Page 77 of Guardian of the Cursed Egg
I’m in the dungeons beneath Shadowcarve, the place we use to interrogate prisoners. The walls are slick with moisture, the stone glistening faintly in the dim, flickering light of a single torch. Chains dangle from the walls, their clinking sound echoing in the suffocating silence. I test my bonds, but the wards here are unforgiving. No cellphones, no psychic communication, no bonds to call for help.
I’m stuck.
The weight of the silence presses down, broken only by the occasional drip of water from somewhere unseen. The air is thick and stale, each breath a reminder that this place wasn’t built for the living. I try to steel myself, but the cold stone beneath me leeches away what little strength I have left. The realization sinks in, heavy and unrelenting. I’ll stay here until they throw someone else down here, I’m rescued, or I die.
Option three seems the most likely.
CHAPTER 48
Vaughn
The salty tangof the North Sea fills my nose as the wind lashes against my face. The cliffs are jagged and raw, their edges dusted with white where waves crash relentlessly below. Each step I take sends loose pebbles scattering, their tiny clinks drowned out by the sea’s roar. The cursed egg feels unnaturally warm through the coarse fabric of the bag, like holding a coal that refuses to cool.
The look of fear in Mina’s eyes is burned into my mind, and it makes my gargoyle stir with a savage need to protect her. My claws scrape against the stone as I find a rocky outcropping, its jagged edges perfect for concealing the egg. The place smells of damp earth and seaweed, but the stench doesn’t mask the faint metallic tang of whatever dark magic pulses within the egg. I wedge it between two rocks, the sharp edges biting into my fingers as I press it into place.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” I mutter, my voice rough, nearly lost in the howling wind. “I don’t know if you’ll answer me. Mina is putting her life in your talons.” My throat tightens as I glance at the bag. The faint red glow seeps through the coarse material, castingominous shadows against the rocks. “Hell, all of our lives, if her vision is correct.”
The egg pulses again, stronger this time, as if it’s alive and listening. I rest a hand on the bag, feeling the heat throb against my palm. My bottom lip quivers, and I press it hard between my teeth. “You are nine hundred yards from where Mina will be when her father attacks. Probably only two to three beats of your wings.” My voice cracks as I run my fingers along the rough fabric. The texture scratches my skin, grounding me against the storm of emotions threatening to take over. “I’ll be stone when she needs me most, so I’m counting on you to save our mate…”
The egg’s response is violent, a sudden, erratic pulse that makes my hand jerk back. The sound of my breath catches, sharp against the backdrop of the relentless sea. “She’s scared,” I whisper, my voice nearly lost in the wind. “She won’t admit it, but she’s scared for all of us.” I lift my eyes toward the horizon, watching the dark smudge of Abraxis’s flight path disappear into the clouds. “Her other dragon mate fights as we speak. You are her only hope.”
The egg thrums again, a violent heartbeat that seems to resonate through the stones themselves. I shove smaller rocks around it, their sharp edges scraping my knuckles, to ensure it doesn’t roll. My chest tightens, the act of leaving it here heavier than the skies above.
Taking flight, I let the rush of wind buffet my wings. My claws scrape against the cliff face as I stop in random places, digging at the stone or rearranging loose rocks. I want it to look believable—like I’m searching for something rather than hiding it. The wind tears at me, carrying with it the faint scent of the academy’s hearth fires. My eyes scan the grounds below, but my mind lingers on the cursed egg and the fragile hope it represents.
When I finally reach the top of the cliff, I dig my claws into the loose soil for balance and gaze out over the academy's lands. Ziggy and Balor left early this morning to handle something Abraxis needed. The campus is calm, almost too calm, given what’s coming. The air here smells faintly of burning wood and Mina’s favorite poison plants—a sharp, acrid scent I’ve grown to recognize. She said she’d hide the black egg where only she or Balor could find it. Probably in that miniature poison garden of hers, tucked away like all her secrets.
The wind shifts, bringing with it the faintest whisper of something darker, something foreboding. I shake it off, spreading my wings wide, and launch myself back toward the academy. My mind remains tethered to the cursed egg and the pulse of its sinister life.
I watch Mina leave Arcanum Campus, her steps purposeful yet heavy, as if the weight of her thoughts presses down on her shoulders. The late afternoon sun filters through the skeletal branches of the cherry blossoms, casting fractured shadows over the cobblestone path. The air carries a faint sweetness, a promise of spring battling against the lingering chill of winter.
