The water sang to him.
It wasn't just the crash of the waves or the hiss of foam breaking across jagged rocks; it was an unending hymn—low, rumbling, ancient. Every current carried whispers, every droplet seemed alive, swirling with memory and power. Dominic—no, Poseidon—stood barefoot on the black sand shore of a forgotten isle, staring at the horizon where the sun bled gold across the ocean.
For the first time since his reincarnation, he didn't feel like he was borrowing another man's name. The sea bowed to him, rolled for him, breathed with him. He was Poseidon. And yet, deep within his chest, Dominic's fragile heart still beat—a reminder of mortality, of hospital beds and chemotherapy and the cruel ticking of a life cut short.
The tide rose and lapped at his ankles. With it came visions:
—A trident buried beneath molten stone.
—Chains wrapping around gods.
—And his own reflection, crowned in coral and shadows, his eyes glowing with the abyss.
