Page 6 of Queen of the Cursed Egg
Mina
The hallways buzzwith the excited chatter of students as I navigate through the crowded corridors, the scent of new textbooks and freshly polished floors filling my nostrils. First day of senior year—I’ve survived three years in this hellhole, and now I’m entering the home stretch. Glancing down at the crumpled schedule in my hand, I let out a heavy sigh. “First period physics,” I mutter, turning to Balor with a raised eyebrow.
He shrugs, his broad shoulders rising and falling beneath his leather jacket. “You needed one more class to have all the credits to graduate.”
“Physics? You couldn’t pick anything else?” I grumble as we make our way towards Anipe’s classroom, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the worn linoleum. We enter the theater, choosing seats in the top row, far from the prying eyes of my classmates.
Balor leans back, his arm brushing against mine as he settles into his seat. “Everything else will bore you to tears,” he points out, his eyebrows lifted in a knowing look. As much as I hate to admit it, he’sright. Any other subject, and I’d be complaining about the monotony.
Anipe strides into the room, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Her student teacher follows close behind, distributing the math books for today’s lesson. As he reaches my desk, he bows his head, a gesture of reverence that feels excessive. “Your Highness,” he murmurs, placing the book before me.
I roll my eyes, leaning closer to Balor. “Here we go,” I whisper, flipping open the book to the page Anipe has scrawled on the board. The formulas stare back at me, the same ones my father drilled into my head for using siege weapons. Bloody hell, yet another class I have zero use for.
Anipe’s monotonous voice fills the room as she drones on about the formulas and their applications. I find myself fantasizing about someone pulling the fire alarm, anything to escape this mind-numbing lecture.
As the hour crawls to an end, Anipe assigns homework due for our next class on Wednesday. I shove the book into my bag, but before I can sling it over my shoulder, Balor snatches it from my grasp. “Really?” I scoff, tilting my head to look up at him. “How are you supposed to protect me with the bag in your hand?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Easy. Drop the bag or use it as a weapon. Besides, you don’t have the cursed eggs slowing you down now,” he reminds me, his eyes glinting with mischief.
I shake my head, a wry smile on my lips as we head towards Samara’s class. “You’re right. I have three possessive, overbearing, dominant drakes, a just as dominant basilisk, and my other mates,” I growl, my voice laced with sarcasm.
As we walk, the other students give us a wide berth, some waving hesitantly in my direction while others openly stare. I keep my headhigh, ignoring their curious gazes. My mind is already racing with thoughts of what challenges the rest of the day might bring.
As we walk down the hall towards Samara’s class, Rebel comes and lands on my shoulder. In his beak a folded note. I nuzzle his feathers before plucking the note free. Flipping it open, I read it.
Mission successful.
T
I arch a brow and smile. The oil I created worked. Now there’s the minor issue of creating a container to hold the mixture to keep with me. Balor offers me a piece of paper before we enter the classroom. I shake my head and reach up into my hair, pulling down a thin braid. Carefully, I cut it free and tie the end off.
“Rebel, bring this back to Thauglor,” I instruct. I turn the braid into a circle and hold it for him. When Rebel clamps it in his beak, I let go and watch him take off, his wings stirring the cool morning air against my cheeks.
“What is the significance of the braid?” Balor asks as we step into Samara’s art of negotiations class. The rich scent of old books and sandalwood incense fills the air.
We take our seats in the back, and I sigh, settling into the worn leather chair. Before I answer, I pull down and cut another braid free. Instead of tying it off with another band, I lean over and reach up into Balor’s hair. I braid my hair in with his, then use twine to tie it in place. My braid is longer than his hair, and I pull it forward so he can see it, the silver and green strands gleaming against his midnight locks.
“It’s usually given early in courtship as a way for the male to know the female accepts him. She deems him worthy of being the sire of her progeny.” I stare at my silver and green hair peeking out fromunder his iridescent black hair, the colors dancing together in the dim classroom light. “I haven’t had the chance to braid the other braids into the dragons’ hair.”
“You did mine first.” I see something flicker behind his usually guarded gaze, a warmth that makes my pulse quicken.
“You may not have been the first male to know I was theirs. But you were the first that showed no fear of what I am.” I laugh a little, the sound soft in the gradually filling classroom. “Abraxis may play all big and tough, but he was afraid of me after I killed the ambush drake. So was Callan, if we’re being honest.” I shrug my shoulders, then turn in time to see the student teacher passing out the books for the class, the heavy tomes thudding on desks.
“Seeing you in your leathers told me more than anything else. The cut of your leather and the color told me you were highly skilled and deadly. The green leathers are only made for those trained by Abaddon personally. The most deadly Shadowblades came out of Risedale.” His words place a bit of weight on my history. My nest, my home, is known for producing assassins. The memory of training rings in my ears—steel against steel, harsh commands, the copper taste of blood.
I bite my bottom lip, thinking about the future of my nest and Risedale as a whole. Samara starts her lecture, her voice cutting through the murmur of students. I ponder what I want my nest to be known for. “Hmmm.” I tap my pencil on the book in front of me, the rhythmic sound drowning out my thoughts.
“That look usually spells trouble,” Balor says playfully, his breath warm against my ear.
“Can I change the name of my nest?” Tilting my head, I turn to look at him, studying the sharp angles of his face.
“I’m not sure.” Balor shrugs his shoulders, looking back at me with curiosity dancing in his eyes.
Carefully, I pull out my phone and put it on silent. The screen’s glow illuminates my face as I flip through the dozen or so chats I have until I find the family chat, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as I contemplate my next move.
Mina: Can I change the name of my nest?
Callan: Why?
