Orestis joined his parents for breakfast.

  It was the most sensible place to have the conversation. Neutral ground. Familiar routine. And if things went poorly, at least there would be bread.

  The conversation in question was this: he was an adult trapped in his childhood body. Just because he looked like a child did not mean he intended to live like one. The alternative—pretending to be a child for the next decade—was absolutely not happening.

  He had barely seated himself before he spoke, cutting off whatever comment his parents were about to make about his unusually serious expression.

  “Father. Mother. I have something important to tell you.”

  That alone was enough to make them look up from their plates.

  His father—Petros—was a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties, with sun-warmed olive skin. His once-black hair had begun thinning at the crown and was cut short for practicality; his beard—silver already threading through it—was trimmed just well enough to pass as respectable in guild halls. His brown eyes were calm and calculating, and his hands bore ink stains and old scars from years of ledgers, crates, and the occasional dishonest partner.

  His mother—Avra—by contrast, seemed carved from quiet patience. Tall and slender, she wore her long dark hair braided down her back, threaded with simple charms and devotional beads that clicked softly when she moved. Her green eyes were vivid and expressive, and there was an easy grace to her. Her presence made the kitchen feel smaller, warmer. Faint laugh lines framed her mouth, betraying a kindness that endured even through worry.

  When Orestis was certain he had their full attention, he began.

  He stuck to the important parts. He omitted the violence and the immortality—no parent needed to hear that over breakfast—and settled for a simpler lie: a magical accident had sent his memories backward in time, leaving him stranded in his own childhood with knowledge that didn’t belong there.

  When he finished, the silence that followed was long and deliberate.

  “So,” his father said carefully, “you’re telling us you woke up today with hundreds of years of memories.”

  “Yes.”

  His mother frowned. “Orestis, sweetling, if this is about your birthday nerves—”

  “It isn’t.”

  His father leaned back, chair creaking. “You’re ten.”

  “I am wearing ten,” Orestis corrected. “I am not ten.”

  Another silence. The patient, indulgent kind parents used when humoring a child’s imagination before gently dismantling it.

  His father cleared his throat. “Did someone put you up to this?”

  “No.”

  “Did you eat something strange?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hit your head?”

  “Frequently,” Orestis said evenly. “Over the years.”

  His mother sighed. “Orestis—”

  “I remember being older than you,” he said calmly. “Much older.”

  That stopped her.

  His father pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. Let’s pretend—purely for the sake of argument—that I believe you. Why tell us?”

  “Because I do not wish to be coddled,” Orestis replied flatly. “Nor do I wish to be told to finish my greens, attend lessons meant for children, or be praised for successfully tying my shoes. I have done all of these things. Excessively.”

  His mother blinked. “You tied your shoes yesterday.”

  “I have tied my shoes more times than you have drawn breath.”

  That earned him a look. Not the I believe you kind. More the I’m calling a healer kind.

  Fair enough. If someone told me the same thing, I’d probably skip the healer and go straight to an exorcist.

  His father folded his hands on the table. “There is a simple way to solve this. You say you have memories of the future. Then tell us some things that will happen. Markets worth investing in. Wars. Disasters. If they come true, we’ll have proof.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Of course that’s where he goes first. Markets.

  Orestis gave him a flat look. “This is centuries in the past for me. I don’t remember such details.”

  Petros spread his hands. “Then you cannot prove anything. You understand how this sounds.”

  Well. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a way.

  I probably shouldn’t be doing this.

  But his father had a point. Proof was always better. And exponentially easier than arguing with two people who thought he’d hit his head.

  “Very well,” Orestis said. “A demonstration, then.”

  Before either of them could object, he slid off his chair and stepped to the center of the kitchen. He raised his arms—not because it helped, but because it felt theatrically appropriate.

  His ten-year-old body possessed no mana to speak of. No aura, either. Both required years of training, and Orestis had no intention of rebuilding them. Ever.

  Mana and aura had the unfortunate habit of extending one’s lifespan. A disastrous trait, when one’s goal was to die of old age.

  Fortunately, there were shortcuts.

  He reached outward instead of inward, toward the vast, unguarded reservoirs of divine power he had exploited countless times before. Most gods were lazy and half-assed their security. The loopholes were glaring—embarrassing, really. Anyone could access these divine reservoirs if they knew how.

  He selected a minor, sacred-aligned divinity and pulled.

  The air shifted. Golden sigils bloomed above the kitchen floor, hanging like fragments of stained glass made of light. Heat washed through the room—not burning, but heavy. The loaf of bread steamed. His father’s shoulders loosened involuntarily. His mother inhaled sharply as a familiar ache in her knees simply… wasn’t there anymore.

