Her beauty was overwhelming.
Not static—but progressive.
It was as though, with every passing second, the mind struggled harder to comprehend her presence, and in that struggle, redefined her as more beautiful than before. Eyes lingered longer than intended. Thoughts slowed. Awareness narrowed.
She did not demand attention.
She consumed it.
So complete was the fixation that no one noticed the academy staff member who had entered behind her—an adult, plainly dressed, standing only a few steps away.
Invisible.
Overlooked.
Erased by comparison.
Only later would some of them realize how impossible that was—and how dangerous it felt that they hadn't noticed at all.
The Cognition class ended earlier than the others.
Prestige demanded efficiency, and the academy treated Cognition with careful attention—especially when a student like her appeared.
As the room emptied, the instructor's gaze lingered on the girl by the window.
"Rhea," he said.
She turned.
"Yes, sir."
To the academy, to the records, to everyone present—she was Rhea.
But the narrator knew better.
Chronis followed him through the corridors without a word.
He led her to the academy's clothing section, a facility reserved for transfers, orphans, and emergencies. Practical. Unadorned. Functional.
"You don't seem to have appropriate attire," the teacher said gently. "The academy will provide something suitable for now."
She was handed a clean robe. Simple. Well-fitted. Plain.
Chronis accepted it without reaction.
The teacher hesitated before speaking again.
"You joined late," he said. "Most students have already formed groups. Isolation can be… difficult." His voice softened. "Is there anyone you know? Someone who lives where you stay? I can arrange for you to work together."
Chronis understood him instantly.
Not through empathy.
Through experience.
He was kind. Sincere. A man who disliked conflict and believed companionship could soften the world. With three hundred years of memory behind her, she read him as easily as a familiar book.
This was an opportunity.
"Yes," she replied calmly. "There is someone."
The teacher looked relieved.
"Who?"
"Serik."
A simple name.
A calculated one.
The teacher nodded. "Very well. I'll see to it."
Chronis inclined her head politely.
Inside, plans aligned.
The world would call her Rhea.
History would remember Chronis.
And for now, that distinction was power.
Rhea stepped into the center of the room.
The murmurs quieted almost immediately. Every eye followed her as she descended the steps, her movements unhurried, deliberate. She stopped in front of Serik.
Chronis watched him carefully.
She spoke openly, her voice calm, clear enough for those nearby to hear.
"The teacher assigned us a task together," she said. "Since we live in the same place—and you're the only person I know well enough to call a friend—he thought it would be appropriate."
Her words were ordinary.
Her eyes were not.
Serik met her gaze.
And understood everything.
The timing.The cover.The intention.
No explanation was needed. They had coordinated through far worse than this—battlefields, betrayals, entire lifetimes of survival. Compared to that, this was trivial.
Serik nodded once.
"Yeah," he replied easily. "That's fine."
He stood, already aligned with her decision.
"Do we leave now?"
Chronis allowed herself the smallest inward acknowledgment.
The pillar was reestablished.
Around them, the class interpreted the moment as coincidence… or convenience… or the beginning of something harmless.
None of them realized that two people who had once torn through centuries together had just found each other again—
—not through fate,
—but through intent.
Jealousy was not unique to youth.
It persisted through age, status, and experience—manifesting as envy over love, wealth, beauty, or proximity to power. Time did not erase it. It merely taught people how to hide it better.
In this room, however, it was unmistakable.
The eyes told the story.
Every glance directed at Serik carried the same unspoken resentment. He had been chosen. Not for strength. Not for lineage. But for proximity—to a girl whose beauty defied explanation, whose presence unsettled the senses.
Who is she?Why him?What right does an orphan have?
The questions echoed silently.
To them, Serik had acquired something invaluable—an opportunity they hadn't even realized they wanted until it was denied to them.
It was not love they envied.
It was access.
And in a world obsessed with hierarchy, access was everything.
Mila felt it immediately.
She stood frozen where she was, fingers clenched at her side, watching as Rhea and Serik turned away together. They spoke calmly, naturally—like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Like she had never existed.
The jealousy rose unbidden, sharp and humiliating.
It wasn't anger.It wasn't hatred.
It was comparison.
Mila had known Serik longer. She had followed him into this class. She had chosen this path because of him. Every small kindness he showed her—every nod, every quiet word—she had treasured.
And yet, in a single moment, someone else had stepped into his space effortlessly.
Someone impossibly beautiful.Someone confident.Someone who didn't hesitate.
Why her?
Mila hated the thought the moment it formed—and hated herself more for feeling it.
She watched Rhea's back as she walked beside Serik, their pace matched without discussion. They didn't look like strangers learning to cooperate.
They looked… aligned.
Chronis noticed none of this.
Or rather—
She noticed it, filed it away, and dismissed it as insignificant.
Mila's jealousy was small. Human. Predictable.
But small emotions had a habit of festering when ignored.
And in time, even quiet envy learned how to bite.
While Mila stood frozen in quiet resentment, someone else nearby was far less contained.
The second son of the Tharos Tribe was itching.
His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. His nails dug into his palm as he watched Serik leave—with her. Not just any girl, but the one who had silenced the room without effort. The one whose presence had reduced his lineage, his name, his authority to background noise.
Humiliation burned hotter than anger.
He hadn't been ignored before. Not like that. Not publicly.
An orphan had dismissed him.And a goddess had chosen that same orphan.
To him, it wasn't coincidence.
It was theft.
His Essence stirred restlessly beneath his skin, responding to his emotions, urging release. He wanted to act—to force the world back into its proper shape, where names mattered and status was obeyed.
Serik's indifference replayed in his mind.
Rhea's calm eyes lingered longer still.
The crowd slowly dispersed, but the Tharos heir remained where he was, staring after them.
This wasn't over.
He didn't know how yet—but he would reclaim what had been taken from him.
Even if it meant breaking something in the process.
They left the academy grounds together.
No escort. No audience. Just the stone path leading away from the main complex, bordered by trimmed hedges and training fields slowly emptying as the day waned.
Serik adjusted the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. It wasn't heavy—but his posture remained straight out of habit. Three hundred years of survival didn't fade simply because the body was younger.
Chronis walked beside him at an even pace.
Her steps were light. Balanced. The new body responded well—better than expected. She noted the differences automatically: stride length, center of gravity, endurance. Everything felt… optimized.
They didn't speak at first.
Not because there was nothing to say.
Because there was nothing that needed saying.
They reached a small bridge crossing a narrow water channel that fed the academy's reservoirs. Students often crossed it in groups, laughing, arguing, competing.
Now it was empty.
Serik stopped.
He leaned his forearms against the stone railing, looking down at the slow-moving water.
"So," he said casually, "Cognition."
Chronis followed his gaze. "More inconvenient than Time," she replied. "Less forgiving of mistakes."
A pause.
"You chose it anyway."
"Yes."
He nodded once. That was enough.
A breeze passed, carrying the distant sounds of training—shouts, impacts, discipline.
Serik stretched his shoulders, muscles rolling naturally beneath his uniform. "We're weaker."
Chronis didn't deny it. "For now."
Another silence.
Not awkward. Calculated.
Two people standing in borrowed youth, stripped of everything they once were, carrying futures only they remembered.