Page 21 of Trial of the Cursed Egg

Dropping my hands, I search his face, desperately trying to read the answer there before he speaks. But it’s what he’s holding that draws my gaze. In his hand is the four-by-four card of doom, its ominous crimson border standing out starkly against the cream-colored paper.

“I received a ticket to try for a cursed egg.” The words fall flat from my lips, like stones sinking into deep water.

“Oh, shit…” Balor whispers, handing me the card as if it might burn him. “But, hey, on the bright side, you passed your test with a hundred and five.” He flips the paper over, as if searching for some mistake. “How did you get a hundred and five?”

“Bonus question.” The response is automatic, my mind barely registering the triumph in those words. I stuff the invitation card into my backpack, as if hiding it away will change its existence. “I should just head to class.”

“No time for that.” Balor glances down at his phone, his face tense. “Your ride’s here. Ziggy’s getting Cora now.”

Before I can react, he’s shuffling me towards the entrance of the Arcanum Campus. Up ahead, I catch sight of Cora and Abraxis, deep in conversation with a woman whose hair shimmers like a cascade of polished copper and brass. The sunlight catches on each strand, making her look ethereal, almost otherworldly.

Cora spots me and breaks into a run, her arms wrapping around me tightly. The hug is suffocating, but I let her hold on for a moment before she pulls back, passing my bag to the driver. “Are you ready?”

I roll my eyes, letting out a low groan. “No, I don’t want to go shopping. I hate it,” I mutter under my breath.

Cora’s eyes sparkle with excitement, oblivious to my reluctance. “You need a dress for the dance. And who knows, you might meet your mate.” The way she says it, her voice practically bursting with hope and anticipation, makes my stomach twist. But before I can respond, a chill spreads through the air as the woman’s gaze—Cora’s mother, I realize—lands on me. Cold, assessing.

“I’d rather wait for my betrothed, thank you.” I lift my chin and finger the pendant he gave me, drawing strength from its weight against my skin. “Other males will try to force me to be a breeder.” My eyes flickto Cora’s mother, careful, gauging her reaction. “No offense. But I’m not built that way. I don’t want to be kept in a fancy room and showered with jewels.”

There’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—in Abraxis’s eyes as I glance his way. The corner of his mouth twitches up in a half-smile, and I find myself smiling back, despite the tension coiling in my chest like a living thing.

“Weapons,” I add with a small laugh, “are this girl’s best friend.”

Without waiting for a reply, I turn on my heel and slide into the car. The door clicks shut, sealing me off from the world outside, from the expectations and the eyes that judge and weigh my every word. I take a deep breath, staring out the tinted window as the gardens blur into a wash of greens and golds.

I would rather face a thousand gauntlets or run through fire than try on another dress. Cerce, Cora’s mom, has me stuck in this torture chamber of tulle and satin, forcing me to endure this hellish parade of fifty—yes, fifty—dresses. Each one is more ornate and suffocating than the last, a cascade of ruffles, beads, and lace that seem to tighten around me like a noose. I catch Cora out of the corner of my eye, already in her chosen dress, looking radiant as she perches on the bench with her earbuds in, chatting away on a video call as if this entire process is a breeze.

“Mom, have her put on the blue dress with the black lace again! I think that’s a winner for sure!” Cora calls out from her spot, her voice cutting through my exhaustion like a blade.

I let out a defeated sigh that’s practically a whimper, my fingers brushing over the blue dress in question. My gaze shifts to the side, hoping for some reprieve, and that’s when I see him—Ziggy. He’s standing off to the side, leaning casually against a rack, waving a dress in his hand. It’s a deep pewter sweetheart gown with a daring slit up one leg and a corset cinched around the waist. The fabric catches the light, casting an almost metallic sheen that reminds me of molten silver. The moment I see it, I know it’s perfect. A dress that isn’t just decorative but functional—a place to conceal a blade or a vial of poison if need be.

I dart over to him, snatching the gown from his hands like a lifeline. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, my voice sharp but soft enough that only he can hear.

“Bailing you out once you pick a dress. This one,” he murmurs, his gaze dipping to the gown, “will let you keep all those lovely weapons of yours close and hide more behind the bodice.” He grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m going to pretend I just got here and tell Cerce you’re needed for weapons training. Should buy you some time.” He winks, then turns on his heel and saunters off, casual as ever.

I stare down at the dress he found, tracing the lines of it with my eyes. It’s as if it was crafted just for me. Excitement flutters in my chest, a feeling so foreign that it almost feels wrong. I quickly hang the blue monstrosity back on the rack and head for the dressing room, clutching the pewter gown like a talisman.

Slipping into it, I feel an unfamiliar sensation—a sense of anticipation and, dare I say, confidence. The gown molds to my body, the fabric soft and firm in all the right places. The slit up the leg allows for movement, and the corset hugs my waist just tight enough that Iknow I could hide a dagger in there if I needed to. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for the first time in my life, I pause.

My reflection stares back, almost unrecognizable. The pewter color brings out the silver undertones in my green hair, and my normally hidden scales—those faint, shimmering marks that trace from the tops of my shoulder blades down to my collarbones and spine—glisten under the soft lighting. I pull my hair up into a loose twist, letting the curls tumble artfully around my head, the scales more visible now.

I look … beautiful. Powerful.

The pendant from my betrothed, a weight I’ve never fully appreciated until now, rests just above the full swell of my breasts. I fight the urge to cover myself, remembering how awkward I felt when Cerce fussed over the binders I typically wear under my leathers, insisting they wouldn’t work with any dress. And she was right. This gown demands confidence. I look less like a warrior and more like something out of a legend—maybe not a dragoness, but a siren capable of luring sailors to their doom with a single glance.

I slide my feet into the heels I picked out earlier and step back out, my heart hammering against my ribs. The world slows as I approach them, each click of my heels a steady beat in the silence. Ziggy’s mouth falls open, Cerce’s hand freezes mid-gesture, and Cora’s video chat falls silent. Their stunned expressions fuel something wild in me—a thrill I can’t quite name.

Ziggy recovers first, his phone trembling as he snaps pictures like a madman. “You look stunning,” he breathes, his voice almost reverent. He steps forward and, in an unexpectedly formal gesture, bends at the waist to kiss my hand.

I blink, warmth creeping up my cheeks as his lips brush against my knuckles. “Thank you...” I mumble, glancing at myself in the mirror again. My own reflection stares back, fierce and captivating.

Maybe … just maybe, doing this girly shit isn’t so bad after all.

Abraxis

The night of the dance…

As much as I wanted to kill Ziggy for picking out that gown for Mina, I have to admit he did her justice. The bastard somehow knew exactly what would accentuate every curve and line, what would bring out the storm brewing in her eyes. I stare at her picture, the one that’s been added to be the star of my shower sessions, when I try to release some of this pent-up tension before starting my day. But now, everything feels different. The dance is about to begin, and the stakes are higher than ever.

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