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The sea churned around Poseidon like a living thing, its rhythm no longer just the pulse of nature, but the cadence of his own heart. Each crash of the tide felt like it was answering him, acknowledging the growing storm within. For the first time since awakening in this new body, he felt the ocean bow to him—not as a stranger or a child fumbling with power, but as its rightful master.
And yet, beneath the exhilaration, the weight of something darker stirred. A whisper threaded through the brine, not from the waves, but from the abyss beneath them.
You are mine still… vessel.
The words slithered like a hook through his mind, jolting him. Poseidon clenched his fists, the water surging upward into a towering wall before collapsing back into foam. He had almost forgotten—Dominic might wear the mantle of Poseidon, but Thalorin's essence still lingered, buried like a coiled leviathan in his veins. The more he drew on his godhood, the more that ancient presence stirred.
