Page 91 of Progeny of the Cursed Egg
CHAPTER 52
Mina
I am terrified…
Every minute that ticks by feels like it may be my last. My heart pounds against my ribcage, each beat echoing in my ears as I stare at the nest before me. Four beautiful solid black eggs rest there, their surfaces gleaming in the dim light of the hatching chamber. Slight bronze markings edge the scale pattern on the eggs, catching the light when they shift ever so slightly. The warm, mineral-rich air of the chamber clings to my skin, making my leather armor feel too tight, too constricting.
I sit anxiously on Balor’s lap, his solid presence beneath me the only thing keeping me grounded. His warmth seeps through my clothes, and his scent—earth, stone, and something uniquely him—wraps around me like a shield. My eyes never leave the eggs, tracking every minute movement they make. Balor’s hands rest on my hips, his thumbs making small, soothing circles that contrast with the tension coiling in my muscles.
Thinking back, I guess this is how Abraxis felt waiting for my egg to hatch all those years ago. The memory flashes through my mind—stories told of anxious pacing and sleepless nights as my shell hardened and prepared to crack.
The first sound of a crack splits the silence like a thunderclap, making me sit up quickly. My spine straightens so fast I feel Balor flinch beneath me.
“Amara!” I yell for my sister as I move closer to the nest, my voice echoing against the stone walls. The soft nesting materials crunch beneath my knees as I crawl forward. I sniff at the eggs, the scent of new life and something distinctly reptilian filling my nostrils. The egg in the back moves and rolls onto its side with a soft scraping sound against the nesting material.
My dragoness coils and uncoils within me, restless and hungry for this experience. I feel her pushing against my consciousness, wanting this for herself. The sensation is like molten metal flowing beneath my skin, burning and insistent.
‘Mate, settle. You will have your own soon.’ Thauglor’s voice echoes in my head, rich and deep like distant thunder. I can feel the minute he looks through my eyes, the bond between us warming as he shares this moment with me. A deep purr follows, the sound reverberating through our mental connection like a physical touch. ‘When it’s safe, we will give you as many clutches as you want.’ Thauglor’s promise echoes in my mind, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face, my lips pulling back to reveal teeth slightly sharper than human.
“What made you smile?” Balor asks as he comes to sit next to me, his movement fluid and predatory despite his bulk. The leather of his armor creaks softly as he settles beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine.
“Thauglor checked in with me. He said when we’re all safe, I can have as many clutches as I want.” Biting my bottom lip, I taste the copper of my blood as my fangs pierce the delicate skin. I stare at thefurthest egg as it cracks almost all the way around. The sound reminds me of ice cracking when the temperature changes—sharp, crisp, and somehow both delicate and violent all at once.
“You have other plans though,” he whispers as he nuzzles my cheek, his scales cool against my flushed skin. His breath smells like mint and something metallic, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
“I do. One clutch. A small one, maybe not the four eggs I envisioned.” I whisper back as I press my cheek alongside his, our skin warming where we touch. My eyes never leave the eggs, watching them closely as if my gaze alone could protect them from harm. The narrow end of the shell falls away with a soft tinkling sound, and a black snout appears in the opening. My muscles tense, strung tight as bowstrings, not sure what’s happening. The air feels too thick to breathe, time slowing to an agonizing crawl.
A small black serpent slithers out, its scales catching the light like polished onyx. Balor gasps beside me, his breath catching in his throat. “Your sister birthed a basilisk.” The pride in his voice is unmistakable, a rare display of emotion from my usually stoic mate.
We watch the mini basilisk slither around the interior of the nest, its movements jerky but determined. Its body leaves small indentations in the nesting material as it explores its new world. Its head looks more dragonic than serpentine, with a slightly elongated snout and ridges where horns will eventually grow. Instead of having six eyes like a pure basilisk, it has only two—large, blood-red orbs that seem too knowing for a newborn.
The next egg starts moving, rocking back and forth with increasing urgency. The same tinkling sound can be heard, but louder this time, more insistent. This one almost explodes out of the egg, shell fragments flying in all directions. One piece hits my cheek, sharp enough to draw blood, but I barely notice.
