Page 27 of Trial of the Cursed Egg

“Should I just run the gauntlet again since my final seems to be such an issue?” I cross my arms under my chest and feel the leather bunch awkwardly. It’s a reminder of how much I’ve changed, of how fragile I must look in their eyes now. The memory of sleepless nights and unspoken grief ghosts over me.

All three males freeze, staring at me as if I’ve sprouted a second set of horns. Before anyone can speak, Abraxis steps up behind me. His presence is a dark, calming weight at my back, and when his arms wrap around me, I lean into him despite the tension. He pulls me against his broad chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding me.

“What does the final usually entail?” Abraxis’s voice is a low rumble, and he nuzzles the side of my head, mindful of my horns. The simple gesture, so mundane for us, seems to leave the others even more off-balance.

“Um, stealth, speed, agility, and combat skills,” Callan finally offers, his voice uncertain.

“Stealth, speed, and agility are in Ziggy’s wheelhouse,” I reply, arching a brow as I look at Callan. “Combat is in this one’s wheelhouse,” I add, jerking my thumb over my shoulder at Abraxis, “or yours, Callan.”

It shouldn’t be this complicated, yet here we are. The males exchange looks, and the uncertainty in their gazes makes something in my chest twist. They’re not making this difficult on purpose—they’re genuinely worried.

“You’re willing to work with me again?” Ziggy asks, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous habit of his, the one he thinks hides his anxiety. It doesn’t.

I huff out a breath and step away from Abraxis’s comforting hold. “You all meant well,” I say softly, making eye contact with each of them. “The execution sucked horribly, but you meant well. Your hearts were in the right place.”

It’s difficult for me to acknowledge that. The hurt is still raw, the betrayal of being kept in the dark, of being treated like something fragile that needed to be handled with care. But they meant well.

“Just being a Bladesong has painted a giant target on me from the moment I drew my first breath. I keep forgetting how feared my dad is because he never brought his work home. I never saw just how dangerous he is.” I shake my head and laugh, the sound bitter. “Don’t get me wrong, he was a slave driver when it came to my training. Four a.m. every morning, running the gauntlet four times. Then each hour after that, we’d spend training with a different weapon, starting with bows and ending with siege weapons.”

The silence that follows is heavy and thick, like the air before a storm. The males are staring at me, shock painting their faces. “He did what?” Abraxis is the first to break the silence. His voice is strangled with disbelief.

Before I can respond, Callan stands, his expression hardening as something flickers in his gaze—understanding, maybe. “That explains a lot. What about the training with poisons?” His eye gleams with a dangerous light, and I catch the gold of his griffin rising in it.

“After we finished with the six to eight weapons he wanted to focus on for the day,” I say matter-of-factly, because that’s what it was—a day in my childhood. My every day, actually.

Balor steps forward then, his eyes searching my face, something like misery twisting his features. I don’t know what compels me, but Istep closer and wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his chest.

“I missed you too, big guy.” His arms come around me, and he holds me tightly, his chin resting on top of my head like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I hated hiding things from you. With everyone trying to kill you, I didn’t need to paint a bigger target on you,” he murmurs, voice rough as gravel.

I squeeze him back before stepping away, offering him a small smile. “Forgiven. You meant well.” I turn my gaze to Ziggy. “You too. You’re forgiven.” Ziggy visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping as he finally smiles—really smiles.

“So, the final? What are you going to do, Callan?” I ask, my voice light, teasing even, but all eyes turn to him. And for the first time in this entire conversation, it feels like the tension is lifting. It feels like we’re finally moving forward.

Callan shakes his head, a low chuckle escaping his lips before it grows into full-bodied laughter. It’s unsettling, the sound echoing through the room with an edge that prickles my skin. His eye gleams as he peers at each of us and I have to fight the urge to take a step back. Something about this feels … off.

“My class must be a joke to you. Their specializations too, I imagine.” He scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Bloody hell, no wonder you gained entrance to Shadowcarve.”

Callan reaches for the top drawer of his desk, and I catch my breath as he pulls out a thin sheaf of papers. The scent of old parchment and ink drifts between us, almost drowned out by the sharp tang of his suppressed anger. He slaps the stack down in front of him, the suddenmotion making me flinch. With a snap of his wrist, he flips the top paper over to reveal a marked exam. A heavy silence descends as he slides it across the polished wood.

“This is my part of the entrance exam,” he explains, his tone flat and void of any humor. “You received a perfect score and pointed out an error I overlooked in the construction of a poison—which, might I add, Balor confirmed you were right about.”

Abraxis leans forward, fingers grazing the edge of the exam before picking it up. His gaze darts over the content, his brows drawing together in concentration, before he lets out a slow breath and passes it to me. The weight of Callan’s eye on me is palpable as I take the paper. The neat lines of text blur momentarily under my stare before coming into focus.

“Dad prepared me to end up here. He went through Shadowcarve, and he wanted me to follow in his footsteps.” I shrug, tracing the path of ink with my finger as if it holds all the answers.

“Did he ever tell you why?” Leander’s voice is a soft rasp against the tension that thickens the air. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze never straying from me.

I shift, setting the papers back down on Callan’s desk, feeling the sudden weight of all their attention on me. “No. What do you know?” I turn my head to face Leander, searching his expression for any hint of what’s to come. His lips curl into a ghost of a smile—one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Think about it. His firstborn daughter was raised to take over her mother’s flight when the time comes. His second daughter was made into a living siege weapon, complete with a dragon to match.” He tilts his head slightly, studying my reaction as Abraxis paces, his agitation palpable in the restless rhythm of his steps.

“Your sister is married to a gold dragon for political gain,” Leander continues, his voice gaining a sharper edge. “And you were betrothed to your nest’s greatest enemy.”

It feels like the floor shifts beneath my feet. The implications hit like a punch to the gut, and I gasp softly, my heart racing as I whirl to stare out the window. The cold glass offers no solace. I see my reflection staring back at me—wide-eyed, mouth parted in shock—as if even my own image doesn’t recognize what’s happening.

“I am the weapon for you to wield,” I whisper, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. I glance over my shoulder at Abraxis, who stops in his tracks, eyes darkening as he meets my gaze. “Most males force their mates to be whatever they need them to be. But you…” I swallow hard, forcing the next words out. “You want an equal. A partner. I’m not just a weapon.”

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