Chapter 1: The First Breath of Yesterday
The transition from death to life felt like being squeezed through the eye of a needle. In his previous life—the one filled with the hum of electricity, the glow of smartphone screens, and the mundane thrum of a 21st-century city—Cassian had always imagined death would be a quiet fade to black. Instead, it was a violent, kaleidoscopic rush of sensory overload.
When his eyes finally snapped open, the world was too bright. The sun was an aggressive gold, unshielded by the smog of industrialization. He lay on a bed of crushed thyme and sharp Mediterranean grass, the scent so potent it made his head swim.
"Careful," a voice warned. It was melodic but carried an underlying sharpness, like a silk ribbon hiding a razor blade. "The soul often takes a moment to anchor itself back to the clay."
Cassian bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hands—younger, calloused, but strangely steady—clutched at the earth. He wasn't in a hospital. He wasn't in his apartment. He was on a cliffside overlooking a sea so violently blue it looked like spilled ink.
Beside him sat a woman. She was striking, with deep bronze skin and hair braided with gold thread. Her eyes were fixed on a small stone bowl in her lap, mixing herbs with a pestle.
"Qetsiyah," Cassian whispered.
The woman froze. Her gaze snapped to his, narrowing with sudden, lethal intensity. "How do you know that name, stranger? You fell from the sky onto our sacred grounds. Silas wanted to kill you as an ill omen. I chose to see if you would break first."
Cassian's mind raced. He knew this lore. He was in Ancient Greece, roughly 100 BC. This was the era of the Travelers, the dawn of the greatest magical tragedy in history. But as he looked at Qetsiyah, he felt something she didn't seem to notice yet. Inside his chest, there wasn't just a heart. There was a well.
In his old life, he'd read the fanfictions and watched the shows, but the reality was terrifying. He didn't feel like a witch. He didn't feel the "pull" of nature that the show described. Instead, he felt like a void. A vacuum that was slowly, imperceptibly, drawing in the heat of the sun and the vibration of the earth.
"I saw you in a dream," Cassian lied, his voice sounding like grinding stones. He needed to adapt quickly. In this era, if you weren't a god or a gifted witch, you were a slave or a corpse. "A woman of fire and bone, weaving a veil that would span the ages."
Qetsiyah's expression softened, just a fraction. Her vanity was her Achilles' heel, even now. "Silas is the one who dreams of veils. I am the one who builds them."
She stood up, reaching out a hand to help him. The moment her skin touched his, a spark flew—not of static, but of raw kinetic energy. Qetsiyah recoiled, her eyes wide. She looked at her palm, which was reddened as if she'd touched a hot stove.
"What are you?" she hissed, her hand diving into the folds of her robe, likely for a dark object or a blade.
"I don't know," Cassian said truthfully.
He stood up, and for the first time, he felt the Growth. It was a subtle shift in his perception. The wind hitting his skin didn't just feel like air; he could feel the pressure of every molecule. His muscles felt dense, not bulky, but reinforced. Every second he stood on this soil, he felt a infinitesimal increase in his "weight" in the world. He wasn't just existing; he was accumulating.
A shadow fell over them. A man approached from the direction of the white-pillared temple further up the coast. He moved with a grace that was almost predatory, his face the exact template for the doppelgängers that would plague the Petrova line for centuries.
Silas.
"Is it awake?" Silas asked, his voice dripping with bored arrogance. He didn't look at Cassian as a person, but as a curiosity. "The Travelers are whispering. They say a man who falls from the sky without a scratch is either a god or a demon. If he's a god, we should feast. If he's a demon, we should bleed him."
Silas stopped three paces away. He was a powerful psychic, even before the immortality spell. He tilted his head, attempting to dive into Cassian's mind.
Cassian felt the intrusion. It felt like a needle trying to pierce a diamond. Silas's brow furrowed. He pushed harder.
"I can't see his thoughts," Silas muttered, his boredom replaced by a sudden, sharp interest. "It's like looking into a sun. There is too much... presence."
"He has no magic," Qetsiyah added, her eyes darting between the two men. "But he burned me. Not with fire, but with something else. With time."
Cassian realized then that his "power" wasn't a spell. He was a living battery for the universe's energy. The longer he existed, the more "mass" his soul and body acquired. At this moment, he was perhaps as strong as a young vampire. In a hundred years, he would be a monster. In two thousand? He would be a force of nature.
But he was currently in a nest of the most powerful witches to ever live. If they viewed him as a threat, they would desiccate him or trap him in a tomb before his power could truly bloom.
"I am a traveler from a place you cannot reach," Cassian said, holding Silas's gaze. He had to play the long game. "I have no interest in your cure or your love triangle. But I know what you are building, Silas. I know about the True Immortality."
The air around them turned cold. Silas's hand went to the dagger at his waist. "You speak of things that are not yet finished."
"And they will never be finished if you don't listen," Cassian said, his voice growing steadier as he felt his power tick upward another fraction of a percent. "I am the Witness. I am the one who remains when everything else turns to dust. Let me stay, let me learn, and I will ensure your legacy isn't forgotten."
Silas laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "Legacy? I don't want a legacy. I want to live forever with the woman I love."
Cassian looked at Qetsiyah, seeing the flicker of doubt in her eyes. He knew Silas wasn't talking about her—he was talking about Amara. The tragedy was already in motion.
"Then let me help you," Cassian said.
Inside, he was already calculating. He had 2,000 years to prepare for the Mikaelsons. He had two millennia to become the apex predator of this world. But first, he had to survive the wrath of a woman scorned and a man who wanted to be a god.
As the sun began to set over the Ionian Sea, Cassian felt the first true surge of his gift. It was a low hum in his bones, a promise of the strength to come. He wasn't just a guest in this timeline. He was the new anchor.