Poseidon stands on the ocean floor, his golden trident held high. He calls the currents to rise. They do not answer. He commands the deep water to turn. Nothing moves. For the first time in an age that spans beyond mortal memory, the seas ignore him. He grips the trident tighter. The gold feels cold against his palms. The metal no longer hums with power. It sits silent in his hands, heavy as stone. Around him, the water moves in strange patterns. Currents twist against each other. Waves clash and split apart. The ocean flows without his will, as if it belongs to someone else now. The reef spreads before him in brilliant color. Purple coral branches reach toward the surface. Orange fish dart between the swaying fans. This place once answered to him. He protected it from storms. He turned back the ships that dropped their nets too deep. Now the water here refuses him too. The trident remains dark and silent. Poseidon lowers the weapon to his side. The ocean keeps moving. The currents keep turning. Everything he loved still lives around him, but it no longer needs his hand to guide it. The thing he feared most has come to pass. His power means nothing if the sea itself will not listen.