Page 12 of Trial of the Cursed Egg

“Initiates...” I let the word hang in the air, watching them straighten in response. Six of them. A small class, but that just makes it easier to pick out the weak ones. The rustle of leather wings behind me signals my mate’s presence. Her steps deliberate, her gaze sharp.

“I am Abraxis Havock,” I continue, crossing my arms over my armored chest, wings flexing slightly as I study their expressions. “This is Callan Whitlock, the instructor for the warfare course you all tested into. It’s a small class this semester, but no worries. Once you’re up to speed, you’ll blend in with the second years.” My voice remains steady, but my eyes catch movement. A worg in the line is side-eyeing Mina, a glint of something disrespectful in his gaze.

I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes. “Is there something wrong, initiate?” My arms tense, the weight of my armor making the movement deliberate, controlled.

The worg snorts, elbowing the male next to him with a smug grin. “Someone got lost on their way to their nest-making class.” His laugh is low, dismissive.

Mina’s head snaps up. Her green and silver scales ripple up her neck, glowing beneath the edge of her poisoner’s leathers. Her eyes, sharp and lethal, lock on the worg with the cold fury that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

“Oh,” she begins, her voice chillingly sweet. “I’m sorry to hear you did. If you step out those gates and head towards Arcanum, I’m sure someone can direct you to where you belong.” The smile she gives him is ice cold—beautiful and deadly.

Callan’s quill stills, his notepad forgotten as his eye flickers with a subtle shift. His gryphon stirs beneath the surface, one eye changing, talon-bright and sharp, before he blinks it away. I see it—the brief spark of possessiveness before he glances at me, quickly hiding it behind a casual mask. We both know what that look means.She’s his mate, too.

I flex my wings again, stepping forward just as Mina and the worg square off, their postures rigid with tension. “We’ll settle this on the course,” I say, my voice calm but filled with the promise of something dangerous. “the Highest score stays. Lowest leaves the course for the year.” I glance at Mina. Her father trained her well. I trust her to handle this.

Mina smirks, stepping out of line with deadly grace. Her fingers nimbly braid her hair, then she reaches into her bag, pulling out her Shadowblade hood and blackened horn tape. The worg hesitates, his confidence wavering as the air around them thickens with the scent of a challenge.

I watch the shift in the worg’s expression, and Callan steps closer, showing me the roll of names on the roster. “Ronan,” he whispers, voice edged with warning. “Next in line to be the alpha of his pack.”

Ronan takes a hesitant step toward us, his bravado fading. “She’s a Shadowblade?” His voice wavers, and the acrid scent of fear rolls off him in waves.

“Yes,” I say with a slow, deliberate grin. “She’s Abaddon Bladesong’s daughter. And I hear her betrothed is a vicious war hero. He’s somewhere on campus... always watching.” I lean in slightly, watching his terror deepen, enjoying the moment as his cockiness crumbles.

“The Abaddon?” Callan murmurs, his gaze darting between me and Mina. There’s a faint crack in his composure.

“Yes, from the Risedale nest in the Black Hills.” The weight of her bloodline settles on them both like a dark cloud, and I feel my dragon stir with satisfaction. They fear our mate, and rightly so. They should fear us both.

Mina moves with a smooth precision that catches me off guard every time. Watching her assemble my bow, it feels like she’s been handling it her whole life. The ease with which she moves, the way her fingers glide over the string and limbs, makes it look as though she were its true owner, not me. To my right, Ronan fumbles, his hands not nearly as steady as hers as he tries to piece together his own bow. He straps on his arm guard with a quick, nervous glance my way, as if checking to see if I’ve noticed. I have, but I don’t let it show.

My attention shifts back to Mina. She’s unzipped the sleeve of her leathers, baring her left arm. The sight of it always strikes something in me—her iron dragon heritage evident as she raises the shimmering scales on her forearm. They ripple like living armor from wrist toelbow, each one catching the light in a way that both mesmerizes and warns. She turns toward me, her eyes already shifting into that familiar pale gold of her dragon. There’s a confidence in her gaze, something primal and sharp, and with a slight nod, she signals she’s ready.

