Ilias woke to sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows and the smell of something cooking.
For a moment, he forgot where he was. The bed was too soft. The room too large. The light too bright and clean and *wrong*.
Then memory caught up.
Aeon. The Academy. His new life.
He sat up, rubbed his face, and heard voices from the kitchen.
"—telling you, it's better with spice."
"And I'm telling you, not everyone has a death wish for breakfast."
Ilias pulled on clothes and stepped out of his room.
Zael stood at the stove, stirring something in a pan, while another student—someone Ilias hadn't met yet—leaned against the counter with a mug. The newcomer was shorter than Zael, stockier, with dark skin and braided hair pulled back in a tight knot. They glanced up when Ilias entered.
"Morning," Zael said cheerfully. "You eat breakfast?"
"Uh. Yeah?"
"Good. Made enough for three." Zael gestured to the other student. "This is our third roommate. Showed up last night while you were asleep."
The student nodded. "Name's Tamir. You're Ilias, right?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. Don't hog the bathroom. We're good."
Tamir grabbed a plate, loaded it with food, and disappeared into their room without another word.
Zael laughed. "Don't take it personally. They're not a morning person."
Ilias sat at the counter, accepted the plate Zael handed him. "You cook every morning?"
"When I can. Keeps me grounded." Zael leaned against the counter, eyes distant for a moment. "Reminds me of home."
There was weight in those words. Something heavy Zael wasn't saying.
Ilias didn't push.
They ate in comfortable silence until Zael checked the time and swore.
"Shit. Orientation's in twenty minutes. We need to move."
The arena was massive.
Ilias stood at the entrance, staring at row after row of seats carved into stone, stretching upward until they disappeared into shadow. The floor was smooth crystal, faintly glowing, and at the center—suspended in midair—was a sphere.
No.
Not a sphere.
An *orb*. Perfectly round, easily ten feet in diameter, made of crystal that shimmered with inner light. It pulsed slowly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat, casting rainbows across the stone.
Students poured in from every entrance—hundreds of them, maybe thousands—filling the seats, their voices echoing off the walls in a cacophony of languages and accents.
Ilias followed Zael to a section near the front, sat down, and tried not to stare at the orb.
He failed.
"That's the Dean," Zael whispered.
Ilias blinked. "What?"
"The orb. That's the Dean. Or... their way of addressing us. No one's actually *seen* the Dean in person. Just the orb."
"That's—"
"Weird? Yeah. But effective." Zael leaned back. "Keeps the mystery alive. Keeps us on our toes."
The noise in the arena began to fade.
Not because anyone asked for silence.
Because the orb *brightened*.
Light poured from it, warm and overwhelming, filling the arena, touching every student. Ilias felt it on his skin—gentle, searching, almost alive.
Then the Dean spoke.
The voice didn't come from the orb.
It came from *everywhere*. The walls. The air. The crystal beneath their feet. It resonated through Ilias's chest, made his Resonance hum in response.
Warm. Deep. Steady.
But underneath it—*power*. The kind that didn't need to shout to be heard.
**"Welcome,"** the Dean said, and the word settled over the arena like a blanket. **"Welcome to Aeon's Cradle. Some of you have traveled across galaxies to be here. Some of you were born on this world. Some of you come from wealth and privilege. Others from poverty and struggle. But in this moment, in this place, none of that matters."**
The light pulsed, and Ilias felt his heartbeat sync with it.
**"You are here because you are Blessed. Because you carry power that most will never know. Power that can shape worlds. Power that can end them."**
Silence.
Absolute.
**"But let me be clear: being Blessed does not make you a god. It does not make you invincible. It does not give you the right to dominate, to control, or to dictate the lives of those weaker than you."**
The warmth in the voice shifted—still present, but *firm* now. Unyielding.
**"It makes you *responsible*."**
The word hung in the air.
**"Responsibility to use your power wisely. To protect those who cannot protect themselves. To choose the harder path when the easy one beckons. To remember that strength without purpose is nothing but destruction waiting to happen."**
Ilias's hands curled into fists.
**"This Academy was built on sacrifice. Five hundred years ago, a Blessed named Aeon gave everything—his power, his body, his very *existence*—to create this world. He did not do it for glory. He did not do it for recognition. He did it because he believed that future generations could be better. That they could learn from the mistakes of the past. That they could choose *right* over *easy*."**
The orb's light softened, and the Dean's voice gentled.
**"That is the legacy you inherit by walking through these gates. That is the promise you make by calling yourself a student of Aeon's Cradle. Not that you will be the strongest. Not that you will be the most powerful. But that you will be *better*."**
A pause.
Long enough that Ilias felt the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders.
**"You will be tested. You will struggle. You will fail. And in those moments, you will have a choice: to rise, or to break. To grow, or to stagnate. To protect, or to dominate."**
The light flared brighter.
**"Choose wisely. Because the universe is watching. And it does not forgive those who waste the gifts they've been given."**
Another pause.
Then the Dean's voice softened again, almost... warm. Paternal.
**"But do not think you walk this path alone. You have each other. You have your teachers. You have this place, built on the bones of sacrifice, standing as a testament to what we can be when we try."**
The orb pulsed one final time.
**"So welcome, students of Aeon's Cradle. Welcome to the beginning of your journey. May you leave here stronger, wiser, and kinder than when you arrived."**
The light faded.
The Dean's presence receded.
And the arena erupted into applause.
---
Ilias sat frozen, hands still clenched, chest tight.
He didn't clap.
Couldn't.
The Dean's words echoed in his head, looping over and over.
*Power that can end worlds.*
*Responsibility.*
*Choose right over easy.*
Zael nudged him. "You good?"
Ilias nodded, though he wasn't sure he was.
