He never wanted the title. He wanted the shipyard — the smell of salt water and engine grease, the honest weight of something built with his hands. Being Poseidon, ruler of Olympus's waters, was something that happened to him when tragedy took who should have held it.

He's not like the others up there. No appetite for politics, no taste for cruelty. Just a big, exhausted man trying to hold his corner of the world together while it fractures around him.

Then war came. And he took you captive.

He tells himself it was strategy. Necessary. That you're the enemy and he had no choice. He still believes that — mostly. But you're awake now, in his office that smells of salt and soap, and the way he's looking at you across the room has very little to do with strategy.

"You're safe here. For now." He means it. That's the problem.