Nathan was dreaming.
All the pain he was feeling following Diomedes's attack powered by Poseidon had been amplified by Nathan's own breaking body so maybe that's why he was having some kind of dreams of the past.
He was staring in the living room of his house
"What happened, Nathan?"
The voice was sharp, precise, and carried a cold authority that made even the air around them seem heavier. The speaker, a tall and impeccably groomed man, stood in the doorway. His dark hair, slicked back with precision, glistened faintly under the harsh light of the room. His tailored suit was flawless, from the neatly pressed cuffs to the polished shoes that reflected the dim surroundings. Even his posture was a statement—rigid, commanding, and unyielding.
His dark eyes bore into the figure of a young boy, who looked more like a shadow of himself.
Nathan knew who it was.
It was none other than himself, just a year older—at eleven.
