Page 54 of Trial of the Cursed Egg

“Today, paint something you’ve seen in your dreams,” he instructs, checking his watch briefly before glancing back at the group. “Begin.”

The students set up, rustling canvases and clinking paint jars filling the silence. I look back at Willa, watching as she brushes her fingertips over the egg’s surface one last time before turning back to her canvas. She hesitates, fingers hovering over the paints as if she’s unsure where to start. It’s strange—seeing her like this, vulnerable and unsure—when she’s usually so fierce, so determined.

As the first stroke of paint glides across the canvas, a shiver runs down my spine. The colors she chooses are dark and brooding, swirling together in a chaotic dance that speaks of nightmares, of long-forgotten fears clawing their way to the surface. I’ve seen her angry, powerful, even broken, but this … this feels different. Like she’s channeling something from deep within that’s never been allowed to see the light of day.

I watch, mesmerized, as her hands move faster, more urgently. A sharp line here, a slash of red there—each motion heavy with an emotion that thrums through the air, thick and suffocating. She’s lost in it now, breathing hard, her gaze fixed on the shapes emerging on the canvas.

Towards the end of the hour-long art class, I finally see what Willa has been working on. My eyes widen as the roaring head of a massive red dragon comes into focus. Its maw is a jagged landscape of scars, each one a testament to battles fought and won. Thick, spiraling horns jut from the top of its head, curving back like vicious spears ready to impale. The protective spikes along its eye ridges catch the dim light, some chipped and dulled with age, others still razor sharp.

It’s the intricate detail of the scars that snags my attention. Each crevice and fissure are rendered with painful accuracy, as if she’s captured a living creature’s agony and victory on canvas. The dragon’s mouth is open, its throat a dark cavern. My gaze tracks down, and I see the thick tongue curled within, glowing embers of fire licking its way up from the depths. Droplets of saliva dangle from the tips of its fangs, glistening ominously. Smoke wisps from its flared nostrils, curling upward like twisted ghosts. But it’s the dragon’s eyes—narrow black slits, seething with malice—that seem to lock onto me.My breath catches.

It’s not just the red dragon staring out from the canvas. No, deep within the reflective void of its one eye, there’s something else. A smaller figure—a green dragon with a tall, regal frill and no horns—stands caught in the red dragon’s gaze.It’s a faceoff.The red dragon is on the verge of obliterating the green one, and for a moment, it feels as if I’m witnessing a predator locking onto its prey in real time.

Mina tilts her head, her gaze tracing the lines and shadows of her own creation, as if seeing it for the first time. “Hmm…” The sound slips from her lips, soft and contemplative. She seems almost puzzled, as if the image has a meaning she can’t quite grasp.

Nigel strides over, brow furrowed in curiosity. “Wow, this was a dream, Mina?” He leans closer, peering at the raw intensity of thepainting. The fiery reds and ashen blacks seem to pulse under his scrutiny, the dragon’s rage almost tangible.

“Yeah…” Her voice wavers, unsure, like the ground beneath her feet is shifting. I don’t miss the way her shoulders tighten.

Nigel’s eyes dart to the green dragon reflected in the red’s pupil. “Who’s the green dragon?” The question tumbles out before I can ask it myself. I clench my jaw, a strange dread pooling in my gut.

Mina’s expression is unreadable, her gaze unfocused as if the real her has drifted somewhere far away. When she finally speaks, the words fall like stones into the silence. “My dad.”

The area seems to grow colder. There’s no remorse in her voice, no tremor, or hesitation. She’s detached, as if naming the green dragon and the man are the same thing. My chest tightens. I stare at her, at the ease with which she’s portrayed such violence, and I wonder just what kind of dreams she’s really having.

The red dragon’s open maw, its glowing throat, the reflection in its eye—it’s more than a painting.It’s a death sentence.The quiet rage buried within every stroke, every careful scar, makes the air crackle around me. Mina’s painted her father’s death, and I can’t tell if she’s scared or relieved.

Nigel takes a step back, his smile faltering as he looks from the canvas to Mina. “That’s … intense, Mina.”

