The Olympian Academy emerged from morning mist like a dream fashioned from marble and possibility. Unlike the main divine palace with its ostentatious grandeur, the Academy embraced a more refined magnificence—beauty married to purpose, form following the function of nurturing divine potential.
Colossal columns rose in perfect harmony, not merely supporting the structure but serving as conduits for raw magical energy harvested from the cosmos itself.
The central dome, crafted from a substance that shifted between solid crystal and liquid light, reflected the emotional state of the Academy's collective consciousness—currently a serene blue-gold as it awaited the arrival of this year's students.
Surrounding the main edifice, specialized training grounds sprawled across the lower mountain slope. Battle arenas where young war gods could unleash destructive potential without leveling mortal cities.
Meditation gardens where those gifted in prophetic arts communed with possible futures. Forges that channeled the very heart of creation for those learning divine craftsmanship. Library containing knowledge that would drive mortal minds to madness, their contents visible only to those with sufficient divine essence to perceive them.
"By all the rivers of the underworld," whispered a servant walking beside Donatos. "It's even more impressive than the rumors claimed."
Donatos merely nodded, maintaining his facade of awestruck humility while inwardly comparing this incarnation to the Academy he remembered.
The layout remained largely familiar, though certain sections appeared newer, others absent entirely. Most notably, the eastern wing—where he had once trained in combat against other godlings—bore architectural elements he didn't recognize.
"Temporal divergence," he murmured to himself. "This timeline's Academy developed differently without my presence."
"What was that?" asked the servant.
"Nothing," Donatos replied quickly. "Just admiring the architecture."
Their caravan approached the western entrance—the service gate where supplies and staff traditionally entered. Donatos frowned slightly. Despite his elevation to student status, they apparently hadn't bothered to redirect him to the grand southern approach where divine offspring made their ceremonial entrances.
"Even as a student, I arrive through the servants' door," he noted with wry amusement. "A fitting reminder of my supposed place."
The caravan master, a minor wind spirit with perpetually windswept hair and impatient mannerisms, gestured for everyone to disembark.
"Staff report to the steward's office for assignments," he announced briskly. "Supplies to the central storehouse. Student Donatos—" He paused, consulting a scroll with evident confusion. "You are to proceed directly to the Athenaeum for processing."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled servants. The Athenaeum—the Academy's administrative heart—was where godlings registered their lineage and powers, where divine parents made grandiose pronouncements about their offspring's potential.
For a former servant to be directed there immediately upon arrival was unprecedented.
Donatos shouldered his modest bag, ignoring the curious stares. "Which way to the Athenaeum?"
The wind spirit pointed toward an imposing structure of intersecting white marble cylinders that resembled a colossal chess piece. "Central path, northern quadrant. The doors recognize those summoned. Don't attempt entry without authorization."
"My thanks." Donatos nodded politely and began walking, his stride purposeful despite the maelstrom of thoughts swirling behind his carefully composed expression.
The Academy grounds bustled with pre-term activity. Minor deities supervised the arrangement of divine accommodations, each living space customized to its intended occupant's elemental affinity.
Nymphs tended exotic gardens where plants from multiple realms and timelines grew in carefully controlled conditions. Scholarly satyrs arranged and catalogued teaching materials that defied mortal comprehension.
Donatos passed them all with measured steps, neither hurrying like an anxious supplicant nor dawdling like a tourist. His eyes, however, missed nothing. Defensive enchantments woven into innocent-seeming decorative elements. Observation points disguised as architectural flourishes.
The Academy was not merely a school but a fortress of knowledge, designed to both nurture and contain developing divine power.
"Clever," he acknowledged silently. "Far more security than in my day. I wonder what prompted the increased caution?"
The Athenaeum loomed before him, its entrance a perfect circle of polished obsidian that reflected not his current appearance but rather a shimmering outline suggesting multiple possible forms—the door's enchantment attempting to perceive his true nature and finding itself confused by the temporal paradox he embodied.
"Interesting," Donatos murmured, watching his reflection shift between servant, divine youth, and occasionally flashes of his former glory as Alexios the god-killer. "The door sees more than it should."
He squared his shoulders and approached. As the wind spirit had promised, the obsidian circle recognized him, liquefying at his approach to create an opening precisely his height and width.
The message was clear: enter alone, bring nothing unknown, attempt no deception.
"Too late for that last part," he thought with grim humor as he stepped through.
Inside, the Athenaeum defied spatial logic. The interior vastly exceeded the apparent exterior dimensions, suggesting space folded upon itself in patterns that would drive Euclidean geometers to despair. The ceiling stretched into infinity, occasionally interrupted by floating islands of marble where robed figures bent over ancient texts or crystalline scrying devices.
At the chamber's center stood a lone figure—tall, regal, radiating the composed authority that had intimidated gods and mortals alike since time immemorial. Athena awaited him, her storm-gray eyes measuring his approach with scientific precision.
"Goddess Athena," Donatos greeted her with a respectful bow. "I was directed to report here."
"Indeed." She gestured toward a circle inlaid in the floor with metals unknown to mortal metallurgy. "Stand there, if you would."
Donatos hesitated fractionally, recognizing a revelation circle—a divine diagnostic tool that could potentially strip away his carefully constructed disguise. "May I ask the purpose, Goddess?"
"Registration," she replied simply. "All students must be properly catalogued according to potential and lineage."
A trap, then. Or at least, a test. Donatos weighed his options rapidly. Refusal would certainly raise suspicion.
Compliance risked exposure. But his transformation remained incomplete—perhaps the circle would register only his current level of power rather than his true identity or future potential.
"As you wish, Goddess." He stepped into the circle with apparent confidence.
The floor beneath his feet immediately began to glow with soft golden light. Symbols appeared around the circumference—ancient divine language pre-dating written communication. They shifted and rearranged themselves as though debating his classification.
Athena observed with narrowed eyes, her expression betraying nothing as the symbols continued their unusual dance. "Curious," she finally said. "The circle seems... uncertain."
Relief washed through Donatos, though he kept his expression neutral. The diagnostic couldn't categorize him precisely because he existed outside normal parameters—a temporal anomaly, neither fully his past self nor completely the servant whose form he wore.
"Is that unusual, Goddess?"
"Everything about you appears to be unusual, Donatos." Her tone carried no accusation, merely clinical observation. "Or perhaps that name no longer suits you."
The statement sent a chill down his spine. "I don't understand, Goddess."
"Names have power—they define and constrain. 'Donatos' means 'given' in the old tongue. A servant's name, for one who is given to the service of others." She circled him slowly, studying the still-shifting symbols.
"But you are no longer merely a servant, are you? You have been... reclaimed for greater purpose."
She stopped directly before him, her divine gaze penetrating enough to make him wonder if all his careful concealment meant nothing before her ancient wisdom.
"Alexios," she declared suddenly.
The name—his true name—struck him like lightning. He barely managed to maintain his composure, fighting the urge to respond as though to his actual identity.
"Goddess?" he questioned, forcing confusion into his voice.
"Your Academy name shall be Alexios," she continued, as though the matter were decided. "It means 'defender' or 'protector' in the divine tongue. More fitting for your path forward, I think."
Donatos—now Alexios once more, even if unknowingly granted by Athena—stood momentarily speechless. Was this incredible coincidence? The subtle manipulation of Fate? Or did Athena somehow know his true identity?