Page 9 of Trial of the Cursed Egg

Mina

Last night was amazing.I lie awake, the soft glow of early morning spilling through the curtains, lost in memories of the banquet. The warmth of the dance floor, the way the music swept me up—each of the males, including the headmaster himself, took turns leading me in a dance. I’m so used to being seen as a weapon that sometimes I forget I’m a woman, too.

Cora’s brother? Hot as hell. But so is Leander. He’s not just dangerous; he’s a walking nightmare of all creatures—a horse of fire and destruction. Both of them danced with me twice, their hands firm on my waist, making me feel special in a way I haven’t in years. Abraxis, though, he couldn’t stop staring at the locket around my neck. The one my betrothed gave me. It’s a claim—something visual that says I belong to someone, or at least that’s what I hope it signals to others. Maybe now the males will keep their distance.

I get lost in the memories until the banging starts again. Ugh, the intelligence test. Or as Cora’s been calling it, the ‘sorting.’ I drag myself out of bed, shaking off the nostalgia, and head for the shower.The steam swirls around me as I step under the hot spray, trying to clear my mind. When I finish, I slip into a long summer dress, the light fabric flowing over my skin like a second layer. Innocent, harmless—at least that’s what it seems. Hidden beneath, strapped against my inner thigh, are several blades. In the dip of my cleavage, an acid vial waits, and in my hair, pins—sharp enough to throw, sharp enough to kill—hold my bun in place.

Iris flutters over, landing on my shoulder as I prepare to leave. Her wings brush my skin, a comfort. Across my shoulders, my scales are visible, and down my spine, a line of scales gleams, a mark from my mother’s bloodline. The horns I inherited from her give me an edge, but the dragon scales? Those have saved me more than once. I may look innocent in this babydoll dress, but I’m armed to the teeth.

Cora and I enter the testing hall, the air thick with anticipation. The Arcanum Campus feels different this morning, the usual hum of magic muted by the tension swirling around us. We find our seats among the rows of students, each one more nervous than the last. A regal woman with eyes lined in kohl walks the aisles, handing out test booklets. She moves with a grace that feels more like a threat. She explains that there are eight different tests circulating—no one will have the same one as their neighbor.

Fourth years, trainers, and teachers line the walls, their eyes on us. Watching. Judging. The Gorgon from intake slithers down the aisles, her scales rasping against the floor as she hands out pencils and erasers. Her presence is enough to make most students tense, but I sit still, calm. Ready.

“Let the sorting begin,” the headmaster’s voice booms through the hall. The timer starts, and with a deep breath, I open the booklet. Time to prove what I’m capable of.

The test drags on, each minute feeling longer than the last. It’s endless—politics, royal protocol, war, and the weapons of war, the sciences. I grind through each section, my pen moving across the parchment as though it has a mind of its own. But then I reach the middle, and something shifts. These questions are different, meant to unsettle and test the mind in ways the others didn’t. Moral dilemmas. What-ifs.

One question stops me cold: If your mate and your betrothed are both in danger, which do you save?

My breath catches. I’ve thought about this, but seeing it written here forces me to confront the weight of the decision. Instinctively, I answer with a question of my own. Are you bound to either? If you’re bound and bitten by your betrothed but not your mate, then the answer is simple—you save the betrothed. But if the situation were reversed, the choice would change. I scribble the answer furiously, the pencil scratching across the paper. I know deep down that, if at all possible, you save both. But when has life ever allowed such grace?

The thought of binding, of being claimed, gnaws at me. Dragons—especially dragon kin—are bound by tradition. The betrothal system keeps the bloodlines strong, pure. The other species have it easier, I think bitterly.They can choose.My chest tightens at the thought, a brief, sharp longing for a life free from these constraints. Free to choose for love, not legacy.

The next section, a dizzying blur of math and battle strategy, is easier. Numbers, calculations—they’ve always made sense to me. I breeze through the questions, my mind sliding into familiar patterns. Formulas that come to me through years of perfecting poisons, equations that mirror the precision needed for my archery. But it’s a brief reprieve. I know what’s coming next.