  She pressed a hand to them, stunned.

  Her prayer beads flared, casting reflections across the walls. She dropped to her knees.

  “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, blessed child.”

  His father’s chair scraped backward. “By the Ledger—”

  The sigils rotated, folded inward, and collapsed into a single intricate construct—far too complex for any apprentice mage, let alone a child. A rejuvenation field, chosen purely for its theatrical flair.

  Probably overkill for a breakfast argument. But effective.

  Orestis let it hang for a heartbeat longer, then dismissed it with a flick of his wrist.

  The kitchen fell quiet.

  His mother was on her knees, hands clasped, tears streaming. His father was standing, chair shoved back, staring at Orestis like he was seeing him for the first time.

  Well. That got their attention.

  His mother clasped her hands together, eyes shining. “The gods have chosen you,” she breathed. “I knew it. I felt it.”

  “They haven’t,” Orestis said flatly. “I stole it.”

  She beamed. “So humble.”

  She wasn’t listening, was she.

  His father stared at him, then exhaled slowly. “All right. I believe you.”

  His mother looked up. “Just like that?”

  “If this is a lie, it’s the most expensive one I’ve ever seen. And if it’s true—” his gaze sharpened “—then ignoring it would be bad business.”

  Orestis inclined his head. “Sensibly put.”

  He was glad his father had inherited his pragmatism.

  … Wait. The other way around.

  His mother surged forward and took his shoulders. “We must prepare you.”

  For what? Orestis thought, taken aback.

  Then he decided to firmly nip that in the bud. “No.”

  He was not participating in religious nonsense. He’d tried that before. It never ended well.

  “You’ll need proper robes—”

  “I will burn them.”

  She froze.

  Orestis softened his voice, just slightly. “Mother. I am not a miracle. I am a man who has made catastrophic mistakes and is attempting a very tedious solution. All I want is to be allowed to grow old.”

  His father nodded. “Fair enough.”

  His mother hesitated, then slowly released him. “If the gods have touched you,” she said quietly, “there must be a reason.”

  “There usually is,” Orestis replied. “It’s rarely a good one.”

  Not that any of them had anything to do with him right now.

  Or did they…?

  He narrowed his eyes. The hero had been Lyse’s chosen. But to his knowledge, her divinity had no relation to the concept of time. Something to think about later.

  For now, he returned to his seat and tore off a piece of bread. Now that he was no longer immortal, he needed to eat again—and with that came the small, unexpected pleasure of taste.

  “Since I am apparently ten again,” he said, “I assume there will be cake?”

  His father smiled despite himself. “There will be cake.”

  At least some traditions were worth repeating.

  ***

  Orestis underestimated how quickly stories moved.

  At first, nothing seemed amiss. Breakfast ended. Cake was eaten. His parents tried—awkwardly, carefully—to resume something resembling normalcy. His mother hummed as she cleaned, hands trembling slightly as she stacked dishes. His father left for work later than usual, glancing back at Orestis with an expression caught somewhere between awe and unease.

  That illusion lasted until midday.

  The baker stopped by first, ostensibly to return a borrowed pan. He lingered in the doorway too long, eyes flicking toward Orestis. He bowed—actually bowed—before leaving.

  Then came the neighbor with the bad knee. She didn’t even pretend.

  “I heard,” she whispered to Avra, clutching her shawl. “Is it true? The light?”

  His mother hesitated. Just for a moment.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “The gods are kind.”

  That was all it took.

  By evening, people came with excuses—lost tools, spare vegetables, questions they could have answered themselves. They came to look. To kneel. Someone left flowers on the doorstep. Someone else tied a prayer ribbon to the fence.

  Orestis watched it all from the edge of the room, arms crossed, a familiar sinking sensation settling into his chest.

  He’d seen this before. Not the specifics—but the shape of it. Awe spreading like a brush fire, turning rational people into believers and believers into zealots. He’d been alive long enough to know where this led.

  This is not chaos. This is momentum.

  He pulled his mother aside. “You need to stop.”

  She looked startled. “Stop what?”

  “Telling people. Any of it.”

  “I’m not boasting,” she said gently.

  “You’re confirming.”

  She smiled, soft and proud. “They deserve hope.”

  That word again. Hope.

  He understood. That didn’t mean he liked it.

  By nightfall, incense burned outside the house. By morning, the rumors had reached the temples.

  Orestis felt it then—not as sound or sight, but as a subtle tightening in the world, as though something far away had turned its attention toward him.

  He scowled, because he recognized that sensation.

  It was the gaze of a deity.

  Did those priests already snitch on me to their god?