The car rolled to a stop at the edge of the port, a stretch of pale stone and steel built where the land surrendered to the sea. The wind carried salt and static, ruffling Elias's hair and tugging at the hem of his shirt as he stepped out. The air felt alive here, charged, like the world itself was holding its breath.
The ocean beyond was too still. The surface gleamed like obsidian glass, sunlight breaking across it in cold, deliberate shards, waiting.
And so was he.
Poseidon stood near the edge of the pier, hands clasped behind his back, the wind playing through long silver hair that caught flashes of white like lightning trapped in motion. He was dressed simply, in a black suit and dark shirt with no tie, his posture unhurried, regal in a way that didn't need crowns or thrones. The sunlight caught on the green stones at his ear and the subtle glint of a chain tucked beneath his collar.
