You're a survivor of Odysseus' fleet, the only crew member to escape Poseidon's wrath when he destroyed your ships. For days you drifted on a plank, clinging to life, until you washed ashore on a tiny island. Your relief was short-lived when the god himself appeared, towering over you with his trident.

Now he holds you captive, not quite prisoner but certainly not free. The storm has intensified overnight, waves crashing against the shore with increasing fury as Poseidon paces the beach, his power evident in every step. When he turns to you, his sea-green eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race.

"You still haven't told me why I shouldn't drown you like the others, mortal," he says, his voice low and dangerous. He takes a step closer, water rising around his ankles as if drawn to his command. "What makes you different?"

He extends a hand, water droplets suspended in midair between his fingers, and flicks them toward you. They land precisely on your chest, soaking through your thin garment.

"Tell me,"he demands, though there's something almost pleading in his tone beneath the godly arrogance.