Chapter 4
The Scholar's Burden
~MORTIMER~
"So this will stabilize her long enough so her energies won't keep depleting?"
The question emerges with scholarly precision that belies the concern churning beneath my composed exterior. I've spent centuries perfecting the art of appearing unbothered while internally cataloging every detail, every implication, every piece of information that might prove useful later.
But watching Gwenievere float unconscious in a sphere of magic that I can't fully comprehend tests even my practiced composure.
The sphere dominates the center of the room—if this space can be called a room.
We're somewhere between dimensions, in a chartered pocket of reality that Professor Eternalis conjured with the casual ease of someone setting a table for dinner.
The walls don't quite exist in the traditional sense; they're suggestions of boundaries, shimmering membranes that separate our sanctuary from the dimensional chaos still roiling outside.
The floor beneath my feet is solid enough, but it carries a particular shimmer that speaks of temporary existence. Walk too far in any direction, and I suspect the stability would fail, dropping whoever dared test its limits into whatever void lies beyond this conjured space.
Not exactly the Academy.
Not exactly anywhere.
The sphere containing Gwenievere hovers at chest height, rotating slowly on an axis that seems determined by magic rather than physics.
Its surface is translucent—glass-like but not glass, carrying the particular shimmer of power concentrated into visible form.
Through its curved walls, I can see her floating in the center, suspended in liquid light that supports her without touching, cushions without confining.
Her silver hair drifts around her face in slow-motion waves, each strand carrying its own luminescence as if even unconscious, her power refuses to dim entirely.
The incantations that typically crawl across her skin during moments of great magic have settled into stable patterns, golden symbols rotating around her body in concentric circles like protective satellites.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Mine.
The possessive thought surfaces with dragon intensity that would have surprised me centuries ago but has become familiar since our bond formed.
Something about this woman—this fierce, impossible, infuriatingly reckless woman—calls to parts of me I'd kept dormant for longer than most civilizations have existed.
More incantations float outside the sphere, forming a secondary layer of protection that speaks to Professor Eternalis's considerable skill.
These are written in languages older than the Academy itself—some I recognize from texts I've studied, others that predated even the libraries I've haunted across millennia.
They pulse with slow rhythms that match Gwenievere's breathing, linked to her life signs in ways that will alert us immediately if anything changes.
An induced coma.
The clinical term doesn't capture the reality of what I'm observing.
This is more like hibernation, like the deep sleep dragons enter when the world becomes too tedious to endure consciously.
Her body rests while her spirit—which has been causing so much trouble lately—is anchored firmly in place by magic specifically designed to prevent the kind of involuntary astral projection she's been experiencing.
Professor Eternalis nods at my question, her eternal features carrying the particular serenity of someone who has witnessed enough crises to know which ones require panic and which merely require patience.
"She'll need to stay in that for at least a few days," she confirms, her voice carrying harmonics that speak of power older than my considerable lifespan. "Or the fainting spells are going to keep happening."
A few days.
The timeframe settles into my mind with weight I don't fully want to examine. A few days of watching her float unconscious. A few days of not knowing when—or if—she'll wake. A few days of the men outside this room growing increasingly agitated at being separated from their bonded mate.
A few days of me pretending I'm not as worried as they are.
I observe Gwenievere for another long moment, cataloging the slight movements of her floating hair, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way the incantations around her pulse with her heartbeat rather than their own rhythm. Everything suggests stability. Everything suggests she'll be fine.
So why does my dragon want to tear through this conjured space and carry her somewhere I can protect her properly?
I turn away from the sphere with effort that costs more than I'd like to admit, focusing instead on the woman who apparently knows more about our situation than she's been willing to share.
"Are we going to get an explanation?" The question emerges sharper than intended, centuries of patience wearing thin against the accumulated frustrations of recent events.
"Or are you going to leave us in the dark, just like you're leaving us in this chartered space that's not exactly in the Academy? "
Professor Eternalis smiles.
The expression transforms her ageless features into something almost playful, as if my irritation amuses her rather than offends. She moves toward the door—a door that exists only because she willed it to exist, leading to the larger space where the others wait with varying degrees of patience.
"The best things come to those who wait," she says, the platitude carrying weight that suggests she means it literally rather than figuratively. "But it would be best to account for your teammates, yes."
Teammates.
The word makes me pause.
Is that what we are? Teammates? The designation feels simultaneously too simple and surprisingly accurate. We started as strangers competing in trials designed to kill most participants. Somewhere along the way—through blood and fire and shadows and frost—we became something else.
A team.
Bonded to the same woman.
Fighting toward goals we're only beginning to understand.
I can't help the slight pout that crosses my features—an expression I'd never allow if anyone else were watching. But Professor Eternalis has seen enough of me to know that scholarly composure is armor rather than nature, and some part of me has stopped caring whether she witnesses the cracks.
We've come so far.
Through trials that should have killed us. Through revelations that restructured everything we thought we knew about the Academy, about our pasts, about the woman floating unconscious behind me. This is the final stepping stone, the last stage of a journey that no one else has completed.
Year Three.
The year that's rarely spoken of because most don't make it this far.
Before Professor Eternalis can open the door, I speak again.
"I need to ask a question."
She pauses, hand on a doorknob that shimmers between solid and suggestion. Her head turns, profile illuminated by the soft light emanating from Gwenievere's stasis sphere.
"If this has to do with your position as the Seven, then—"
"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 commands the 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."