Page 45 of Trial of the Cursed Egg

Lysander’s eyes snap up to mine, worry flickering there. “Abraxis, if she bonds with him?—”

“I know,” I cut him off, voice hard. “But that’s a tomorrow problem. Right now, I have a class to teach. Worrying about the what-ifs of the cursed egg won’t change a damn thing.”

With that, I turn on my heel, leaving the headmaster alone in my office, the weight of our conversation pressing down on my shoulders like a lead cloak. The halls echo with my footsteps as I head to the training grounds. The students look up, curious, some already whispering. I force a smirk, pushing the worries and fears to the back of my mind. Today is for teaching. The world might end tomorrow. But today? Today, I have a lesson to give.

Mina

Art class feelslike torture today. I glance at the half-finished painting in front of me, the vibrant strokes of color blurring as my vision unfocuses. It’s hard to concentrate on something as mundane as this when Callan continues to ignore my existence. The sting of it gnaws at me, deepening with every passing day. He treats me as if I’m less than nothing. I wonder if he even notices me lingering at the edge of his world.

I tighten my grip on the paintbrush, forcing myself to focus. Today, I’m working on a painting of a gryphon. Not just any gryphon, though. His gryphon. Or at least, my best attempt at what I imagine it might look like. I’ve seen others on campus, magnificent creatures soaring above the grounds, feathers catching the light like shards of glass. Their coloring, I’ve learned, often mirrors their human form. So I picture Callan’s, guessing his feathers would match the rich honey brown of his hair, the same shade I’d memorize if he’d ever let me get close enough.

From the shoulders up, the gryphon gazes out from the canvas, its predatory eye piercing and intense. I brush some highlights along its beak, shaping the curve until it gleams as though caught in the sunlight. The room around me fades, leaving only the image in front of me. If I could just get this right … Maybe then he’d look at it—at me—and see something more.

“Miss Mina, the image looks extraordinary,” Nigel’s voice cuts through my focus like a sudden breeze, cool and unexpected. Startled, I glance over my shoulder to find him hovering behind me. He’s opted for his human form today, it’s a rare occurrence. It always throws me off seeing him like this—a lanky man with pale, almost translucent skin. His floppy black hair hangs messily over his forehead, as if even it can’t decide what to make of him. The loose black button-up and cargo pants do nothing to make him less intimidating.

“Thank you, sir.” I murmur, shifting in my seat as I turn back to my painting. My hand trembles slightly as I add another stroke, refining the shine on the beak. For a moment, I feel his eyes studying the canvas with a scrutinizing gaze.

“It’s Callan, isn’t it?” The casual question sends a jolt through me, and I freeze. My heart clenches painfully, the familiar ache growing stronger. I nod, unable to trust my voice.

He steps closer, the back of his paintbrush hovering just over the gryphon’s face. “The scar comes more this way,” he murmurs, tracing an invisible line in the air to indicate the correct direction. I follow his guidance, my fingers moving mechanically to adjust the scar’s placement.

“There’s a small one right here, too,” he adds, pointing midway down the beak. I hesitate, then add the mark where he indicates.Each correction sharpens the image, bringing it closer to the real thing—closer to Callan.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my gaze lingering on the scarred beak. The sight sends a fresh wave of sorrow crashing over me. Will I ever see him like this, in his shifted form? Or will he keep pretending I don’t exist until the bond between us snaps entirely?

“You met my nephew Vaughn a few months back.” The sudden shift in conversation catches me off guard. I blink up at him, trying to recall the encounter through the haze of so many painful memories.

“I wouldn’t say met,” I reply softly. “He stepped in when Arista and the bitch sisters were bullying me. To be more specific, he caught me before I fell and protected me until Zigmander could get to me.” Sighing, I turn my stool to face Nigel, his intense gaze making me uncomfortable. “Please thank your nephew for me. I appreciate him stepping in.”

