Page 68 of Queen of the Cursed Egg
Callan and Vaughn are with Abraxis, and through our bond, he feels as if his tether is on fire. Pain and humiliation radiating from him in waves that make my teeth ache in sympathy. The shouting echoes into the nest, harsh male voices bouncing off stone walls and growing louder as I approach, and I follow the sound of the raised voices, my boots silent on the familiar floors despite the weight of my armor.
Stepping outside, the mountain air hits my face like a slap, crisp and clean but tainted with the musk of strange males and the metallicscent of barely restrained aggression. I see not three but six strange males in my upper courtyard, their forms casting long shadows across the stone as the afternoon sun beats down mercilessly. “What in the name of Bahamut is going on here?” I yell, getting everyone’s attention, my voice cutting through the heated arguments like a blade through silk.
A heavily muscled male moves before me and drops to his knees, the impact of his body against the stone echoing across the courtyard. His submission is immediate and complete, head bowed low enough that I can see the vulnerable nape of his neck where his dark hair has been pulled back. “I wish to challenge your mate for a place at your side.” He turns his palms up, showing he’s leaving the decision up to me, the gesture speaking of old-world courtesy that surprises me.
By scent—swamps and still water with an underlying richness like fertile earth after rain—I know he’s at least part black dragon, but doesn’t have his wings in human form, the absence notable in his perfectly proportioned but wingless silhouette.
“By scent I know you’re part black dragon; what is the other half?” I ask, and hear Abraxis clack his jaws in protest behind me, the sound sharp and aggressive, making several of the watching males tense and shift their stances.
“My mother was a steel dragon, my father a black dragon.” He lowers his head further, the movement humble and respectful. “I didn’t get wings like my father, so I wasn’t betrothed.” I stare at him and tilt my head, studying the powerful line of his shoulders, the way he holds himself with quiet dignity despite his disadvantage.
“I am not looking for another mate. You are, however, welcome to remain here and work with the other dragons. Perhaps you may find your mate at the gathering this fall.” I offer him my hand to shake or refuse, the gesture cutting through the formal protocols with simple human directness.
“I accept. My name is Arvid, and I am at your service, my queen.” He lowers his head further and bares the nape of his neck to me, the ultimate gesture of submission and trust, leaving himself completely vulnerable to my judgment.
“Fly to the lower level and find my brother-in-law Warwick; he will find you housing.” I offer him the option, and he accepts immediately, rising with fluid grace despite his size. He shakes my hand, his palm warm and calloused from honest work, before he runs and shifts the minute he leaps off the cliff, his dragon form magnificent as he glides down on thermals with surprising skill.
My eyes turn towards the other five males left, and the atmosphere shifts noticeably, becoming heavier, more dangerous. Four look like they are beyond being able to reason with their postures aggressive, eyes glowing with the internal fire of their dragons, muscles tensed for violence. With a roll of my neck, I hear it crack and pop, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence, releasing some of the tension that has been building in my shoulders.
“Mina?” Abraxis calls my name, and I look over at him, seeing the fear and regret written across his features, the way he holds his injured wing slightly away from his body. He brought this on himself, but that doesn’t make watching his pain any easier. I lower my head slightly to him before facing the other males, the gesture acknowledgment without forgiveness.
‘Guys, I hope you’re almost done. Males are coming to challenge Abraxis,’I send down the bond to the ancients, the mental effort making my temples throb as I stretch our connection across the miles.
“Why are you geared up to fight? Like playing dress up?” The speaker’s voice drips with condescension, and by the few scales I see rise on his neck, catching the sunlight like molten gold, he’s a gold dragon. His arrogance radiates from him like heat from a forge, making the air around him shimmer slightly.
“I mean, a soft-scaled male like you showing up here like you have a chance is laughable.” I roll my eyes, looking from him to the other four, cataloging their species by scent and the subtle tells of their partial transformations. “I see a brass, red, and two of you of mixed species.” I shake my head again, trying to hold the laughter in, the sound threatening to bubble up despite the seriousness of the situation. “You have two choices: run the Shadowcarve gauntlet or spar me.”
‘On our way back. The mages are gone,’Klauth says through our bond. I draw in the first deep breath in what feels like an eternity, my lungs expanding fully for the first time in days as relief floods through me like warm honey.
Four of the males look at each other, uncertainty flickering across their features, but the gold chooses violence. He draws a single sword from over his shoulder, the blade singing as it clears the sheath, steel ringing against leather and metal. With a flick of his wrist, the sun glints off the flat of the blade, sending dancing reflections across the courtyard stones.
