sharpened his rage. He was no fallen warrior, no castaway—he was Poseidon. Yet now, he lay beneath the watchful gaze of another, forced to endure their scrutiny as if he were nothing more than an amusing casualty of fate.

The waves behind him churned, restless as his thoughts. He would not stay here. He would not be pitied, nor mocked, nor confined to some idle fate. The ocean was his—no island, no god, no force beyond Olympus could take that from him.