"We'll know once she wakes up," she says, "but her vampire traits will be pretty prominent—which could only be skin complexion and eye color. Any other traits we won't know until she's functioning again."
Vampire traits.
More prominent.
Meaning the hybrid power she's always carried might finally manifest in ways visible to the outside world.
The silence that follows feels weighted with possibility—both terrifying and exhilarating.
When it seems no one has any urgent questions, Professor Eternalis adds what feels like a final statement before departure.
"For now, it's obligatory that you all take these days to rest and think of better strategies to work together."
Her gaze sweeps across the room, touching each of us with the particular intensity of someone who sees more than surface details.
"The end is always the most challenging. Not because of the trials ahead, but because exhaustion is at its peak. Prioritize rest and listening to one another's needs."
Cassius's shadow tendrils pulse with something that might be acknowledgment.
"The Year will invite the most structure any of you will gain," she continues, "but don't think it's merciful."
The warning hangs in the air, heavy with implications we can't yet fully grasp.
Year Four.
The final year.
Whatever awaits us will be worse than everything we've already survived—and we barely survived what came before.
When no one else says anything, Professor Eternalis nods with the particular finality of someone closing a chapter.
"We will regroup when Gwenievere is awake."
She turns to leave, Prince Yoshiro trailing behind her with that infuriating skip-step that makes my blood boil. At the doorway, he glances back over his shoulder—those impossible, shifting eyes finding mine with uncanny precision.
He winks.
Actually winks.
Like this is all some grand game and we're amusing pieces on a board he's already won.
Then they're gone, the door sliding closed behind them, leaving us alone with our unconscious companions and the weight of everything we've just learned.
The chamber feels different in their absence.
Smaller, somehow, despite the high ceilings and expansive space. The bioluminescent veins in the walls pulse with slower rhythm, as if exhausted by the magic that saturated the air during our conversation. The crystalline chamber holding Gwenievere continues its steady glow, her monitored heartbeat a constant reminder that she's alive, that she's healing, that she'll wake eventually and we can have the conversations that matter.
I find myself drifting toward Cassius, drawn by instinct more than intention.
His shadow tendrils acknowledge my approach without hostility—a significant change from how they would have responded in Year One, when every other bond mate was competition to be eliminated rather than ally to be supported.
"What do you make of all this?" I ask quietly, keeping my voice low enough that the others can choose whether to engage.
Cassius's silver eyes remain fixed on Gwenievere's floating form.
"I make nothing of it," he admits with a grunt, and the honesty costs him—I can see it in the tension along his jaw, the way his tendrils curl tighter around themselves. "The prince is... I've never encountered anything I can't read before. It's like trying to taste void. There's nothing there—not hidden, not shielded, just... absent."
Absent.
