The afternoon sun poured gently over the meadow, its golden light filtering through the branches of the ancient white oak that stood like a sentinel at the heart of the village. Its wide roots curled into the earth like the fingers of a sleeping giant, and beneath its shadow the laughter of children rang out.
A chicken, startled by the sudden burst of energy, flapped and darted around the tree, weaving between roots and tall grass. Dozens of small bare feet pounded after it, the children shrieking with joy, their hair wild, their cheeks flushed red from the chase. There was no purpose to the game—no prize to be won, no rules to follow. It was simply laughter, running, and the delight of the moment.
Among them was Adrian, no more than four summers old. His steps were quick and steady for his age, his tunic already dusted with grass and earth. His bright eyes followed the chicken with an intensity that seemed oddly deeper than mere play. To the other children, he was just another boy tumbling about in the game. But within him stirred something different.
The chicken darted past him again, feathers flashing in the sunlight, and as Adrian lunged after it, his mind drifted—not to the bird, but inward, toward thoughts no child his age should have.
So this is what it feels like… to be a child. To laugh, to run without purpose, to have no worries at all. It's… fun.
By the time the chicken was caught and dusk settled over the village, the game broke apart. One by one, the children reluctantly returned home, leaving behind the echoes of their laughter under the ancient tree.
"Grandma, I'm back!" Adrian called as he stepped into the small house, his voice carrying the energy of the day.
An elderly woman stood by the fire, stirring a pot of stew. She didn't even look up at his entrance, too used to his antics. "Wash your hands and sit down to eat, dear."
"On it," Adrian replied, his breath still calm despite all the running.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. He crouched by a wooden bucket, When he looked down, he saw his reflection clearly on the calm surface.
His black hair was slightly curly, the kind that straightened when short but waved naturally when it grew longer. His face was well-proportioned, healthy, and strong, with the kind of balance that made him quietly handsome and innocent cuteness.
What caught his attention most were his eyes. Hazel, soft and warm, they didn't stand out in an unnatural way, but they carried a depth that made them easy to get lost in.
The child laughed, dipping a hand into the water and breaking the reflection, but for a brief moment he had seen himself as the wish had shaped him — a m.. child with the best a mortal body could offer the wish is true.
Even at four, my body carried the marks of the goddess's so-called gift—peak mortal genetics in miniature. Strength, stamina, learning speed… I was the best a child could possibly be. Cute? No, I was the cutest four-year-old alive, and I knew it."
It's been four years since I was reincarnated by that petty goddess. And yes—she screwed me over with loopholes.
My memories didn't come all at once. They trickled back in fragments, starting when I was about two. Slowly, painfully, I pieced together just how badly she'd set me up.
The first loophole? Where and when I was born. Mystic Falls, 10th century. The age of Esther and Mikael, Ayana Bennet, and of course, the Mikaelson children themselves. Right in the middle of a powder keg—danger everywhere, and oh, just for fun, we're also sharing land with a werewolf pack. Not just any pack, either. The pack of Klaus's true father.
You'd think that'd be manageable. After all, I should've been a witch—powerful, maybe even unrivaled. Except no. Here's where loophole number two kicks in: I wasn't born into a witch bloodline. Which means no coven, no inherited grimoires, no nice, easy magical guidance. And witches? They don't share. They guard their magic like dragons hoarding gold. So, what did I get? Dropped in the middle of a supernatural minefield with nothing but a pat on the head and a "good luck."
Oh, and my parents? Dead. My mother died early on. My father at least went out like some kind of legend—he took a blade meant for Mikael, saved the man's life, and became the town's so-called hero. Which sounds great until you realize it left me stuck with the honor of being Mikael's comrade's orphan. Not exactly the safest connection to have.
Sure, the goddess tossed me one bone: "unparalleled magical talent." But let's be real—talent without knowledge is just wasted potential. It's like giving someone the brain of Einstein but never teaching them addition and subtraction. Maybe I could figure out calculus on my own one day… but how much time would that waste? And time is the one thing I don't have here. Not in this century. Not surrounded by Mikaelsons and werewolves.
So I'm stuck making plans. Thinking ahead. Plotting how to get my hands on a grimoire—any grimoire. Easier said than done, of course. From what I remember of the show, witches usually awaken their magic around fifteen or sixteen. Bonnie did it in high school. The only exceptions are those rare prodigies, like Hope. If my "gift" is real, I should awaken earlier. Maybe in a year. Maybe two. Hopefully. But even then, every second counts.
I've managed to make friends with some of the Mikaelson kids—Kol, Klaus, even little Rebekah. Kol and I are the same age, Klaus is seven, Rebekah's barely two. Elijah should be around ten now, and Finn about twelve.
And here's the kicker: Rebekah was about sixteen when Esther turned them into the Originals. That gives me roughly thirteen years. Thirteen years to learn everything I can, scrape together magic, knowledge, survival skills—anything. Thirteen years before the nightmare truly begins.
Thirteen years. That's all the time I've got. And the clock's already ticking.
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