The trident

1400 hours.

The descent began without incident.

Visibility was poor—sunlight fractured the surface above, warping everything below into dream and shadow. He moved slowly, keeping his fins wide, his breathing steady. No room for error. Not at this depth.

The ocean floor stretched beneath him, uneven and unpredictable. Soft ridges gave way to slick stone. Something brushed his leg. He didn’t flinch.

At two meters, he found the first artifact.

Small. Round. Etchings partially obscured by sediment. He turned it carefully. The markings suggested a coastal tribe—symbols of luck, maybe. Or warning.

He pressed forward.

The current shifted—warmer now, swirling. There was movement in the distance. He slowed.

Shapes drifted in and out of view. Discarded tools. Strips of ribbon tangled around coral. A single flipper, long since lost. Nothing down here stayed still for long.

The air in his lungs felt heavier now. He exhaled slowly, watching bubbles spiral toward the light. He adjusted his mask. Cleared his mind.

He passed a ridge of stone that looked… shaped. Like something carved long ago. He ran a hand along the edge, feeling for grooves beneath the algae. His fingers came away glittering faintly. He said nothing. Logged the coordinates in his mind.

Then he saw it.

Wedged between two rocks. Glinting faintly.

Three curved prongs.

He swam closer.

A weapon.

Ancient. Majestic. He swore it was Zeus’s trident.

He hovered above it for a moment, breathing slow. Everything else faded—the shifting light, the muffled sound, the faint ache in his ears.

This was why he came.

He reached out—

YANK.

He burst from the water, coughing once.

His wife stood at the edge of the inflatable pool, holding his snorkel like it was a leash.

“You were supposed to be setting this up for the kids.”

He blinked.

All around him: folding chairs. Streamers. A cooler leaking onto the patio. A balloon rolled by like tumbleweed.

He stepped out of the pool, water dripping from his sleeves, flippers slapping wet against the concrete.

A voice called out behind him.

“Daddy, did you find Ariel?”

He smiled. “She’s close. I can feel it.”

He turned to a boy near the edge, hands sticky, frosting on his chin.

Without a word, the man placed the dripping object into his palm.

A bent plastic fork.

“It holds ancient power,” he said.

Then turned and walked away across the lawn, flippers flapping, snorkel dangling from his head like a spent antenna.

Mission complete.