"The Seven was but an illusion."
My interruption cuts through her assumption with scholarly certainty. The words emerge with confidence that comes from centuries of reading between lines, of understanding that truth often hides behind metaphor, of recognizing pattern where others see only chaos.
"A metaphor to give order in a hierarchy that couldn't exist without balance."
Her eyebrow arches with interest that suggests I've surprised her—no small feat given her apparent age and experience.
I press forward, my eyes narrowing with dragon intensity that transforms my usually gentle features into something sharper.
"If you're expecting me to ignore that sixth mark on her lower hips, I will not."
The observation lands in the space between us with weight that makes the conjured air feel thicker.
Six marks.
I counted them during the healing process, when her incantations were visible and her bond marks glowed with desperate vitality.
Neck. Wrist. Chest. Shoulder. Rib.
And one I hadn't seen before—low on her hip, fresh and pulsing with power that tasted of nothing I could identify.
Professor Eternalis says nothing for a moment, her silence more eloquent than words could manage. Then her lips curve into a smirk that carries knowing I don't fully appreciate.
"Do I sense jealousy?"
The question makes heat rise in my chest—dragon fire responding to perceived insult before rational thought can intercede.
"A dragon of my lengthy livelihood isn't going to be jealous of a pureblood potential that's somehow been given some form of redemption for whatever reason we're not being given."
The words emerge with more defensiveness than intended, betraying exactly what I'd hoped to conceal.
Because I am jealous.
Irrationally, impossibly, embarrassingly jealous.
Not of the bond itself—I understand that Gwenievere's heart is vast enough to hold more than any reasonable number of connections.
But of the unknown. Of someone who touched her, marked her, claimed some piece of her that I wasn't present to witness or protect.
Professor Eternalis laughs softly—the sound carrying age and wisdom and perhaps a touch of genuine amusement at my discomfort.
"That's not what's bothering you," she observes, turning to face me fully.
The movement transforms her presence in the room. Where before she'd seemed like a passing observer, now she commandsthe space with authority that makes even my dragon instincts pay attention.
When I frown at her continued insight, she continues without waiting for confirmation.
"You are the wiser one, yes," she acknowledges, the compliment carrying undertones that suggest wisdom alone isn't sufficient for what lies ahead. "But deep in your dragon soul, it burns for that woman floating in the abyss of ultimate power and destruction."
Her eyes—those impossible, knowing eyes—meet mine with intensity that sees through every defense I've ever constructed.
"Her decisions can be erratic, unpredictable, and sometimes wicked in nature," she continues, each word landing with the precision of arrows finding targets. "But you trust her more than you do all the men out there waiting for your departure from this room and seeking answers."
Yes.
The acknowledgment surfaces without permission.
I trust her.
