Despite her recklessness. Despite her tendency to headbutt solutions into existence rather than thinking them through. Despite the fact that she's currently unconscious because she pushed herself beyond reasonable limits without considering consequences.
I trust her more than anyone I've trusted in centuries.
The realization should be uncomfortable, should threaten the careful independence I've cultivated across lifetimes of solitary scholarship. Instead, it settles into my chest with the warmth of finally understanding something I'd been studying without comprehending.
Professor Eternalis shrugs, the casual gesture contrasting with the weight of her observations.
"You are one of the most knowledgeable individuals on this team, Mortimer."
The compliment hangs in the air, clearly incomplete.
I arch an eyebrow in question, waiting for the qualification that her tone promises.
Her smirk widens.
"But that familiar of a cat demigod god of sorts has unlocked knowledge his master simply hasn't unlocked yet."
Wait.
What?
I frown at the revelation, mind racing to reorganize everything I thought I understood about our feline companion.
Zeke is a demigod cat familiar?
The words echo through my consciousness, triggering cascades of connection. His nine lives. His impossible knowledge of events he shouldn't be able to remember. The way his magic carries undertones that never quite felt purely feline. The devotion that seemed to transcend simple bond-mate dynamics.
A familiar.
But not just any familiar—a demigod familiar, whatever that means.
And he knows things his "master"—presumably Gwenievere—hasn't accessed yet.
"Zeke is a demigod cat familiar?" I mutter, the question emerging before I can consider whether voicing it is wise.
Professor Eternalis begins to pace—a movement that somehow makes the chartered space feel smaller, more intimate, as if we're having this conversation in a study rather than a pocket dimension.
"Youth is what allows one to have time to grow and morph into their destined paths," she begins, her voice taking on theparticular cadence of teachers who have given this lecture many times before.
The words feel familiar—not the specific phrasing, but the concept. Something I've read in ancient texts, something whispered in libraries that existed before written language became standardized.
"You already know this, as you've gone from scholar to one who has read thousands of books in various libraries. You hold knowledge that many wish to carry, like a walking encyclopedia of information. Now..."
She pauses, turning to face me with expression that carries challenge and promise in equal measure.
"Imagine one with immortality after their nine lives. A nice bonus when you're young and have started life in a cycle of stillness."
Cycle of stillness.
The phrase triggers something in the deepest archives of my memory—texts I'd dismissed as mythology, legends I'd catalogued without truly believing.
"I don't understand," I admit, the words tasting like failure on a tongue that prides itself on comprehension.
She nods, accepting my confusion without judgment.
"It's not necessarily meant for you to understand," she explains, her voice carrying patience that speaks of endless repetition. "None of this will truly 'make' sense, because your group is the first to finally reach this cycle of wickedness."
First.