I glide down silently, the wind rushing past me as my wings fold in with practiced ease, landing softly at her side. “How are you?” I ask, wrapping a wing around her shoulders. Her scent—earthy and metallic, like stone warmed by the sun—mingles with the faint smell of cherry blossoms. I press a kiss to her temple, the brief contact grounding me.
She arches a brow, her lips curving in a small, wry smile, and shakes her head. “As well as can be expected,” she says. Her laugh is dry, resigned, and it lingers like the echo of a cracked bell. “One mate is battling, and I can’t go help. Callan is a ball of anxious energy—I’m guessing he’s on his way back, for whatever reason.” She holds up her fingers, ticking them off like a grim tally. “Balor and Ziggy are off togoddess knows where, doing something for Abraxis.” Another finger goes down. “You’re still flesh, so there’s that.” She bites her bottom lip for a moment. “I can’t feel Leander but that’s normal, parts of the campus I can’t feel anyone so I’m not worried.”
Her eyes, glinting with something between amusement and exhaustion, meet mine. “I assume you did as I asked?”
“He’s all tucked in safe,” I reply, my tone careful. The words feel fragile in the air, as though they might shatter her tenuous calm. “Far enough away that they’ll really need to look for him, but close enough he can reach you in two or three wing beats. Well, guessing based on his wyrm status.” I shrug, guiding her toward the back of the art class where she prefers to sit. The scent of paint and turpentine hangs thick in the air, mingling with the subtle musk of aged wood.
“Today we will paint what we want most in the world,” Uncle Nigel announces from the front of the class, his voice resonant and calm, like the steady rhythm of waves on the shore.
Mina stares at her blank canvas for a long moment, her fingers hovering over her pencils. Then, with deliberate strokes, she sketches faint outlines. As the image takes shape, I can’t help but lean in closer. The mountains where she dug her nest emerge first, jagged and proud, their peaks haloed by the sun. Then her dragoness appears, resplendent and powerful, with four smaller dragons nestled close to her.
Two press against her frill—one black and green, the other reddish with a green-silver edge to its scales. Another, a slate-gray hatchling with green undertones, hovers in the air, its form frozen mid-landing. The fourth is a greenish silver, its black-edged scales glinting as it lounges on her dragoness’s back. Mina paints her dragoness, nuzzling it gently. Her maw curved in a gesture that speaks of both protectionand devotion. The scene is strikingly intimate, almost reverent, framed by the rugged mountains she will call home.
I exhale softly, the breath stirring the fine hairs near my temples as I watch her. There’s no one else in the painting—no mates, no intrusions. Just her dragoness and her hatchlings, nestled in front of the home we will build in the mountains.
A sigh escapes me as I stare at my own blank canvas. The coarse fibers seem to mock me, daring me to match the depth of what Mina has created. I’m not as skilled as she is, not with paint. My fingers grip the brush awkwardly as I settle for something simpler. I paint seven shadowy figures standing on a beach, their silhouettes dark against the pink-orange blush of a sunrise. They stand together, silent and still, watching the light push back the night.
I know what I really want, but this will have to do.
Art class finishes, and the quiet hum of students packing up buzzes in the background. Mina stares at her canvas, her expression soft but tinged with sadness. The image of her dragoness with its hatchlings glows with warm, earthy colors under the harsh fluorescent lights of the studio. Her fingertips hover over the image, not quite touching it, as if afraid to disturb the delicate vision she’s created.
“I hope we live to see this…” she murmurs, her voice so soft it’s almost swallowed by the rustling of paper and clatter of easels. There’s a weight in her tone that knots something deep in my chest.
“Do you know whose hatchlings those are?” I ask gently, the words tasting heavy on my tongue.
Mina’s lips curl into a faint smile as she points to the slate gray and green hatchling hovering like it’s about to land. “That one is yours.” Her finger moves to the greenish-silver one with black-edged scales, which her dragoness is nuzzling. “This one is Abraxis’s.” She pauses, shaking her head as she motions to the crimson and green hatchling, its tiny body vivid against the muted backdrop. “Obviously, this one is Klauth’s.” She rolls her eyes, drawing in a deep breath as her gaze settles on the last hatchling. The air around her seems to still.
