The first to reach this point.
But if we're the first...
"You make it seem like you've lived through this on repeat," I observe, watching her reaction carefully.
She doesn't answer.
The silence stretches between us, pregnant with implications that make my scholarly mind race through centuries of accumulated knowledge. Fragments surface from the depths—legends dismissed as fantasy, scriptures written in languages that predated the Academy, whispered stories about beings who existed outside normal time.
The Eternal Watcher,one text had called such beings.Those who observe the cycles, waiting for the pattern to finally complete.
Guardians of possibility,another had suggested.Present at every iteration, guiding without interfering, watching for the combination of souls that might finally break the chain.
"If there was never truly a Seven," I say slowly, pieces clicking into place with the particular satisfaction of puzzles finally solving themselves, "then you were waiting... until one worthy enough with the right timing would rise to the positions..."
I need a moment, the implications cascading faster than I can process them. Names surface in my mind, organizing themselves into patterns I hadn't recognized until this moment.
"Gwenievere," I whisper, the first and most important name.
The heir. The centerpiece. The one around whom everything else revolves.
"Cassius."
Shadow and darkness, protection and possession.
"Nikolai."
Duality and adaptation, Fae grace hiding deep wounds.
"Atticus."
Blood and eternity, aristocratic devotion beneath theatrical arrogance.
"Zeke."
Knowledge and guidance, familiar power serving something greater.
"Myself."
Flame and wisdom, centuries of scholarship in service of understanding.
"Damien."
The name feels wrong even as I say it. Not because he doesn't belong, but because...
My frown deepens.
Something's missing. Something doesn't fit.
Professor Eternalis walks toward me, each step deliberate, until we're standing face to face. I'm taller—dragon stature giving me physical advantage—but she commands the space between us with presence that transcends mere height.
"You wouldn't count the golden four-leaf clover among seven green ones, would you?"
The analogy settles over me like revelation.
I imagine it—seven clovers arranged in a pattern, six of them identical green, but one in the center blazing with golden light that transforms it from participant to centerpiece.
Gwenievere isn't one of the Seven.