"Come on," Zael said, standing. "First class starts in ten minutes. Don't want to be late on day one."
Ilias followed him out of the arena, the Dean's voice still ringing in his ears.
---
The history classroom was smaller than Ilias expected.
Circular. Walls lined with screens displaying star maps, timelines, images of worlds he didn't recognize. Seats arranged in tiers, all facing a central platform where the teacher stood.
The teacher was... not what Ilias expected.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Skin a deep bronze that seemed to shimmer faintly in the light, like he was made of the planet itself. His hair was long, braided with beads that *clicked* softly when he moved, and his eyes—gold, bright, *old*—swept over the students as they filed in.
He didn't speak until everyone was seated.
Then he smiled.
"My name," he said, voice rich and resonant, "is Eron Val. I am a native of Aeon. Born here. Raised here. And I have taught history in this Academy for longer than most of you have been alive."
He gestured to the screens behind him, and they lit up—images of the Eight Supremes, the war, the shattered worlds.
"You have heard the Dean speak of sacrifice. Of legacy. Of responsibility." Torin's gaze swept the room. "But words are easy. Understanding is harder. So let me show you what those words *mean*."
The screens shifted.
A planet, whole and beautiful, spinning in space.
Then—*nothing*.
Shattered. Broken. Debris scattered across the void.
"This," Torin said quietly, "is what happens when Blessed forget their responsibility. When power becomes the only thing that matters. When gods decide mortals are beneath them."
He let the image linger.
"The war lasted sixty-three years. Billions died. Entire species were wiped from existence. And when it was over, the survivors had a choice: rebuild, or keep destroying."
The screens shifted again.
Aeon. The planet forming. Debris pulling together. A figure at the center—glowing, radiant, *dying*.
"One Supreme chose differently. His name was Aeon. And he gave everything to create a place where future Blessed could learn to be *better*."
Torin turned back to the class.
"You sit in that legacy. You breathe the air he sacrificed himself to create. You walk on ground held together by his will. And every day you spend here, you owe him a debt."
Silence.
"The question," Eron said softly, "is whether you'll repay it."
He clapped his hands once, and the screens went dark.
"Now. Let's talk about power systems."
---
The rest of the class blurred.
Ilias tried to focus—Eron talked about Resonance, about elemental manipulation, about the different ways Blessed manifested their abilities—but his mind kept drifting.
To the crater on Elyria.
To the Entity.
To the Dean's words.
*Responsibility.*
By the time class ended, his head was spinning.
---
Lunch was chaos.
The cafeteria was enormous—easily the size of three buildings, with food stations serving cuisine from what looked like every corner of the universe. Students crowded around tables, voices overlapping, laughter echoing off the high ceilings.
Ilias grabbed something that looked safe and found a seat near Zael.
"So," Zael said, stabbing at his food. "Thoughts on Professor Eron?"
"He's... intense."
"Yeah. But he knows his stuff. Born on Aeon, right? That's rare. Most people here are from off-world."
Ilias nodded, only half-listening.
His eyes drifted across the cafeteria.
And landed on *her*.
Vyra.
She sat alone at a table near the far wall, four arms folded across her chest, four eyes scanning the room like she owned it. She was *huge*—easily six-foot-seven, maybe taller, all muscle and presence. Her skin was a deep slate-gray, and her hair—thick, wild—was pulled back in a messy knot.
She looked... bored.
And terrifying.
"That's her," Zael said, following Ilias's gaze. "Vyra. Fourth-year. Legend around here."
"Fourth-year? Why's she in the cafeteria with first-years?"
"Placement tests. She handles combat assessments for one of the first-year batches—about a hundred students, give or take. There are other assessors for the rest, but she's the one everyone talks about."
Ilias blinked. "What makes her special?"
"She's never lost. Not once. In three years of doing these assessments, no first-year has ever beaten her. Male, female, doesn't matter. She dominates."
Ilias watched her for another moment.
She glanced up.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, Vyra's expression didn't change.
Then she smirked.
Ilias looked away.
"Don't worry," Zael said. "It's not about winning. It's about showing what you've got. How you fight. How you handle losing."
"What if I don't want to lose?"
Zael laughed. "Then you're in for a rude awakening, my friend."
---
The announcement came that evening.
Ilias was back in the dorm, staring at the Resonance Crystal through the window, when his ID card buzzed.
A message appeared on the screen:
**PLACEMENT TEST: TOMORROW, 0800 HOURS. ARENA 3. FIRST-YEAR BATCH 7 REPORT FOR COMBAT ASSESSMENT.**
Below it, smaller text:
**ASSESSOR: VYRA THANE. FOURTH-YEAR BLESSED. SPECTRAL DOMINANCE SPECIALIST.**
**NOTE: INDIVIDUAL ONE-ON-ONE MATCHES. ALL STUDENTS IN BATCH 7 WILL BE TESTED.**
Ilias stared at the message.
Zael appeared in the doorway. "You see it?"
"Yeah."
"You nervous?"
Ilias didn't answer right away.
He thought about the crater. About the Entity. About Kojo beating him into the ground because he couldn't control his power.
"Should I be?" he asked finally.
Zael leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Everyone loses to Vyra. It's not about winning. It's about how you lose."
Ilias turned back to the window, stared at the crystal pulsing in the distance.
"I didn't come here to lose," he said quietly.
Zael was silent for a moment.
Then he smiled.
"Good. Maybe you'll surprise everyone."
He left Ilias alone.
And Ilias stood there, staring at the light, feeling his Resonance hum weakly in his chest.
Tomorrow, he'd step into that arena.
Tomorrow, he'd face someone everyone said was unbeatable.
Tomorrow, he'd see if he was ready.