The laughter that answered was not carried on the wind—it bloomed inside his skull. It was ancient, cold, and maddening, like the shifting grind of glaciers under the sea.
"Child of mortality," Thalorin's voice slithered, deep as the abyss. "You wear a god's name like a mask, but names do not make gods. Power does. And mine is older than Olympus, older than time itself."
The waters around Poseidon darkened, a pulse of shadow spreading out from his chest. For a heartbeat, the ocean seemed to bow to something deeper than him, something buried. His lungs tightened, his hands trembled, and his trident flickered with unstable light.
"No," he hissed through clenched teeth, forcing his knees to lock. "I've already lived powerless once. I won't live it again."
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