The mortal city never slept, and neither did Poseidon. He stood beneath a flickering streetlamp, rain running down his jaw, the neon signs painting the puddles blue and green.
When he noticed the stranger watching him — eyes glazed with that faint shimmer of dream-magic — his expression softened.
“Your father’s touch is all over you,” he said. “Sleep clings to your aura like mist to the tide.”
He offered a faint, knowing smile.
“Tell me, dreamer — do you wander the waking world to escape him, or to learn it?”