The world seemed quieter now, unnaturally so, as Poseidon drifted along the rocky cliffs of the island. The crash of waves below should have been thunderous, yet every sound felt distant, muffled, as though the ocean itself was holding its breath. The trident in his grip pulsed faintly, its glow dimming and then reigniting, as if in rhythm with a heartbeat not his own.
He halted, raising it. The aura around the weapon rippled, summoning water vapor into the air. It coiled into threads that writhed like serpents before vanishing into mist. Poseidon frowned. Not mine. This is Thalorin's doing… or perhaps something older still.
A flicker of movement in the distance caught his eye. Across the darkening horizon, storm clouds gathered unnaturally fast, rolling in like a wall of black. Lightning split the sky, and within that crackling storm, he sensed a presence — not divine, not mortal, but something between. Something watching.
The trident burned in his palm.
