Page 15 of Guardian of the Cursed Egg
Navigating the crowd feels like a battle. Vaughn’s presence clears the path, with a few low growls cutting through the chaos when necessary. Finally, we reach his clan mates, a group clustered together at atable near the back. Vaughn pulls me to his side, tucking me securely under his arm. His pride radiates off of him as he announces, “I’d like to introduce my mate, Mina, to everyone.”
I lift a hand in a polite wave, smiling just enough to seem approachable. “The pleasure is mine.”
“She’s a dragon…” one male stammers, pointing at me with a shaky hand.
Vaughn kisses my temple, the gesture both possessive and affectionate. “Yup, that she is.”
“Does that mean the naga might finally leave us alone?” A female gargoyle pipes up from behind a massive male who, I assume, is her mate.
I zero in on her words, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my lips. “Nagas, are giving you trouble?” My tone is calm, almost too calm, as my gaze sweeps the room, hunting for potential targets. “Are they related to Samara at all?” I glance up at Vaughn, waiting for clarification.
“No,” he replies, scanning the chaos with a hint of curiosity. “Entirely different species.”
I arch a brow at him, my smile sharpening. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Vaughn asks, his voice tinged with amusement and wariness.
“When are they usually here?” I ask, keeping my tone casual as I look at the female gargoyle for an answer.
“Dinnertime,” she says hesitantly.
“Perfect.” I smile, a plan forming. “Make room for three at your table tonight. There will be a pair of dragons in the hall.”
Before Vaughn can question me, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, full and unapologetic, right in the middle of the chaos. The cafeteria falls silent. Exactly as I wanted. Every eye is on us, and I let the moment linger. Maybe the naga bullies will hear the rumor. Maybe they’ll think twice about bothering the gargoyles when they know a dragon is loose in their halls.
Science drags on as expected, Kai droning at the front of the room like a relentless storm cloud. He’s as much fun as a bellyache. Poor Nigel had an actual meltdown in art class earlier, his creativity unraveling like a frayed thread. Vaughn, in his calm way, set up his easel beside mine. We painted together in companionable silence, the occasional brushstroke our only communication. Leander stopped by at some point, dropping off more food—his usual offering since Callan was busy teaching the fourth years during this period.
By the time we reach Art of War, my focus has gone to shit. Watching Callan teach a room full of students with me in it is almost comical. I take a seat in the far back corner with Vaughn, deliberately separating ourselves from the rest of the class. I flip through the pages of the textbook, already familiar with most of the content. It feels more like reviewing then learning.
“Is there anything in this school you don’t know?” Vaughn’s voice is low, barely a whisper meant only for me.
Suppressing a laugh, I glance sideways at him. “Not sure. I still have two more years here. I’m sure they’ll eventually find something I haven’t been taught yet.” With a shrug, I open my jacket slightly and check on the egg carrier strapped beneath it. Both eggs are secure,untouched. The black one gleams like a piece of the void itself, its surface smooth and almost hypnotically dark. The red egg, in contrast, swirls with shades of blood and silver, vivid and alive even in stillness.
“Mrs. Havock?” Callan’s voice pulls my attention to the front of the room. Using Abraxis’s surname tells me one thing—not everyone here knows I’m his mate yet.
“Yes, sir?” I straighten my posture and zip my jacket shut, hiding the eggs.
“The diagram on the board,” he says, gesturing toward a chaotic sketch of battle formations. “Which side wins with the current configuration?”
I stand to get a better view, studying the crude lines and symbols. “Currently, it’s a stalemate without knowing the strengths and weaknesses of both sides. Bilateral siege weapons with no indication of what they’re launching only suggests a capability for distance attacks. Can you provide more details?”
Callan steps aside, staring at the diagram like he’s weighing the additional information. “The stalemate is correct. As for the rest: drow versus elves, launching fireballs.”
I take a step down the aisle, closer to the board. “What time of day?”
“Dusk,” he replies tersely.
“The drow win,” I say, turning back toward my seat.
“How do you know?” A third-year from the front of the room blurts out, his voice tinged with skepticism.
I let out a slow breath, glancing at him. “Drow see better in low light. Their genetic adaptations for dark vision far surpass those of elves,who can only see about twenty meters in the dark. Drow, on a clear night, can see up to eighty meters. Chapter eighteen, page two seventy-three. Know your enemies and you know how to win.”
Callan smiles faintly, clearly pleased with the response. “Mrs. Havock, how would you win if you were the elves, given the current parameters?”
I settle back into my chair, tilting my head thoughtfully. “Set everything on fire. Blind the drow with light. They never attack during the day because it’s too bright for them.”
Callan turns to address the class, launching into a series of follow-up questions sparked by my answers. I lean back, tuning out the noise as my mind drifts. This class feels endless.
My last class today is Abraxis’s third-year course on siege weapons. Vaughn is off to spy craft with Ziggy, though watching him pout about leaving me was almost comical. He’s worse than a hatchling with a shiny new toy.
