Page 79 of Guardian of the Cursed Egg
Do I survive getting shot down?
Will anyone find me?
The thoughts loop endlessly, an unrelenting drumbeat of dread. The sharp scent of the wind fills my senses, tinged with the faint, acrid hint of something unnatural—something waiting. My mind shifts to the battle ahead, to Mina. The image of her fragile form against Abaddon’s monstrous ambition is a searing brand on my thoughts. Abduction, death, or worse—the vision of her enslaved is a horror I cannot let come to pass. The wind howls, and I push forward, cutting through the cold like a blade, my resolve hardening with every mile.
Several forevers and three borderline panic attacks later, the spires of the Malivore Conservatory finally break through the haze of treetops on the hills. The dark, jagged silhouettes against the twilight sky feel almost mocking. Maybe Mina’s vision was wrong? Maybe, just maybe, nothing happens to me after all. The thought flits through my mind like a moth, fragile and fleeting, as I glide on a thermal, sucking in deep breaths of crisp air scented faintly with pine and decay.
A rustle from below sends a flock of birds shooting up through the canopy, their panicked squawks echoing in the stillness. Instinct pulls me hard to the right, and that’s when I hear it—thetwangof bowstrings slicing through the air. Arrows hiss past my head, close enough that I can feel the disturbed air graze my feathers. Panic surges, hot and fast, as I twist and roll to evade the unseen threat.
A sharp sting cuts through the side of my wing, and I yelp, the sound strangled and raw. Feathers spiral away like dead leaves caught in the wind. Pain radiates from the wound, sharp and burning, but there’s no time to focus on it. I barrel roll again, the world spinning wildly around me as more arrows streak past.
Then I see it. A silhouette among shadows, crouched at the forest’s edge: a drow. The dim light of the setting sun glints off its crimson eyes, burning like embers against the dark. Lolth-touched. The sight sends an icy spike through my chest, and my heart slams hard enough that I swear they can hear it echo.
I veer toward the water, desperate. If I can make it to the shoreline, maybe the light will keep them back. But I don’t get far. Two arrows slam into my left wing. Agony explodes, every flap dragging fire through my muscles. I falter, the sky pitching violently as I lose control, and somehow manage a crash landing in the twisted branches of a massive swamp cedar.
The branches groan under my weight, but I press myself against the gnarled trunk, my feathers blending into the mossy, bark-covered surface. The smell of damp earth and rotting wood fills my nose, clinging to me like a second skin. My talons dig into the soft bark, holding on for dear life as I strain to stay still.
“It has to be here somewhere,” a low voice growls. The drow are close—too close.
“We all saw it go down. None of these trees could hold its weight,” another responds, the frustration evident in their tone.
I force myself to turn my head, slowly, carefully. The movement sends a jolt of pain through my wing, but I stifle the groan threatening to escape. Through the thick tangle of branches, I see them. A smaller drow bends down near the cliff’s edge, picking up one of my feathers that must’ve drifted there. “I think it went over the cliff.”
“I might not be wrong,” it says, holding the feather up for the others to see.
Their glowing eyes flick between the feather and the jagged drop beyond the rocks. The faint crash of waves against the shore below adds weight to their assumption.
“Sounds like a plan,” one mutters. “Let’s go. We’re needed elsewhere.”
I watch, every muscle tense, as they disappear into the gloom. Only when their voices and footsteps fade entirely do I let myself exhale. My chest heaves as I take in a deep breath of swampy air, the weight of survival settling over me.
When I’m sure they’re gone, I shift back, remaining high in the tree. The bark is rough against my palms, and the faint rustle of leaves around me does little to mask the pounding in my chest. My arm aches, the arrows still lodged deep, and every subtle movement sends a sharp, hot jolt radiating through my shoulder. The metallic tang of blood fills my nostrils, mingling with the damp, earthy scent of the forest after the rain.
Thankfully, I have cell service. I fumble with the phone, slick with sweat, and text the group chat. Only Balor and Ziggy answer. Apparently, they were sent on a mission to gather herbs to sedate Klauth ifneeded. The irony of my situation—bleeding and half-stuck in a tree—doesn’t escape me.
I wait for what feels like forever. The tree creaks beneath me, and distant noises—branches snapping, the low call of an owl—set my nerves on edge. The cool air bites at my skin, sticky with blood and sweat. My arm burns in dull, rhythmic pulses, each heartbeat a fresh reminder of the arrows’ placement and the danger of removing them without help.
Out of nowhere, Ziggy manifests on the branch across from me. The sound of his sudden appearance—a faintpopand the rush of displaced air—almost scares me out of the tree. My footing slips on the mossy bark, and my stomach lurches.
“Whoa, it’s only me.” His voice is calm, but his hand snaps out fast, grabbing my shirt before I tumble backward off the branch. His grip is firm, his fingers digging into the fabric.
“Fuck, man, you scared the shit out of me.” I press my hand over my heart, my breaths coming fast and shallow, trying to calm the surge of panic.
“We brought a med kit to patch you up once I get you down.” Ziggy’s glowing green eyes are brighter than usual, cutting through the shadowy canopy. There’s an unsettling intensity in his gaze, like he’s already assessing the damage.
“Sounds good. Let’s get me down.” I reach out with my good hand, my grip shaky as I clasp his.
The descent is a blur—one moment I’m in the tree, the next I’m on the forest floor. My boots sink slightly into the damp earth, and the sharp, tangy scent of crushed pine needles fills the air. Balor crouchesnearby, the harsh snap of the med kit’s latches echoing in the silence. He wastes no time, pulling out snips and leaning in close.
“Have you heard from the others?” he asks, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the sharp click of the blades cutting through the wooden arrow shafts.
“Abraxis sent me away when the fighting started to get to Mina.” I pull out my phone with trembling fingers, the screen casting a faint glow in the darkness. The smooth glass feels slippery against my clammy skin. “Mina is at Shadowcarve, Vaughn is in the apartment, and Leander…” My stomach tightens as I reload the app several times. Each time, his name refuses to appear. “He’s not coming up.” I hiss through clenched teeth as Balor yanks the arrow shafts free.
A fresh wave of pain blooms in my arm, and I bite down hard, tasting blood where I’ve accidentally nicked my lip. Balor works quickly, the scent of antiseptic and coppery blood mingling as he patches me up. The pull of the bandage across my skin is tight, uncomfortably snug, but necessary.
“There are only two places on campus where the signal won’t work: the dungeons and Lysander’s office,” I say, my voice tight.
“With everything that’s going on and what we suspect, he shouldn’t be in either place.” Ziggy’s voice carries a faint edge of worry as he hands Balor the tape. The adhesive tears with a sharprip,the sound too loud in the stillness.
