A Kingdom's Reckoning

The grand hall of the royal palace, usually alive with the murmur of courtiers and the clinking of fine china, was now a tomb of stunned silence. The echoes of Cris’s declaration – *“I am Poseidon, god of the sea!”* – seemed to cling to the very tapestries that depicted ancient battles and serene seascapes. Princess Althea stood beside him, her hand clasped in his, a defiant spark in her eyes that belied the tremor running through her veins. Before them, King Theron’s face was a mask of disbelief and fury, his accustomed sternness cracking under the weight of the impossible. Queen Lyra, ever observant, watched her daughter with a mixture of apprehension and a dawning understanding that hinted at a wisdom deeper than Althea had ever guessed.

Prince Valerius, his face ashen, stumbled back as if physically struck by Cris’s words. His carefully constructed facade of arrogant confidence had shattered, revealing a man utterly out of his depth, both literally and figuratively. He stammered, “A… a god? This is madness! A trick!”

Cris, his divine aura now a palpable force emanating from him, his eyes the deep, swirling blue of the ocean’s heart, turned his gaze upon the prince. There was no anger in it, only a profound weariness, the ancient patience of the sea itself. “Madness is believing the world is as small as your own limited understanding, Prince Valerius. I have lived among you, loved among you, and now, my truth is revealed. Your claim to Althea’s hand is as hollow as the promises of a shallow tide.”