Gwenievere is what the Seven exist to serve.
"Gwenievere's the centerpiece," I say, understanding flooding through me with the particular rush of finally grasping something profound. "The ruler... the queen of the chessboard..."
Chess.
The metaphor extends, pieces reorganizing themselves on an imaginary board. Queen at the center—the most powerful piece, capable of moving in any direction. And around her...
"And we're the Seven," I continue, mind racing to keep up with implications that cascade faster than I can fully process. "Meaning..."
Seven pieces serving the Queen.
But which pieces?
And who is the seventh if Damien doesn't quite fit the pattern my mind is trying to construct?
Professor Eternalis's smirk widens with satisfaction, the expression of a teacher watching a student finally grasp a lesson she's been trying to communicate.
She spins around with grace that shouldn't be possible for someone of any age, moving toward the door with purpose that suggests our private conversation has reached its conclusion.
"I've cloaked the final bond mark until she's awake and in better spirits," she announces, her back to me as she reaches for the doorknob. "I don't need you men fighting each other when we have other things to fight to let out all that sexual tension."
Sexual tension.
Heat floods my face—actual warmth spreading across cheeks that haven't blushed in centuries.
"There's no sexual tension," I protest, the defensive words emerging before I can stop them.
Professor Eternalis laughs.
The sound is genuine, delighted, carrying the particular joy of someone who has just witnessed something endlessly amusing.
She looks over her shoulder, those ageless eyes dancing with humor at my expense.
"Not everyone has dragon hormones where you lot get kinky for three to six months at a time and then are happily dormant for as long as you need."
How does she know about?—
My frown deepens into something approaching genuine embarrassment. The dragon mating cycle isn't exactly secret knowledge, but it's not something I discuss casually—the months-long periods of intense physical need followed by extended dormancy that makes dragons seem almost asexual to species with more consistent drives.
And apparently, we're in an active period right now.
Which might explain why my reactions to Gwenievere have been so... intense.
Professor Eternalis giggles—the sound surprisingly young given everything else about her presence—and looks away, returning her attention to the door.
"All paranormal shifters are the same no matter how you look at it," she observes, voice carrying the particular wisdom of someone who has watched countless species navigate the complications of physical desire. "Sex brings unity just as it expands. Remember, your group are younglings in comparison to us who've embarked the world and the lust revolving our own kinds."
Younglings.
The word makes me bristle slightly. I'm centuries old—by most standards, ancient beyond measure. But Professor Eternalis's casual use of the term suggests that from her perspective, my considerable lifespan is barely a blink.
What does that make her? What has she seen? How many "cycles of wickedness" has she observed, waiting for the right combination of souls to finally break whatever pattern has been repeating?
She reaches for the doorknob again, but pauses before turning it.
"I'll be honest," she says, voice dropping to something more serious, more weighted with genuine warning. "You won't like your final teammate."
Final teammate.