She shrugs, a small, indifferent motion that does nothing to ease the tightness coiling in my gut. The red dragon’s eyes seem to bore into me, daring me to look away.But I can’t.My gaze is drawn back to the green dragon, isolated and defiant in that small, mirrored sliver of space.

Willa doesn’t speak again. She doesn’t need to. The silence between us is heavy, crackling with unspoken thoughts. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, trying to glimpse the emotions she’s keeping buried. But she gives nothing away. She simply stands there, staring at the dragon as if waiting for it to take flight from the canvas and finish what it started.

We walk across the empty campus, the air around us carrying the faint scent of freshly turned soil from the newly planted flowerbeds. Mina clutches the canvas to her chest as if it’s some kind of shield, her gaze distant. I glance at her, trying to gauge if she’s going to share more about today’s painting. She’s been adding to her collection at Shadowcarve for weeks now, filling her walls with these surreal, haunting images she refuses to explain. Each one is more ominous than the last. Today’s piece? I think it’s abouthim. Klauth. The way he’s appeared in her dreams, taunting and dark, the edges of her sanity fraying with every encounter.

We reach the double doors, and I spot Balor and Leander waiting outside. Balor’s shoulders are tense, his ever-present grin replaced with a hard line, while Leander’s eyes are like flint, sharp and wary. The tension radiates off them, crackling like static before a storm.

“Every Wednesday,” I mutter, more to myself than to them. Every Wednesday we meet to study Mina’s paintings … trying to decipher what she’s trying to tell us. Or perhaps what she can’t bring herself to say out loud. My chest tightens as I consider what I’ve been suspecting for some time. These paintings—they’re not just dreams or nightmares.They’re prophecies. Warnings.

I look over at Mina, who is already turning away, heading toward her apartment to get changed. The empty feeling she leaves behind as she slips through the door makes me swallow thickly. Once she’s inside, I wave to Abraxis and Ziggy, signaling them to join us. They cross the quad quickly; the air growing colder as they approach, the weight of our collective anxiety palpable.

“What did she paint this time?” Abraxis asks, his voice tight. He sucks in a breath when I turn the canvas around. The color drains from his face as he takes in the image, the dragon staring back at us. Its eyes seem to burn with a terrible, knowing light, the scales a deep crimson, edged in black. “Oh shit. Do you think that’s?—?”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he makes the familiar motion of stroking the egg carrier. I nod, the weight of the truth settling heavy in my gut.

“I think so. That’s Klauth,” I say quietly, glancing at Ziggy, who’s gone pale beneath his freckles. “Ziggy, you need to take her to train with the third years. We’re going to study the paintings together.”

He nods sharply and heads into the apartment to retrieve her. I turn my attention back to the painting, to the dragon’s eyes that seem to follow my every movement. My skin crawls under the intensity of its gaze, like it’s seeing through me—throughallof us.

Mina steps out a few minutes later, dressed in her black leathers with the egg carrier snug against her chest. The heavy weight of it seems to dwarf her slight frame, but she stands straighter, a fierce determination sparking in her gaze. Just as she follows Ziggy, her familiar, Iris swoops in silently, perching on her shoulder.

“Rebel,” Abraxis calls softly, his voice filled with a quiet command. His familiar, a massive black raven, lands on his forearm, the dark eyesglinting in the low light. “Watch over my mate,” Abraxis murmurs, stroking the bird’s chest feathers. Rebel caws once, a sound that echoes around us, before taking off, his wings slicing through the air like knives.

We watch Rebel’s silhouette disappear against the dusky sky when Lemon, the headmaster’s fruit bat, flutters in. Her small wings beat frantically as she hovers near Mina, almost as if paying her respects. It’s like watching a parade of familiars come to pay homage to royalty … but it’s not just Mina. It’s what she’s carrying. What sherepresents.

“We’ve got two hours. Let’s make it quick,” I say, my voice low as I lead the group back to the apartment. I use the spare key Mina gave me, the one that feels heavier in my hand, every time I unlock the door.

The northern and western walls are covered in her paintings. Each one pulls at something deep inside me, a strange mix of dread and awe. She’s painted each of us at least once, capturing our shifts with a precision that unnerves me. Her own dragon is the focus of several images—mostly just close-ups of body parts: a talon here, the curve of a tail there.

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