The days that followed Jake's trip to Principal Thompson's office settled into a strange, almost surreal routine. In the real world, Jake was the picture of a grounded, repentant middle schooler. He went to school, came straight home, did his homework with an unnerving efficiency, completed his chores without complaint, and then retreated to his room. His parents, still reeling from the principal's call and his uncharacteristic defiance, watched him with a mixture of confusion and cautious relief. He was behaving, yes, but there was a subtle, unsettling detachment about him, a quiet contentment that didn't quite fit the severity of his punishment. It was as if the disciplinary measures of the mundane world simply bounced off an invisible, divine shield.
Katy, however, saw through the facade. She watched him at the dinner table, her own appetite often diminished by her growing unease. His eyes, usually a soft brown, would often unfocus, drifting to some unseen point beyond the dining room wall, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips as he chewed his food. He was there, physically, a silent presence at the family meal, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, soaring through vast, impossible landscapes, commanding his pantheon, shaping new worlds. She heard him mumbling in his sleep again, the familiar names – Lyra, Kael, Sylas, Anya, Zephyr – whispered like a sacred litany, a secret language only she now understood. The knowledge of his secret, of the boundless universe he commanded just beyond his bedroom door, weighed heavily on her. She was his confidante, his Queen in that realm, but in this one, she was just his older sister, burdened by an impossible truth she couldn't share with anyone else.
Her worry for him grew with each passing day. It wasn't just the principal's office incident, though that had been alarming enough, especially given Jake's usual timid nature. It was the way he'd handled it, the cold, almost dismissive logic he'd used when recounting the events to their parents, the complete lack of remorse for publicly humiliating Mark. It was the fundamental shift in his personality, the way the dork she knew was slowly being eclipsed by something vast and unknowable, something that saw the world through an entirely different, almost arrogant, lens. He was becoming Aethelred, even outside the realm, and she wasn't sure if that was a good thing for Jake Miller, the middle schooler.
One afternoon, after school, Katy found Jake in the living room, meticulously dusting the bookshelves – a chore he usually avoided with the cunning of a seasoned spy, often feigning sudden, debilitating allergies. He moved with an almost unnatural precision, his gaze focused, his movements economical, each book returned to its exact, proper place.
"Hey," Katy said, leaning against the doorframe, trying to sound casual, as if this was a perfectly normal sight. "You're really going all-in on the 'grounded' thing, huh? Mom and Dad are probably going to think you've joined a monastic order dedicated to cleanliness."
Jake turned, a feather duster in his hand, its fluffy head perfectly clean. He offered her a faint, almost beatific smile. "It's… efficient. And it's important to maintain order, even in the mundane. A well-ordered space reflects a well-ordered mind. Chaos is merely potential, awaiting structure." His voice was calm, almost serene, utterly devoid of any teenage angst.
Katy stared, her jaw slightly agape. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with my brother?" she asked, stepping closer, her voice tinged with a mixture of exasperation and genuine concern. "That sounded like something out of a self-help book for ancient philosophers. You used to complain about dusting like it was a fate worse than death, like it was a personal affront to your very existence."
Jake merely shrugged, a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture that conveyed a world of indifference. "Perspectives change. Priorities shift. The universe is vast, Katy. Dust is… ephemeral." He resumed dusting, his movements fluid, almost hypnotic.
Katy walked over, leaning against a nearby armchair, her arms crossed. "Jake, are you… okay? Really okay? Mom and Dad are worried sick. And honestly, I am too. I heard about what happened in the cafeteria. Everyone's talking about it. And then… you just seemed so… unbothered by getting grounded. Like it didn't even touch you, like it was a joke."
Jake paused, turning to face her fully. His eyes, usually a soft brown, seemed to hold a new, unsettling depth, as if reflecting distant galaxies, or the cosmic void itself. "Why would it bother me, Katy?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, yet resonating with an undeniable power. "They think they've confined me. They think they've limited my world. But all they've done is given me more time to explore the true extent of my power. More time in the realm." He gestured vaguely towards his room upstairs, a subtle, almost divine sweep of his hand. "More time to build. More time to learn. More time to refine my will."
