Page 10 of Guardian of the Cursed Egg
The things we do for the ones we love.
CHAPTER 6
Mina
Gauntlet daytwo sprawls between Shadowcarve and Ranathor Keep, a brutal stretch that runs the length of Shadowcarve’s walls, towering as high as the spire itself. Just like last year, the exit is perched at the top, a cruel reminder of how far we have to go. And, as always, there are only three ways down—fly, rappel, or claw your way down the sheer face.
Out of the thirty first-years attempting Shadowcarve this year—the largest class in nearly three decades—only thirteen have survived so far, making it past the brutal eighty percent mark. They’ll be allowed to stay, assuming they heal. I’m the only surviving second-year, so I have the privilege of deciding when I run. Exhaustion clings to me like a second skin, so I’m taking the guys’ advice: I’m going last.
The third-years started with fifteen. Now, ten remain. A third of their class gone—it’s not the worst loss the academy has seen. The fourth-years are running now, and it looks like they’ll come out of this with the largest surviving class yet. Eighteen began the trial. Nine have run, and they’ve only lostone so far. A miracle, really.
“Mina?” Abraxis’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. He lowers himself beside me on the stone bench, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. I have both eggs with me, nestled in the double carrier I crafted, and everyone else is giving me a ridiculous amount of space. Not that I blame them.
“Yes, love?” I lean into him as his lips find mine in a soft kiss. He smells like leather and earth, the scent grounding me.
“Why are the eggs here?” He gestures toward the carrier, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and concern.
I smirk, arching a brow. “Why do males have balls?”
He blinks at me, clearly unprepared for the direction this is about to take. “They’re really in a horrible place if you think about it,” I add, shrugging casually, as though this is the most obvious conclusion in the world.
Abraxis settles in, a grin tugging at his lips. “Oh, this I have to hear.”
Ziggy plops down on my other side, clearly drawn by the absurdity of the topic. I glance around and realize half the group is eavesdropping now. Fine. Let them.
“Well,” I begin, mimicking a side-to-side motion with my hand, “they dangle. Constantly. It’s not like they make a bra for them or anything. No support at all. And if you sit on them, squash them, or hit them…” I pause for dramatic effect. “You’re down. Out. Completely defenseless until the pain and nausea pass.”
Abraxis snorts, shaking his head. Ziggy is watching me with a mix of horror and fascination.
“Aerodynamically, the female body is constructed better,” I continue, arching a brow at the growing crowd. “All of our important bits aretucked safely inside. Our breasts”—I cup mine for emphasis, hearing someone choke on a laugh behind me—“can be strapped down. A good sports bra, a wide ace wrap, whatever it takes. I do both when I compete. Keeps them out of the way.”
More than one male averts their gaze as I look up, daring anyone to argue. “That’s why everyone was so shocked when I wore a gown. Boobs are annoying. They get in the way of archery, sword fighting, climbing. I mean, the list goes on.”
Abraxis leans back, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. “Leave it to you to turn gauntlet day into a debate on anatomy,” he says, wrapping an arm around me.
“What can I say? It’s all about priorities,” I reply, flashing him a grin.
As the last fourth-year crosses the line, I finish stretching and hand the egg carrier off to Abraxis. The weight of Klauth’s and Thauglor’s eggs leaves my arms, but the responsibility lingers, heavy as ever. My gaze drifts to Balor, who stands on the platform like last year. His presence is as commanding as ever, but this time, something feels different.
“I really feel like I’m having a déjà vu moment,” I say, smiling up at him. For a fleeting moment, his eyes shift—pupils narrowing into slits—and I feel the predatory energy ripple through the air.
“Yeah, except this time I care if you make it out or not,” he says, his voice sharp yet low, charged with something he’s not saying outright. He reaches out toward me, and I freeze, watching him. His hand pauses midair, and he pulls back, inhaling deeply to steadyhimself. “Rinse and repeat,” he mutters, his tone laced with resignation.
I nod. The gauntlet is the same as last year—poisons, living targets, moving floors, and horrors I’ve barely managed to forget. “See you soon,” I say softly, offering him a small, tight smile before stepping forward into the darkness.
The moment I cross the threshold, visions flash before my eyes—fragments of possibilities, warnings from the tethered threads of fate. The decision is instinctual. My talons extend, scraping against the wooden walls as I climb swiftly, using the beams above to bypass the traps and obstacles. The ground below is a massacre. Blood sprays in crimson arcs, and dangling intestines glint faintly in the sparse light, strung up on a rod like grotesque decorations.
I leap across a gap, landing silently on the other side. There, the tunnel to the second floor looms ahead, dark and uninviting. This will be the only place my feet touch the ground. Kneeling, I glance around the area, my senses sharpening. No bloodstains, no shredded uniforms, no signs of previous victims. It’s clean—too clean. My skin prickles with unease, but there’s no other way forward.
The stairwell yawns before me, cold and black, like the maw of some slumbering beast. A chill runs down my spine as I place a cautious foot on the first step, my mind racing with what could be waiting for me above. Whatever it is, it’s better than what’s behind me. I have to keep moving.
I place my foot on the outer edge of the stairs, every movement deliberate, trying to blend into the shadows. Each step creaks faintly under my weight, but the noises above cover most of it. I pause, listening. Something shifts on the second floor.
There it is again—just ahead. I exhale softly and leap, using my arms and legs to press against the walls. My body is taut as I climb the rest of the way, silent, scaling the staircase like a predator stalking its prey. From this higher vantage point, the room comes into view.
Half a dozen kobolds roam the space, their tiny armored forms darting in and out of the shadows. They’re humanoid dragons, standing only two feet tall. Spear tips and sword edges glint in the dim light. Lesser dragon kin, I remind myself, though the distinction does little to settle the unease curling in my gut. They chatter in yip yak, their native tongue—a language of sharp, high-pitched syllables that scratches at my ears. A few words translate into dragonic, ones I barely recognize, but most remain incomprehensible.
They sense me. Or rather, they sense her—the dragoness in me. It makes their movements erratic, nervous. The tension hangs thick in the air.
