Page 63 of Guardian of the Cursed Egg
“I’m going to go spar with Abraxis and the fourth years this morning,” I inform Callan, recalling how easily my father disarmed me in that vision. The memory churns in my stomach—I have to improve if I’m going to stand a chance when we meet again. Leaning down, I plant a quick kiss on Callan’s temple, catching the faint scent of parchment and coffee that always clings to him.
He hands me a steaming takeaway cup and a toasted bagel. Rich coffee aroma wafts up, mingling with the faint ancient scent coming off the eggs. “Balor is waiting outside for you,” Callan tells me, briefly touching my hand as I move past him. “Have a good day, yeah?”
“You too.” I flash him a brief smile before ducking out, leaving the comfortable warmth of our private quarters behind. The hallway beyond carries a slight draft, but my dragoness is already stirring inside, keen on the challenge of sparring. Cup in hand, I stride forward with renewed determination. I need to be stronger—strong enough to face the nightmares looming on the horizon—and if a little eye-candy in the form of Abraxis’s sparring drills comes my way. Well, that’s just a bonus.
I draw in a breath tinged with the stale scent of old stone and centuries-old dust as Balor falls into step beside me. Our footsteps echo in the narrow corridor of Malivore; the flickering overhead lights reveal a corridor scuffed with decades of students’ passing. There’s a slight chill in the air that seeps through my jacket, making me acutely aware of each slow, deliberate breath.
“You’re quiet…” His rough voice catches me off guard, sending a light tremor up my spine. The warmth of my coffee cup presses into my palms, grounding me as I turn to glance at him.
“The vision where my dad disarms me and stabs me keeps playing on an endless loop in my mind,” I murmur, my voice low, barely above a whisper. I sip my coffee, letting the bitterness roll over my tongue as I recall the sharp pain of that moment—both physical and emotional.
“I can see why that’s bothering you.” Balor’s reply is gentle, though there’s a tension in his words that tightens in my chest. He draws in a deep breath, the sound rasping in his throat. “Where am I during the attack?”
His question is almost a whisper, and it grips me harder than the cold, suffocating air of the corridor. I come to a halt, suddenly dizzy, and close my eyes to picture him in the vision. My pulse thrums loudly in my ears.
“Fighting…” My voice wavers. “You’re trying to get to me…” The world dips and I wobble on my feet. The leather of my jacket squeaks as Balor grips my elbow, steadying me. With my eyes still shut, I turn my head, trying to look around in my mind. “Arista is over there.” I raise my hand, pointing at nothing but empty space in the hall.
“Where? I can’t see what you’re seeing.” His words echo, tinged with concern.
“The tunnel from Ranathor Keep. That’s how they got in…” I blink several times, clearing the remnants of the vision from behind my eyelids. When I refocus, I find Balor’s basilisk gaze locked on me. A faint tremor quivers in my chest. He’s so close I catch the faint scent of leather and steel radiating from him.
“It amazes me you can do that.” He lifts a gloved hand to cup my cheek, the fabric scratching lightly against my skin, before he pulls away to guide me the rest of the way toward Shadowcarve.
My bottom lip feels tender where I gnaw it, trying to shake off the swirl of unsteady warmth his gaze stirs. There are too many what-ifs where he’s concerned. We push through the tall wooden gates of Shadowcarve, the creaking of old wood sending a shiver of familiarity through me. The instant we’re inside, a weight lifts from my shoulders.The air here is still cold, but it feels fresher, safer. Shadowcarve. My safe place. At least … for now.
I follow the clang of metal on metal echoing through the conservatory, my steps stirring up the faint scent of sweat and polished steel. The morning air is crisp against my cheeks, carrying a slight tang of freshly turned earth from the planters lining the path. A steady hum of energy crackles in the distance—the fervor of students’ training, their grunts and sharp exhales punctuating each strike.
