Page 24 of Guardian of the Cursed Egg
The rest of the class feels like I’m under a microscope. Every shift, every glance, every hushed whisper from the other students feels like it’s aimed directly at me. I try to block out Serra’s sharp words from earlier, but they echo in my mind, clawing at my thoughts. The whispers of the others don’t help, their tones a mix of fear and curiosity feeding off each other. My first-period science class is full of prey species, and their herd mentality is almost palpable. They’re easy to spook, and right now, I’m the monster in their midst.
As we leave the classroom, I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text to Callan, letting him know what’s happening. The message barely has time to send before he replies, promising to go to the headmaster. His reassurances soften the tight knot in my chest, and the wordsI love youbring a flicker of warmth that I desperately cling to. I send back a simple heart emoji before shoving the phone deep into my bag, trying not to let the unease take root again.
The walk to outdoor art class is mercifully uneventful, the crisp air clearing some of the tension from my mind. I hold on to Vaughn’s arm, leaning into his side, his presence a steadying force. His warmth seeps into me, grounding me in a way that feels safe but also fragile.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I mutter under my breath, barely loud enough for Vaughn to hear. The words burn with self-loathing. I’m a dragon—strong, fierce, supposed to be untouchable. Yet here I am, living in constant fear, not just of what the others might do, but of the shadow looming larger in my life:my father.
I shudder at the thought of him, the creator of the beast that now resides within me. He built this thing, shaped the lethal force coiledaround my soul. If he can do this tome, then what else is he capable of? What horrors could he unleash if he turned his fury on me? I clutch Vaughn’s arm tighter, and he glances down, his expression unreadable but steady. It’s a quiet comfort, but even his strength can’t completely chase away the fear gnawing at the edges of my resolve.
CHAPTER 14
Vaughn
I’ve never beenthe violent type, but after the chaos Serra caused today, I want nothing more than to drive her entire nest into oblivion. The thought gnaws at me as we walk through the cherry tree gardens where my uncle’s class is held. My fingers fly over my phone, sending updates to Abraxis about Mina. I swear I hear his dragon’s roar in the distance. Shadowcarve isn’t far from here, and his fury feels like it echoes in the air.
When we arrive, I help Mina set up her spot under the shade of a tree, right where she likes to sit. I stay close, hovering in the way she pretends not to mind. She stares at the blank canvas as my uncle drones on about the Winter Ball, the one held every solstice. The same ball where Abraxis claimed her. Her fingers twitch slightly, her gaze dropping to her hands as if seeing something the rest of us can’t.
Then, without a word, she dips her brush into the paint and begins. My uncle hasn’t even given us today’s subject, and she’s already painting. My stomach drops.Shit.She’s having a vision.
I fumble my phone and send a panicked message to the nest chat. It’s just the guys and me in there.
Me: She’s painting. Vision, I think. No prompt yet.
Abraxis: On my way.
Ziggy: Already here.
I glance over my shoulder and nearly jump out of my skin. Damn him. Ziggy’s leaning casually against a tree behind us, arms crossed as he watches Mina’s brush glide across the canvas.
“You know I hate people standing behind me, Ziggy…” Mina says, her voice steady, not missing a stroke.
“I do,” he replies, stepping to the side with that infuriating smirk of his. “But from here, I can see the entire class. I get why you sit back here.” He shifts to a better vantage point, studying her work.
Her canvas is a mess of shadows and abstract shapes, nothing concrete yet, but there’s something … alive about it. I don’t like it. Not one bit.
Mina’s attention flicks to my blank canvas, and before I can protest, she pulls my easel closer, aligning it with hers. Without asking, she bridges the gap between them with a strip of masking tape. Now the two canvases are one, her painting bleeding onto mine as though her vision demands it.
I swallow hard, caught between the need to help her and the gnawing unease clawing at the back of my mind. Whatever she’s seeing, it’s big. Too big.
Abraxis strides into the gardens, his presence commanding as always, and waves off my uncle before he can join us. I glance at theothers gathered around, our attention fixated on Mina. Her golden dragon eyes dart across the two canvases in front of her, glowing like embers in the twilight. The paintings take form under her hand, each stroke heavy with something I can’t quite grasp but feel in my bones.
The mountain range where Mina was born takes shape—a hauntingly familiar scene. The ruins of the old nest are reduced to rubble, their once-proud spires now jagged remnants of loss. Two colossal skull dragons loom, one with a weathered white face and the other younger, perched on opposite sides of what must be the new nest high in the mountains.
On my canvas, a scarred red dragon sits, its talons impaling a smaller green one, its lifeless form limp and broken. My breath hitches at the brutal imagery. Opposite them, Mina’s dragon roars, its fury palpable even in paint. And there’s my gargoyle, perched on the crumbling remains of a wall, as if guarding something unseen. Callan’s gryphon and Leander’s nightmare linger close by, shadows against the ruins. There’s two shadows, not quite formed close to Klauth. As if those presences are not clear yet.
Mina sets her paintbrush down with a deliberate slowness, her expression unreadable as she stares at the painting. The air shifts, sharp and cold, like a blade against my skin. The icy sting of fear crawls up my spine, settling between my shoulder blades as I take in the image. It’s wrong, foreboding, but its meaning escapes me.
Before I can speak, Mina rises abruptly. Her movements are swift, almost frantic, as she crosses to Ziggy. Without a word, they vanish, leaving the rest of us rooted in place, staring at the images she’s left behind.
I can’t make sense of it—the ruin, the death, the fury. But the weightof it bears down on me, and I know, deep down, this isn’t just art. It’s a warning.
We carry the paintings back to Shadowcarve, to Mina’s suite that has morphed into a chaotic gallery of her dark visions. The walls are a labyrinth of images—dragons, shadows, and blood—but my attention locks onto the newest additions.
“This is the second time she’s painted Klauth killing her father,” Abraxis says, his voice steady but heavy, as he points to the smaller green dragon clutched in Klauth’s talons.
I step closer, eyes narrowing on the details. “Who’s the second skull dragon?” The question hangs in the air as I search for answers in the thick strokes of paint.
“That’s Thauglor,” Mina says from behind us, her voice soft but commanding. I turn to see her emerge from the hallway, her presence a steadying force even in the storm of uncertainty. She strides to the paintings and rearranges them, her hands deftly shifting canvases until the new piece fits seamlessly into the sequence on the wall. It slides into place after the one where Klauth’s crimson eye reflects the smaller green dragon.
