Page 4 of Progeny of the Cursed Egg
“The academy is a war college. There’s a yearly gauntlet to weed out the weak. Then there’s the one specifically for Shadowcarve. I have two gauntlets to run over the next two days.” I flash him a grin, trying to mask my excitement. I watch the color drain from his face, his nostrils flaring.
“Our mate is the first female in the history of Shadowcarve to be strong enough and smart enough to attend. She’s lethal,” Abraxis cuts in, his feral grin exposing slightly elongated canines.
Klauth turns to look at me with a newfound respect in his eyes and exhales a slow breath. “Oh, this is going to be fun … I will assist you however you desire, my mate.” He brings his fist to his chest, the impact making a dull thud, and bows. Abraxis’s jaw slacks; the shock in his gaze is clear. A great wyrm just honored me by raising his fist to his heart, swearing his life eternal to me.
As Klauth heads to the bathroom, the faint trickle of running water and the rich smell of soap drift through the open doorway. I glance around at the others, heart thudding in my chest. The memory of Klauth’s vow lingers in my mind. Outside, a sudden gust rattles thetall windows of the apartment, adding a final note of tension to the moment.
I let my fingertips run gently over Thauglor’s carrier, feeling the humming warmth of the egg beneath the shell. Within this ancient fortress, with its cold corridors and whispering shadows, we forge bonds that could reshape our future—or tear us apart.
CHAPTER 2
Abraxis
Gauntlet day one…
I stand on the edge of the training grounds, feeling the chill of the early morning air bite at the back of my neck. The academy grounds stretch before us in a patchwork of gravel paths, dense clusters of trees, and the looming wooden structure of the gauntlet. Overhead, the sky hangs low with thick, gray clouds, threatening rain—or maybe just more tension. My pulse thrums in my ears at the sight of the war games arena being set up.
Year three is when the war games begin. I see plenty of students milling about in the main part of campus, their chatter a jittery undercurrent against the distant clash of practice weapons. Shadowcarve has only one third year—Mina. On the one hand, she has no other moving parts to worry about, just herself. But on the other, she’s alone—no defensive line at her back, no backup in case things go sideways.
The fourth years—last year’s third years—total nine, and that was before this morning’s gauntlet. It’s the main campus gauntlet, not as vicious as ours, but still enough to make my stomach twist uneasily.
Mina sits on a low stone wall beneath the drooping boughs of a gnarled old tree, the same spot she’s claimed the last two years for watching and waiting. The bark above her is twisted, rough with age, and I can almost smell the damp moss clinging to the branches. Klauth stands at her right side, arms crossed over his chest, muscles tense as if ready to pounce. Balor is on her left, gaze sweeping the crowd in silent vigilance. Ziggy perches high in the tree, his silhouette barely visible through the leaves, always watching with that uncanny stillness of his.
Callan and Leander are off helping with the main gauntlet, leaving me here with Mina. After last night’s shopping experience, Klauth is sporting a modernized look—pressed trousers, a crisp shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders, and a dark, stylish jacket. He looks like he’s stepped straight out of one of those high-fashion magazines Cora is fond of. Standing next to him makes me feel like the ugly duckling. I resist the urge to straighten my jacket, swallowing the small knot of self-consciousness.
A member of the senior staff approaches, footsteps crunching on the gravel before he halts in front of Mina. The wind carries a faint hint of cologne—sharp and citrusy.
“Willamina Havock?” he asks. The use of my surname jolts me, and I see Klauth’s red-flecked gaze flick toward the staff member.
“Yes?” Mina’s voice is cool as she steps forward, the gravel shifting softly under her feet.
“General,” he says, bowing to me. There’s a wary glance cast at Klauth, and I sense the tension in the air, like a cord stretched too tight.
“Your number,” he says, offering Mina a small card in a white envelope. His hand trembles slightly. There’s a reverence in his posture that I haven’t witnessed in nearly a decade of teaching here—certainly not toward any dragoness.
Mina’s eyes flick down to the envelope, but Balor takes it in her stead. “She doesn’t like being handed things by beings outside her nest,” Balor states, his voice ice-cold. The staff member stiffens, then quickly turns and leaves, boots scuffing away on the gravel.
Klauth lifts one thick eyebrow at me, and I can feel the silent question prickling between us. “She chose to use my surname instead of her father’s after what he did to her,” I explain quietly, shifting my weight as a breeze stirs the leaves overhead. My mind drifts for a moment to the nightmares Mina shared—dark corridors, betrayal, pain.
Mina steps aside with Balor. He’s already opened the envelope, and I catch a glimpse of the card’s black lettering. She nods, expression guarded.
“She showed us those memories,” Klauth murmurs. He stares at the ground, the flesh between his eyebrows pinching. “I’d like to offer her my surname as well—if that’s acceptable to you.” His tone is deep, resonant, carrying the weight of the beast that dwells inside him.
I meet those amber eyes flecked with crimson, the vertical slits narrowing ever so slightly. That ancient predator lurks just beneath his calm façade. “Of course,” I say. “As the great wyrm of our nest, you have every right to offer or request that she use your surname.” I bow and lower my gaze, the gesture automatic. If it came down to dragon versus dragon, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
When I lift my head, I see Klauth striding toward Mina. She tips her face up, slightly puzzled, and listens intently as he speaks in a low voice. I catch fragments of her expression—surprise, then a small, thoughtful smile. She says something about ‘considering it’ and returns his bow. Klauth steps back, reclaiming his place beneath the tree, the damp grass brushing the hem of his trousers.
Another number is called over the loudspeakers, the metallic buzz reverberating across the courtyard. Mina pulls up her hood and slides down her black face mask, concealing the lethal elegance of her features. She thrusts both hands down, and with a soft rasp, her silver talons extend. My breath hitches at the change that comes over her—it’s like watching a predator uncoil.
She strides toward the gauntlet, each footfall so silent it’s unnerving, especially on gravel. The hush is as deadly as it is impressive. The wooden stairs leading up to the gauntlet creak for everyone else, but for her, there’s not a single groan. She moves like a wraith—one foot in front of the other, body balanced and poised.
Shadowblade … That’s what they call her. She’s trained her entire life for this lethal grace. The hair on my arms stands on end as I recall whispered rumors about her past. Ziggy and Balor mutter to Klauth about what she was made to be, how she was honed into this weapon.
And me? I stand here, my heart thudding heavily against my ribs, tension twisting in my stomach like a coiled spring. I have to worry about Mina facing the gauntlet—there’s a real chance she might push too far. And then there’s the ancient wyrm at our side, a war machine in human skin, who might snap if he thinks Mina’s in danger. The idea of Klauth laying waste to the gauntlet with a single shift flickers across my mind like a dark omen.
A faint rustle draws my attention back to Mina. She pauses at the top of the stairs; the wind teasing the edges of her hood. Then she disappears into the shadows of the gauntlet. My pulse pounds, and the world narrows to the pounding of blood in my ears. Whatever happens next, I need to be ready—to protect her, to keep Klauth in check, to ensure we don’t reduce this entire academy to smoldering wreckage.
I gritmy teeth and scan the courtyard under the afternoon sun. The stone walls radiate lingering warmth, and my boots scuff against the cracked tiles, sending small puffs of dust into the air. A clammy breeze drifts past, carrying the faint metallic tang of gears grinding somewhere within the gauntlet’s guts. I can practically taste the tension—bitter as old copper on my tongue.