Soon I spot the wide sand challenge ring, its gritty surface dotted with footprints and specks of darker crimson—traces of previous bouts. Abraxis stands in the center, wings half-furled, the tips dragging faint lines in the sand. He disarms a student with a deft twist of his sword, and a hiss of steel bites the air. With a final flourish, he sends the blade skittering out of reach. Steam curls from his lips in the chill of dawn, his chest heaving from exertion as he glances around for his next opponent.
Dropping my bag, I set my takeaway cup down, the faint aroma of bitter coffee drifting up as I loosen my grip. My twin short swords rasp quietly when I draw them, the worn leather hilts fitting snugly in my palms. My scales rise, sliding into place over my forearms, chest, and throat with a soft rasp, a protective tingle running beneath my skin. I arch a brow at Abraxis. He nods, and the subtle twitch of hislips tells me he hasn’t forgotten the nightmares gnawing at my sleep. Leander’s presence wards them off somehow—perhaps part of his Nightmare lineage. But here and now, only focus and adrenaline will keep me safe.
I press my heels into the sand, feeling the cold grit shift beneath me, and a pulse of determination steels my spine. The ring smells of anticipation and old battles—of fear and resolve intermingled. I clench my swords, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. Training harder, pushing myself further—that’s my only path forward.
Today is not a good day to die.
CHAPTER 39
Vaughn
I feela slight jolt of unease when I realize Mina isn’t in our second-period class—and then she doesn’t show up to Royal Protocol either. Missing two back-to-back classes isn’t like her at all. My stomach tightens with a vague sense of foreboding as I head across the dimly lit courtyard, the old stone walls of Shadowcarve looming over me. The scent of damp earth and worn leather equipment drifts in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang from the weapons training grounds.
By the time I reach the challenge ring, a throng of students have already gathered. I slip between them, my heart thumping a little faster when I catch sight of moving silhouettes inside the ring. There’s a murmured excitement rippling through the crowd. I shift into my gargoyle form without hesitation, feeling the faint, familiar pressure as my skin hardens into a stone-like texture and my wings unfurl with a rustle. A jolt of power rushes through my limbs—muscles growing dense and heavy—while my claws scrape against the aged stone beneath my feet.
I leap into the air, powerful wings beating with a low whoosh, and land on a high ledge overlooking the ring. The vantage point reveals Mina in the center, dual-wielding her short swords. The glow of the overhead lights flickers across her blade edges, and I catch the glint of sweat on her temple. She moves so fast she’s a blur, the clash of steel on steel echoing off the walls. I grip the ledge a little tighter, feeling the gritty texture against my stone-like palms. The dizziness of trying to follow her lightning strikes makes my head spin.
Spotting Abraxis down near the ground level, I glide down and land beside him. Dust swirls around my feet as I fold my wings. “What happened?” I motion toward Mina and Callan, who is now desperately trying to counter her blinding attacks. She disarms him within seconds, sending his sword clattering onto the packed dirt floor.
Abraxis exhales slowly, his expression grim. “Her nightmares have been getting worse. That’s why she’s been staying with Leander most nights. His shift keeps her nightmares at bay.”
I tilt my head, feeling my gargoyle features shift slightly at the movement. “It’s something his shift can do?” I watch Mina step off to the side, retrieving a hunk of bread and some water from Balor. She downs both like she’s starving, though she shows no sign of slowing.
Abraxis shrugs, the faintest rustle of leather from his jacket audible in the tense hush. “Nightmares can cause nightmares. Apparently, they can stop them, too.”
Glancing around, I notice a good dozen cadets sporting fresh bandages—clearly casualties of Mina’s morning spree. “How many matches has she had already?” I ask, a flutter of unease coiling in my gut.
“I lost count,” Abraxis admits. We both turn as Mina strides towardus, a triumphant smile curving her lips. There’s a wild gleam in her eyes, as though the fight’s only fueled her adrenaline.
“Okay,” she says, her voice vibrant with challenge, “warm-up is over. I need a stronger opponent.”