Then, the last question stares back at me from the page, simple yet haunting: If you could be anything, social construct aside, what would you be?

My hand stills. It’s not the kind of question you rush into. I reach up, fingers brushing against the pendant at my throat—a gift from the mysterious male who’s been watching over me, leaving trinkets like breadcrumbs. I don’t know who he is, but he’s thoughtful, protective. Whoever he is, he cares enough to shield me from the shadows, to offer comfort in ways that make me feel seen. That counts for something.

I smile softly to myself as I write the answer. I would wish to follow in my father’s footsteps, to fight alongside my mate, not be trapped as a breeder. The pen drifts over the words, each stroke confident. My betrothed—whoever he is—would have to accept that. I won’t be caged.

Hints from my father over the years make it clear—my betrothed is a black dragon. There are six black dragons here, all potential candidates. The real question is, which one belongs to me? Which one will emerge from the shadows as the male who has been leaving pieces of himself in the form of these gifts? I press my pen to the final line; the words settling as a quiet determination stirs in my chest.

Addy, Cora, and I sit huddled in the corner of the room, each of us barely breathing as we wait for the test results. The air feels thick, heavy with tension, and the low murmur of whispers from the other students around us only heightens my nerves. I glance at the grandclock on the wall, its ticking louder in the silence. Every second that passes feels like a countdown to something I can’t control.

“Addison Mare,” the headmaster’s voice breaks through the tension, his tone impassive. Addy stiffens beside me, giving us both a nervous glance before rising to her feet. She walks forward, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the floor as if daring not to look up at the headmaster or the gorgon at his side. She’s always had this way of making herself smaller, folding into the background. She nods, listens to their words, and soon returns, clutching her brown envelope so tightly her knuckles are white.

“What happened?” I ask softly, reaching out to touch her hand and the envelope. Her fingers are icy, and I can feel the slight tremble running through them.

“I placed average,” she whispers, her eyes downcast. “I’ll receive the basic education. I can train to be a librarian or an archivist.” She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to the plain brown envelope in her lap.

I take the envelope gently, my heart aching for her as I scan the contents. All the courses are basic, though there’s extra time slotted for the arts and humanities. “At least we might have the primary courses together,” I say, squeezing her hand and trying to smile, offering her the envelope back. My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

Cora’s name is called next, and she leaps up from her seat with a squeal, running into her brother’s arms before bouncing back to us. She waves a bright blue envelope. “Royal protocol and politics!” she beams, her face practically glowing. She looks at me with such excitement, pointing out that her primary courses line up with Addy’s. “We’ll all be together, see?”

They discuss their classes, their voices a soft hum as they lean over Cora’s schedule. But my attention drifts. My stomach knots tighter with each name called, each envelope handed out. Brown. Brown. Brown. Most students got the same nondescript envelopes, and the weight of what comes next presses down on my chest like a stone.

Then my name rings out. “Willamina Bladesong.”

I stand, the entire room feeling like it’s holding its breath. The soft murmur of voices fades into the background as I walk to the front. My pulse pounds in my ears, but I keep my chin high, posture steady. I curtsy slightly before the headmaster and gorgon, awaiting their decision with a practiced calm.

The headmaster eyes me, his expression unreadable for a moment before a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He holds out a dark green envelope. “You are the first female to be granted classes at the Shadowcarve Campus,” he says, his voice filled with something that sounds almost like pride. “Given who your father is, and your scores, I would be remiss not to give you a chance to fulfill what you are meant to do. You are a tactician, Willamina. A brilliant one. Your performance in the gauntlet, especially showing up with those leathers—your father trained you well.”

He presses the envelope into my hands, his words heavy with meaning. “Make us proud.”

The gorgon smiles wickedly beside him. “Time to break up the boys’ club,” she says, her lips curling as if she’s savoring the thought. I can’t help but smile back at her.

“What will her betrothed say,” a feline-like woman with dark, kohl-lined eyes drawls, “when he finds out she’s not preparing to rule a flight?”

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