The black and bronze hatchling stumbles out on four legs, flapping its wings frantically as it tries to balance itself. Its claws scratch against the stone beneath the nesting material, making a sound like nails on slate. My sister darts forward, moving faster than I’ve ever seen her move, and picks up the hatchling. She holds it to her chest, crooning softly to it. The sound is musical and soothing, a melody that seems instinctual rather than learned. Meanwhile, Zeb gently lifts the baby basilisk, its tiny body draping across his palm like liquid shadow.
The next two eggs crack at the same time, the synchronized sound creating an eerie harmony in the chamber. Two more baby basilisks come slithering out, their bodies glistening with birthing fluid that catches the light like diamonds. Zeb’s face transforms with joy, his usual stern expression breaking into a smile that reveals his fangs. He’s clearly overjoyed seeing that his mate birthed more of his species than her own. His happiness creates a palpable energy in the room, almost electric.
But when I look at my sister, I see it in her eyes—disappointment, deep and raw, darkening her golden irises to amber. Her shoulders slump ever so slightly. A movement so subtle that only someone who knows her well would notice. I lean over and kiss her cheek, tasting the salt from tears she refuses to shed, and hug her to me. Her body is rigid against mine, unyielding.
Zeb runs down the hallway with the three basilisk hatchlings, his footsteps fading into the distance. His excitement is a stark contrast to my sister’s quiet resignation.
“May I?” I hold my hands out toward the remaining hatchling, the gesture reverent. Amara places the small creature in my palms, its weight surprisingly substantial for something so new to the world. It has the blood-red eyes of the basilisk, gleaming like rubies in its dark face. The hatchling squirms against my touch, its scales smooth and warm against my skin.
Rolling the hatchling over carefully, I see it’s male. His tiny claws scratch lightly against my palms as he tries to right himself. “You have a beautiful son, Amara.” I hold the little male and look him over closely, memorizing every detail. His scales are similar to Balor’s—so black they seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. His wings are like my sister’s, and how I remember my mother’s to be—delicate membranes stretched over strong skeletal structures, tinted with bronze that catches the light when he moves. He has two little silver horns on the top of his head, but also spikes around his cheeks and under his jaw like a basilisk. The hybrid nature of him is beautiful and terrifying all at once.
I kiss my nephew on the top of his head, feeling the soft, warm scales against my lips, and hand him back to my sister. The scent of him—new life, basilisk, and something uniquely dragon—lingers on my skin.
“I should find Zeb and see the Matriarch with him.” Amara’s voice is flat, her words clipped. The sadness in her tone is unmistakable, hanging in the air between us like a physical barrier. There’s nothing I can do about it, and the helplessness burns in my chest like acid.
“I’ll come visit again. Or you can come visit us.” I try to keep my voice light, but the strain shows through. “I’m redoing the old flight. The entire downstairs has been redone to the point it doesn’t look the same anymore.” I watch the way my sister’s eye ticks at the mention of our old home, the slight muscle spasm betraying emotions she tries to hide. The reaction is immediate and visceral—a traumatic response she can’t control. “I dug my nest high in the mountains if you’re more comfortable there.” I bite my bottom lip, the familiar gesture a tell of my anxiety as I watch her every move. She’s still a shadow of who she could have been, her spirit dimmed by circumstances and history.
“I’ll think about it,” she offers before turning and leaving, her soncradled protectively against her chest. The finality in her tone says more than her words.
I bite my bottom lip harder, tasting blood again, and nod. The metallic flavor floods my mouth, oddly comforting in its familiarity. Not much has changed between us. We’re never going to be close because of who my father is and what he did to our mother. The chasm between us feels wider than ever, a gulf too vast to bridge with mere words or intentions.
“Let’s go home,” I turn to look at Balor, my voice thick with emotions I refuse to name. His eyes—green with slitted pupils—search mine, understanding without words. He nods once, a sharp gesture of agreement.
He takes the lead, and I hold his hand, following behind him. His grip is firm and reassuring, anchoring me to the present when my mind wants to drift into painful pasts and uncertain futures. We make it to the sitting room, and the Matriarch is ecstatic, holding the three basilisk hatchlings against her ancient, scaled body. Her joy is a knife twisting in my gut. I want to burn her to ash for making my sister feel bad, for valuing blood purity over the miracle of new life in any form. The urge to unleash my lightning is so strong I can taste smoke at the back of my throat, feel heat building behind my sternum.