I glance at Ronan. He wipes his hands on his pants before nocking his first arrow, his nod less certain than Mina’s. His nerves are clear in the tension of his grip.

“Let us begin,” Callan’s voice cuts through the air as he steps in front of us. His posture is commanding, as his single eye bores into both students. “On my signal, six targets will appear at various distances. You have one shot at each, and you won’t have much time.” His one good eye sweeps across both contestants, lingering a moment longer on Mina.

Mina tilts her head slightly, noticing the eyepatch, but she doesn’t let it shake her. A quick nod, and she signals her readiness. Ronan’s hands fidget again, adjusting his bow before he finally gives a nod, albeit shakier.

The low hum and mechanical clack of the first two targets popping up fill the air. It’s almost immediate—Mina’s first arrow is already loosed by the time Ronan even draws back his bow. The sharp thunk of her arrow sinking into the target is almost a whisper against the tense silence.

Another whirl, another clack. The first target drops just as Ronan releases his shot, but a new one appears, farther back and to the left. Mina barely hesitates—her second arrow is drawn and flying before Ronan even processes the change. Her precision is lightning-fast, the arrow finding its mark just as Ronan’s fingers release his string. He’s too slow.

I watch Callan carefully now, his one eye following every move, counting silently between the shots. Ten seconds after Mina’s arrow strikes, he drops the second target. The next one pops up farther back and to the far right. Ronan struggles to adjust, the tension in his shoulders clear as he tries to realign himself. His shot finally goes off, but it’s too late. Mina’s already hit her mark, and his arrow veers off course, barely clipping the outer edge of the target.

The last target rises. Mina’s arrow is already flying, a sharp whistle cutting through the air before it sinks into the bullseye with a satisfying thud. The contest is over before Ronan even makes his last shot.

Out of the four targets, Mina hit every single one in the dead center. Ronan only landed one—and barely at that.

The silence that follows feels heavy, the weight of Ronan’s disappointment almost tangible in the air. But my gaze is fixed on Mina, her dragon eyes still glowing softly as she lowers her bow.

Before I can react, Ronan is already moving, closing the distance between him and Mina with a single fluid motion. My vision narrows, a surge of raw instinct taking over. I don’t remember moving, but suddenly I’m there. The distance between us vanishes in the blink of an eye, and before I even realize it, my taloned hand punches through his back just as he raises his blade to stab her.My Mina.

The metallic clatter of his dagger hitting the stone floor echoes through the silence, drawing Mina’s attention. She turns, her wide eyes locking onto mine, then dropping to the scene between us. Her gaze lands on Ronan first, then on the pulsing heart clenched in my hand, its last tremors shuddering through my fingers. She stares, transfixed, as if time itself has stalled. I watch as she takes a slow step backward, her face pale, her expression unreadable.

Without thinking, I rip my hand back through his ribcage, blood spraying in a thin mist. Ronan collapses beside me, a broken heap of bone and flesh. My chest heaves as I stare at the still-quivering heart, the reality of what I’ve just done slowly sinking in. The weight of it presses down on me, harder than any battle I’ve fought.

Soft, lithe hands rest on mine, pulling my attention away from the mangled organ. Mina’s face emerges from beneath her hood, looking up at me with a strange innocence that contrasts the blood now staining her fingers. Her eyes, deep and unguarded, hold mine. “Thank you for saving me,” she whispers, the words trembling on her lips. Then, without warning, she rises onto her toes, brushing her lips softly against my jaw. The touch, fleeting and tender, sends a shockwave through me.

She blinks, twice, as though suddenly aware of the intimacy of the moment. Her now-bloody hand moves to rest over her chest, right where the locket I gave her sits, hidden beneath her leathers. “I should go. Thank you again, Abraxis.” Her voice is small, hesitant, as she steps back, her movements hurried as she gathers her bow.

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