🜂 The Symbol of Minerva

Destiny is not for knowing. It is for walking.

It began with a shape I could not name, lines crossing, forming a square that was not a square,
a pattern that breathed.

It came to me in a dream, set in a kitchen that once belonged to my grandmother,
a place where generations stirred memory into matter.

He wore it at his throat, that symbol; gold with red enamel, radiant as if it remembered the sun.
He told me what it meant, and She showed me the threads of Fate that bound me to it; though I would never recall the full prophecy upon waking.

Simply that it bound souls beyond time and protected them from doubt and division.

The symbol has followed me since.
It appears in the spaces between, carved in clouds, reflected in glass,
mirrored in the turning of things.
It carries Minerva’s seal: wisdom that does not shout, but reveals itself through stillness.
It marks the chosen who walk between logic and prophecy;
those who read not from books, but from the living geometry of the divine.

In the beginning, one clue was granted to me; 

Austras koks, the dawn tree, the world-axis that rises when night breaks into knowing.
A sigil of beginnings, of the veil thinning at first light.
A doorway not just to Minerva, but to Ushas,
and to the ancient Ashvins, the divine twins of the dawn.
The same twins whose faces would greet me again almost a year later,
etched upon a small trinket box I found in Istanbul, after a new piece of the puzzle was revealed.
Another whisper. Another confirmation.
Another echo of a pattern older than memory.

It was this same geometry that led me to Apollo.
By then, Apollo had already stepped forward in dream,
making the city of Istanbul a map of omens.
I found the obelisk without searching for it, standing beside the ancient serpent column of Apollo,
the very monument that would later guide me to the three-headed asteroid bearing Minerva’s name... and the symbol.

The 3 headed snake. Not a monster, but a cipher.
Each head a path: past, present, future.
It watched me as I understood:
that prophecy is not a gift of foresight, but of remembrance.
That the Sibyl does not predict.
She remembers forward.

The symbol was evolving, unfolding, revealing its next layer.

And then came the final thread, the one I did not look for:
a necklace found among my grandmothers teapots after her passing,
Rome on one side, Minerva’s city;
the wolf and the divine twins on the other.
A relic untouched for decades,
yet unmistakable in its message.
It was the symbol from the dream returned to waking life,
quietly confirming what the dream had spoken:
the twins that rise at dawn,
the memory that chooses the one who is ready to remember.

Nothing is coincidence when Minerva speaks.
Her language is pattern.
Her ink is time.
And her message
is always written in code.