Katy felt a chill, a prickle of genuine fear. He wasn't just detached; he was completely unaffected, his ego not merely unbruised, but seemingly nonexistent in the face of mundane punishment. His confidence, which had once been endearing, was now becoming unsettling, almost arrogant, bordering on megalomania.
"But… what about school?" Katy pressed, her voice soft, pleading. "What about your friends? Michael and Jane asked where you were at lunch today. They were worried about you. They miss you."
"They are minor concerns," Jake said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "Temporary distractions. In the realm, I command armies. I shape planets. I converse with beings of pure knowledge, beings who understand the true nature of existence. What is a school lunch, or a fleeting friendship, compared to that, Katy? What is a bully's petty taunt when you can conjure mountains?"
His words, delivered with such absolute conviction, such cold logic, sent a shiver down Katy's spine. This wasn't Jake. Not fully. This was Aethelred, bleeding into the real world, his divine perspective overwhelming his human one. The confidence that had once been endearing was now becoming unsettling, almost alien.
"Jake," Katy said, her voice rising slightly, a desperate edge to it. "You can't just… dismiss everything here. This is your life. Our life. Mom and Dad… they're real. Your friends are real. Tiffany is real, and she's probably still plotting something, even if you don't care. You can't just ignore the real world because you're a god in your bedroom!"
Jake offered a faint, almost dismissive smile, a hint of cosmic amusement. "The real world," he mused, his gaze drifting towards the window, as if seeing beyond the suburban street, beyond the very concept of a single reality. "Is merely one of many realities. A simulation, perhaps, with its own fascinating, yet ultimately limited, parameters. And in this one, I am… learning to adapt. To navigate its limitations. But my true purpose, my true self, resides elsewhere. My true power lies beyond this threshold."
Katy felt a surge of frustration, mixed with a growing sense of helplessness. She wanted to shake him, to scream at him, to pull him back to reality, to the boy she knew. But how do you ground a god? How do you punish someone who sees your world as a mere simulation, your concerns as trivialities?
"You know," Katy said, her voice low, a desperate attempt to connect, to find the human boy beneath the divine veneer. "When I was in the Dream Garden, Anya showed me a flower. It was wilting. And it showed my biggest fear. You… leaving me behind. Disappearing into your world. Becoming… something else."
Jake turned, his gaze finally focusing on her, a flicker of something akin to recognition, a brief return of the brother she knew, a momentary crack in the god complex. "Katy…" His voice was softer, less resonant, more human.
"No, listen," she pressed, stepping closer, reaching out to gently grasp his arm, her fingers feeling the subtle tension in his muscles. "This power… it's amazing, Jake. It truly is. But it's changing you. You're becoming… detached. Like everything here doesn't matter. Like we don't matter. But it does. We matter. Mom and Dad matter. Your friends matter. Don't let this… this godhood… make you lose sight of what's real. Don't let it make you lose yourself." Her voice was soft, filled with genuine worry, a plea from one part of his mirrored soul to another, a desperate attempt to anchor him.
Jake looked at her, truly looked at her. He saw the concern in her eyes, the genuine fear for him, the raw, vulnerable love. He saw the sister who had believed him, who had stepped into his impossible world, who was now carrying the weight of his secret with him. For a moment, the vastness of Aethelred's realm receded, the hum of his power faded into the background, and the familiar warmth of their shared bond, the simple, undeniable connection of family, filled the space between them.
"I… I hear you, Katy," he said, his voice softer, more human, the distant, cosmic hum in his ears seeming to fade, replaced by the sound of his sister's worried breathing, the gentle creak of the old house. "I… I won't forget. I promise." He reached out, a rare gesture, and briefly squeezed her arm, a silent acknowledgment of her plea. "I just… I have a lot to learn. About both worlds. About how to be both."
Katy nodded, a small, fragile smile touching her lips. The moment of connection was fleeting, but it was there. A tiny crack in the god complex, a glimpse of the dork she knew, still tethered to her. She knew this wouldn't be easy. She knew the secret, and the power, would continue to challenge them both, to pull him in different directions. But for now, for this moment, she had reached him. And that, she realized, was a start. The grounded god, for a brief second, had remembered his humanity.