Page 45 of Guardian of the Cursed Egg
As we step into Shadowcarve, the atmosphere shifts. The garrison walls, carved from dark wood, seem to breathe around us, holding centuries of battles in their grain. The heavy tension from outside lifts from my shoulders, and for the first time today, I laugh—a genuine sound, light and unguarded. Vaughn shoots me a curious look, and I stop him with a hand against his arm.
“Remember when you asked about Abraxis’s display?” I ask, my voice low but edged with amusement.
Vaughn arches a brow, his gaze wandering slowly, taking in the massive courtyard. The garrison’s walls loom high, their wooden beams blackened and ancient. There’s a dampness in the air here—old wood and distant rain—but it’s the weight of what hangs above us that draws his attention.
“Look closer at the tops of the walls,” I instruct, tilting my chin toward the beams.
Vaughn’s eyes narrow, and then I see it—the flicker of realization as he spots them. Lining the courtyard, resting in grim pride, are skulls and bones. Yellowed and weathered, they tell a story of blood and victory. A manticore’s poisoned barb gleams dull in the half-light, still deadly in its stillness. Others—tusks, horns, and massive fangs—jut out like gruesome decorations. The air tastes different here, tinged with faint decay and metal, as though the courtyard remembers every fight that earned these trophies.
A smile tugs at my lips, pride flickering through me like fire. “These are my mate’s trophies,” I murmur, pointing each out for Vaughn. He remains silent, his expression unreadable, though I catch the slight crease of respect in his brow.
The ground shakes as Abraxis lands beside me, his wings folding with a rustle of leather. A warm gust of air rolls over me, carrying his scent—smoke and something darker, something that calls to my dragoness. He pulls me against him, the heat of his body seeping through my clothes as his lips brush against my temple. The contact elicits a low purr from deep in my throat.
“Showing Vaughn my display?” Abraxis’s voice is a rumble, soft but edged with satisfaction.
“Yeah,” I reply, tilting my head just enough to catch his molten gold eyes. “He needs to understand our culture a little more. I mean, your best friends have been around you forever, so I’m guessing they helped with this.”
Abraxis nods, the edges of his lips curling into a knowing smile. “When we were sure you were coming here, we spent that night setting everything up. I needed you to know I was worthy—even if you didn’t know it was me yet.”
My dragoness stirs inside me, pressing against the edges of my mind.Worthy.The word rolls through me, heavy and true. Abraxis’s gaze drops to the canvas in my hand, and I offer it to him wordlessly.
The moment he sees it—sees Thauglor’s eye and the reflection of my dragoness—understanding dawns on his face. “The mating flight,” he says softly, the words like a growl and a promise. I nod, turning on my heel to head toward the second-floor classroom, the creak of old wood beneath my boots echoing with every step.
“What did you paint, Vaughn?” Abraxis says tossing the question over his shoulder.
“Stupid flowers, like my uncle wanted.” Vaughn mutters darkly, holding out his painting. The petals look delicate under the harsh lights, impossibly soft compared to the brutal trophies lining the walls.
Abraxis glances at it and grumbles, his voice low and gravelly. “I swear I need to get your uncle to offer something other than girly shit for you to paint.”
Vaughn snorts, shaking his head, as we enter the classroom. The door creaks open, and the smell of old wood, paint, and varnish wraps around us like a second skin. Abraxis follows, his footsteps heavier than ours.
I love my mate, but sometimes Callan drones on, his voice a steady hum as if he’s recounting the battle of Tyr from personal experience. The crackle of the fire in the hearth competes with his words, but he doesn’t falter. He’s animated, gesturing as though reliving it firsthand,though the battle itself took place almost a thousand years ago.
The ancient ruins loom in my mind as he describes them, their jagged silhouettes clawing against the sky across from the Temple of Bahamut. I can almost smell the scorched stone and feel the chill of the lingering curse that whispers through those crumbling halls. Once, it was a palace—ornate and alive with the laughter of Klauth’s bloodline. Now, it’s just bones of grandeur, forgotten and broken.
I sit up a little straighter, the cool leather strap of the double egg carrier pressing against my palm as I rest my hand over my stomach. The faint hum of warmth from the eggs thrums under my touch, soothing and alive. “Klauth is going to be pissed seeing his family’s home in ruins,”I murmur, more to myself than anyone. My voice barely rises above the crackling fire, but it carries enough weight to snuff out Callan’s droning.
A chair creaks as one of the third years sitting in front of me turns around. His dark eyes narrowed with skeptical curiosity. The air smells faintly of wax and damp stone, a reminder of just how cold this academy can feel sometimes. “What makes you think the egg is going to hatch?” he asks, his tone laced with doubt.
I tilt my head slowly, my gaze locking on him like a predator sizing up its prey. The flickering firelight casts long shadows across his face, and I feel the temperature drop a degree as Abraxis shifts behind me. The sound of his boots—a soft thud against the wooden floor—echoes louder than it should in the space.
His presence is immediate and grounding, the tension rolling off me in waves as his large, calloused hands come to rest on my shoulders. His touch is cool but deliberate, his thumbs kneading gently into the tight knots there. “It doesn’t matter what anyone other than youthinks about the egg,” Abraxis says, his deep voice rumbling just above a whisper, like distant thunder.
A shiver prickles down my spine as he dips closer, pressing a kiss to my temple. His breath is warm against my skin, laced with the faint metallic tang of his aura—dark and electric. My dragoness stirs at the contact, her talons curling deep within me.
Abraxis straightens again, the space behind me feeling empty as he leans back against the wall with a low, deliberate sigh. I glance back at the third year, his earlier smugness replaced with unease. The weight of my gaze and Abraxis’s unspoken dominance are enough to make him turn forward again, mumbling something under his breath.
We start the lecture about the different dragon species and the type of warfare they are best suited for. The room smells faintly of parchment and chalk dust, mingling with the metallic tang of dragon essence that always seems to linger here. The air feels heavy, thick with the weight of history and war.
Callan’s voice echoes off of the stone walls as he speaks, his tone clipped and precise. I lean back in my creaky wooden chair, the edge of the worn desk pressing into my palms. He delves into the details of black dragons—how they are known for their acid breath and vicious nature.
Abraxis chuckles under his breath, the deep sound like gravel sliding over steel. The low rumble makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Callan isn’t far off about the surly nature of black dragons, and Abraxis knows it.
Callan then moves on to red dragons, and I feel the room’s temperature shift. It’s not real, of course—just a trick of my dragon-born senses—but I swear I feel the heat rise, like the breath of a forge. “Their temperament puts the black dragons to shame,” Callan says. “Red dragons are unrelenting when they have a score to settle.”
“That explains Arista trying to turn students against Greenie back there,” one of the third years in the front row says offhandedly.
The scrape of his voice makes me sit up a little straighter, my shoulders stiffening. I catch the flicker of Callan’s gaze sliding toward Abraxis. My mate’s golden eye narrows, his chair creaking as he pushes back and stands. The soft thud of Abraxis’s boots on the wood floor reverberates like a death knell. He doesn’t say a word—he doesn’t have to. He just grips the third year by the collar and hauls him from the room. The heavy door groans on its hinges as it closes behind them, the sound sharp and final.