He gives a nod of acknowledgment, his expression unreadable. I offer a faint smile, raising my hand to stroke the egg carrier strapped across my chest, hoping the small motion will ground me.

“Which egg did you receive?” Nigel’s question comes with a hint of curiosity, his eyes flickering down to the bag I cradle protectively.

“Klauth, the mighty red dragon.” The name alone warms me, the egg within pulsing gently in response to my praise. Reverently, I unbuckle the flap, revealing the red and silver swirled egg nestled inside. Its surface shimmers under the shade of the cherry tree, a soft, comforting glow that soothes my frayed nerves.

“Beautiful,” Nigel murmurs, leaning closer to study the delicate patterns etched across the shell. I run my finger slowly along the top,tracing the swirls. Something about the way it feels—alive and strong beneath my touch—eases the tightness in my chest.

He straightens, his gaze lingering on the egg before shifting back to me. “You know, Miss Mina,” he begins thoughtfully, “sometimes the bonds we struggle with the most end up being the ones that define us.” His words hang heavy in the air, a soft smile playing at his lips as he glances back at the gryphon on the canvas. “Just keep painting. Sometimes, you can bring a piece of their soul to life through your art.”

I swallow hard, nodding as I shift my focus back to the painting. If only I could paint away the emptiness that Callan’s indifference leaves behind. Class concludes and I wrap the canvas up to bring it to Shadowcarve with me.

Walking through the wooden gates of Shadowcarve feels like an arrow piercing my heart. Each clang of metal against stone echoes like a bell tolling, reverberating through my chest. As if sensing my turmoil, the egg nestled against my chest heats, a gentle pulse of warmth that spreads through me, momentarily easing the ache. I rub it absentmindedly, murmuring a soft reassurance under my breath. My fingers trail over the smooth surface, tracing patterns I’ve memorized. A flicker of peace settles inside me before I head toward my apartment.

There’s no point in attending Callan’s class today; nothing he says will change the emptiness that lingers. I shed my standard gear and slip into the black leathers Vox made just for me. They mold to my body like a second skin, every inch fitted to perfection. Beneath thesleek leather, hidden layers of armor weave through the fabric, offering protection without hindering movement. I sling the quiver over my shoulder, feeling the weight of Abraxis’s bow case against my back—a bow that belonged to him that he gifted me as a betrothal present.

The archery range is just next door at Ranathor Keep. When I step onto the packed dirt, Abraxis is there, leading his class of third years. His tall form, the tense line of his shoulders, and that rigid jaw all tell me he’s agitated—again. I can see it in the way he gestures sharply, his voice carrying just enough heat to singe anyone foolish enough to push him today. But they do, over and over, failing to grasp the finesse of their stance, the flow of the draw.

A flash of silver flits in my periphery, and I turn just as Iris, my tiny dragon familiar, lands on my shoulder. Her warm scales brush against my cheek before she hops down, pressing herself against the egg carrier, emitting those sweet, happy trills that always make me smile. I set the case down carefully and unzip it, placing the egg inside. Iris curls around it protectively, her wings fluttering as she settles in.

With practiced ease, I assemble my bow, sliding the limbs into the riser until they lock into place with a satisfying click. The black and green string slips into the grooves, and I secure it, my movements precise. The faint hum of tension vibrates through the string, mirroring the thrum of power beneath my skin. Iris shifts in the case, her eyes following my every move as I step to the range.

“What’s a female doing here?” a sneering voice cuts through the air, dripping with venom.

My gaze snaps to the source—a third-year with more mouth than skill. Abraxis’s eyes glow, a dangerous, eerie light flickering in their depths. His dragon is riled, and I can’t help but smile. Slowly, I turn toface the male, letting my gaze drag lazily over him, assessing. He’s too stiff in the shoulders, his stance too wide. An easy target.

“I’m here to shoot.” I keep my voice light, almost sweet. “Are you afraid of a little friendly competition?”

The male scoffs, puffing out his chest. “Sure, why not?”

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