Page 67 of Guardian of the Cursed Egg
“Is she your mate?” I ask, moving to stand beside one of my oldest friends.
“Yes.” His voice is rough, barely audible. He steps away and collapses into the chair by my desk. The leather creaks under his weight. “I knew from the first moment I saw her walking to the gauntlet.” He leans forward, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, tension radiating from him like heat from smoldering coals.
“Does she know?” I perch on the edge of my desk, my gaze fixed on him. “I mean, did she know back then?”
He shakes his head, the motion slow and deliberate. “It was before she had her dragon. She couldn’t even sense Abraxis being her mateback then, remember?” He sighs and pulls a knife from his pocket, the blade catching the light as he cleans under his nails. “I buried the bond so deep. It’s there, but I won’t say anything. It’s her choice.” Abruptly, he stands and strides to the door. “I’ll walk her to her second-period class.”
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving a faint echo in the still air. I move back to the window, watching as he approaches Mina and Ziggy. She nods, quickly gathering her things. A smirk tugs at my lips as I glance at her schedule. Second period: focused poisons class—with Balor. Sneaky basilisk.
The day drags on, the suffocating lull that makes even the dim fluorescent lighting seem oppressive. Mina and Vaughn are in myArt of Warclass, their stations set up across the room. The simulated battlefield on Mina’s screen flickers in shades of muted green and gray, but her focus isn’t there. She stares at the scenario in front of her, her movements detached, almost mechanical. The quiet hum of her simulator feels louder than her deliberate clicks, each one echoing like a hollow metronome. She hits the button, locking in her programming with a final, definitive press.
Vaughn, two tables over, finishes his simulation with a sharper, more hurried rhythm. He glances toward Mina, his expression a mixture of curiosity and unease, then subtly motions to his phone. The slight rustle of fabric as he shifts in his chair draws my attention. My phone buzzes on the desk, its vibration low but insistent. I glance down.
Vaughn: Mina feels off. What’s wrong?
Callan: Her sister took a basilisk as a mate.
Vaughn: What’s wrong with that?
The corner of my jaw tightens as I stare at the screen, trying to find the right words. Vaughn doesn’t get it—not yet, anyway. My thumbs hover before I type.
Callan: Balor…
Dots appear on the screen, flashing, then vanishing, as Vaughn struggles with a response. His hesitation feels loud, even across the room, the faint creak of his chair punctuating the silence. Finally, his reply comes through.
Vaughn: Anyone with eyes can tell he loves her. What’s he waiting for?
Callan: Her to choose him, too.
I glance up to find Vaughn watching me, his simulator idling with a faint buzz. His sad smile is subtle but telling. The air between us feels heavy, like we’re caught in a tragic play—some twisted rendition ofRomeo and Juliet, where loyalty and love come second to survival.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Mina moving. Her hand dips into her top, retrieving a milky white vial. The glass catches the overhead light, glinting faintly, and she stares at it, her thumb tracing the smooth surface. The beat stretches too long; her focus too sharp, and my stomach knots. Quietly, I grab my phone and snap a picture, the shutter sound barely audible beneath the steady hum of the simulators. I fire off a quick message in the group chat.
Callan: Can anyone identify what this is or who gave it to her?
Abraxis: No clue.
Ziggy: Looks like a poison or antidote tube. Balor?
The chat goes silent. The stillness in the room grows thicker, pressing down on me like a weighted blanket. Then, the faint squeak of the classroom door opening draws every eye. Balor steps in, sunglasses perched on his face, his presence as calm as it is unnerving. Mina doesn’t even flinch, her attention glued to her simulation. The vial disappears back into her top with a single fluid motion.
The faintdingof my phone punctuates the silence. Balor’s message appears.
Balor: It was mine. I gave it to her after the gauntlet. Psychic defense.
He lingers for a beat longer, then leaves, the softclickof the door closing behind him almost imperceptible. Mina’s simulator lights up with the wordsFlawless Victoryin bold green, her precision unmatched as usual. Across the room, Vaughn lets out a triumphant exhale—his first win, barely scraping by. His shoulders rise with the smallest hint of pride, like he just conquered the world.
Mina rises from her seat, the faint scrape of her chair breaking the quiet. She moves to Vaughn’s side, her voice low but sharp as she points to his screen, dissecting his choices with clinical precision. Each correction is swift, decisive, leaving him nodding along like a chastised soldier. Her tone is calm, but the tension in her posture doesn’t fade. The lingering weight of the vial she hides stays with me, coiled in the back of my mind like a serpent waiting to strike.
“I’ll walk with you to your last class.” I offer Mina my arm, and she slips hers through mine, her fingers brushing my forearm. The warmth of her touch steadies me, even as the weight of everything unsaid lingers between us. She leans her head on my shoulder, her hair soft against my jawline, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and something darker—something uniquely hers. The quiet hum of footsteps and muffled conversations echoes faintly down the dimly lit hallway. The air is thick with the scent of old stone and the faint bitterness of alchemical fumes wafting from nearby classrooms.
We walk in silence to the poisons class, a place that always feels colder than the rest of the academy. The doorway looms ahead, its glass pane fogged slightly from the temperature difference. Balor’s shadow stretches long behind his desk, the faint clink of vials audible even through the heavy wood door.
Just outside the classroom, Mina stops abruptly. Her movements are deliberate as she slips the cursed egg carrier off her shoulders, the faint creak of leather straps breaking the stillness. She secures it to me with a practiced ease, her fingers brushing my chest as she tightens the straps. Her eyes, deep pools of unspoken grief and determination, sweep over me slowly. Then, she rises onto her tiptoes, her lips finding mine in a kiss that is brief but grounding. The softness of her mouth contrasts with the weight pressing on both of us.
I pull her into an embrace, letting the curve of her body mold to mine as I breathe her in deeply. Her scent—a mixture of lavender soap, ash, and ozone—wraps around me, settling the turmoil inside. “I’m here to talk if you need me,” I murmur against her temple, my lips brushing her skin in a lingering press. I will every ounce of my loveand strength into that touch, hoping it will somehow reach the cracks in her armor.
“I miss Cora. I miss my sister.” Her voice is soft, barely audible over the faint hiss of air through the old pipes lining the walls. Each word lands like a stone in my chest. A breathy laugh escapes her, bitter and raw. “I even miss Addy and Garrett, of all people.” She looks toward the glass of the door, her gaze distant and heavy. Balor stands inside, watching us with an expression I can’t quite read, his presence a silent reminder of the weight we all carry.
