The ocean pressed against him like a second skin, surging and whispering with every thought he allowed himself. To the mortals above, the sea was a vast mystery—an endless blue veil hiding secrets. To him, it was breathing, pulsing, alive. Every wave was his will, every tide his command. And yet, beneath the command, there lurked something deeper—something that was not entirely him.
Poseidon stilled himself at the ocean floor. The silence here was ancient, heavy, broken only by the thrum of his heart that was no longer entirely mortal. The seabed trembled faintly, cracks forming where his presence rested.
"You feel it too, don't you?" The voice was in his mind again—Thalorin's, cold as abyssal waters, yet threaded with a strange familiarity.
Poseidon exhaled sharply, bubbles rising in streams. "I don't need your constant whispering."