“Ready when you are, beautiful.” He bows slightly, the gesture mocking rather than respectful, and that’s when I go into predator mode, feeling the familiar cold settling over my mind like a shroud.
Slowly I pull my hood up, the fabric settling over my hair like a second skin, and tie my mask in place, the basilisk scales cool against my cheeks. I slip on my gloves, feeling the supple leather conform to my fingers, enhancing my grip without restricting the movement. My eyes shift to my dragons, the world suddenly sharper, colors more vivid, details standing out with crystalline clarity. I draw both swords, the weight of them familiar and comforting in my hands, and drop into my fighting stance, muscles coiling with lethal potential. I slide the edge of my blade over the other, the steel singing a note pure and clear, and smile under the mask, feeling the familiar thrill of anticipation. This is going to be fun.
Shadowblades have a stance, a particular way they hold themselves when they spar, a perfect balance of offense and defense that has been honed over centuries of conflict. It’s the only warning we give our quarry, a moment of courtesy before death comes calling.
“Is she?” I hear off to the side, the voice tight with sudden fear.
“Oh, yesss...” Balor hisses the ’s’, the sound carrying his basilisk’s approval and bloodthirsty anticipation. “She is the last Shadowblade, the Bladesong child of Abaddon himself.” I hear the pride in his voice, as much as we all hate what my father did to me. He made me the perfect weapon, undefeated in combat and unrivaled in tactics, and that legacy runs in my blood like liquid fire.
“Oh, shit...” The male says, and I watch the gold dragon drake in front of me falter, his confident stance wavering as the reality of what he faces sinks in.
“Are you guys gonna fight or stare at each other?” Callan asks, and I can’t help but laugh, the sound muffled by my mask but still carrying clearly across the courtyard.
That spurs the male to move, and when he does, I dodge his attack with fluid grace, feeling the wind from his blade pass harmlessly by my ear. I slap him on his ass with the flat of my blade, the impact sharp and humiliating, a clear message that I’m toying with him. “Who taught you to fight? Your grandma?” I taunt him and drop back into my stance, perfectly balanced and ready for his next move.
I have several displacer beasts out here with us, their forms flickering in and out of visibility at the edges of my vision, and I watch two of them blink out of existence completely. Thauglor must have texted for pickup, the familiar sight of our transportation arriving filling me with fierce joy. The golden male lunges again, his movements telegraphed and clumsy with rage, and I parry his blow effortlessly, feeling the shock travel up both our arms as steel meets steel. I slaphis ass again with my blade, dancing away from him with fluid grace, my boots silent on the stone despite my rapid movement. It’s obvious he’s not learning from his mistakes, pride and anger making him sloppy and predictable.
“End the damn fight, Mina. I want to hold my mate.” Klauth’s voice rings out across the courtyard, rough with exhaustion and need, and something inside me snaps into focus like a blade finding its target.
I charge the male, closing the distance between us in three swift strides, and with two strikes—one to disarm, sending his sword spinning away to clatter across the stones, and one clean cut across his throat. I decapitate him. His head falls with a wet thud, blood spraying across the courtyard in an arc that catches the sunlight like rubies before his body follows, hitting the ground with a heavier impact. Spinning on my heel, I turn and see bloodied Klauth and Thauglor standing close to Abraxis, their forms battered but alive.
My swords fall from my hands, the steel ringing as they hit the stone, and I rip off my mask and hood, letting them fall forgotten at my feet. I run to them, my boots pounding against the courtyard floor, each step bringing me closer to the warmth and safety I’ve been craving for what feels like an eternity.
I leap into the air, aiming between them to be caught by them, trusting completely in their strength and their love. The minute their arms wrap around me, solid and real and wonderfully alive, I cry. Gut-wrenching sobs escape my lips as I lower my head, letting all the pain and fear bleed out of me in hot tears that soak into their shirts, carrying away the terror of the past few days. They take turns holding me close to them, their hands stroking my hair and back, trying to reassure me they are okay, their familiar scents of brimstone and cedar filling my nostrils and grounding me in the present moment.
Klauth’s massive hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling, his touch impossibly gentle forsomeone capable of such devastating destruction. His skin is warm against my cheeks, marked with fresh cuts and burns that make my heart clench with renewed fear. “Shh, my treasure,” he murmurs, his voice rough as gravel but soft with love, the endearment wrapping around me like a physical embrace. “We’re here. We’re alive. We’re never leaving you again.” His crimson flecked amber eyes, usually fierce with dragonic fire, are now liquid with his own unshed tears. I can see the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. The weight of what he’s endured written in the new creases around his eyes.
