Page 70 of Progeny of the Cursed Egg
Before he can speak, I take his hand and lead him to a quieter corner of the gardens. A place where a pond reflects the sky like a mirror and weathered benches invites quiet contemplation. “Klauth and Ziggy dug this spot so the flight would have a place to breathe, to find solace.”
I guide Abraxis to a stone bench, its surface cool beneath our touch, and help him settle down before I ease myself beside him, my body molding to his. Resting my head on his strong shoulder, I feel the rough texture of his wing brush against my cheek—a tender, familiar caress in this twilight of pain and regret. For a moment, the searing ache of separation and the heavy burden of my guilt swell within me until tears threaten to spill once more. I grip his arm tighter. The sound of my shallow breaths mingles with the soft rustle of fabric as I cling to the memory of his protective embrace, the scent of him filling my lungs.
“It’s beautiful, Mina,” Abraxis murmurs, his voice low and resonant like a distant echo in the darkness, his words a lifeline in the storm ofmy emotions. I can barely form a response, managing only a silent nod as I swallow back the lump in my throat.
In a hushed tone, I add, “You know, your dad designed it as a mating present for us.” The words feel delicate—as if they could shatter the fragile quiet around us. I share them like a secret meant only for our ears, a glimmer of light in the darkness.
“Mom probably pushed him to do it,” he replies softly, his head settling over mine, our warmth intertwining, our hearts beating in sync.
Abruptly, his phone pings—a sharp, insistent sound that slices through our reverie, the noise jarring and unwelcome. With a resigned sigh, he retrieves it, the device cold and impersonal in his hand. “Time to see the doctor. Want to come with me?” He kisses the crown of my head, his lips soft and warm, and for an instant. I feel a small, flickering hope igniting in his chest, the sensation like a candle flame in the night. Though he never says it aloud, I know he needs me by his side, a silent plea in his touch.
“Yes,” I reply, my voice steady as I wait for him to retract his good wing, the movement slow and careful. I extend my hand once more, our fingers interlacing, and together we make our way back into the labyrinthine corridors of the lower levels. The halls winding and whispering secrets until we reach the infirmary on the compound’s cold, north side. The air is heavy with the scent of medicine and disinfectant.
“My Queen,” the doctor says with a respectful bow, his staff echoing his formality, their eyes averted in deference.
I dismiss the title with a gentle wave, my hand cutting through the air. “Please, just call me Mina.”
“We’re taking the brace and bindings off his left wing today,” the doctor announces in a clinical tone that makes my heart skip, his words like a punch to the gut. A sudden chill runs down my spine as Imentally tally everyone’s whereabouts: Iris is with Thauglor, Klauth is in the upper nest in a meeting. Callan and the others went to Shadowcarve, and Vaughn lingering on campus—apparently enjoying a gargoyle holiday for the next two days.
Abraxis steps forward and smiles, the dim light catching the crinkles at his eyes, the sight of it a balm to my frayed nerves. “Were you talking to Klauth?” he teases, tilting his head in amusement, his tone light and playful.
“Actually, no. I was running a mental inventory of where everyone is right now,” I explain, my eyes drifting over his shoulder to watch the doctor approach with a pair of surgical scissors, the metal glinting coldly in the stark light. “Let’s sit you down for this,” I say, signaling a nearby assistant who promptly brings a tall stool for Abraxis, the legs scraping against the tiled floor.
The snip of the scissors cutting through the gauze sounds thunderous in the quiet room. It echoes like a distant explosion in my ears. The sound setting my teeth on edge. I watch, heart pounding, as the bandages tumble onto the side table. The same gauze I applied the previous night, my fingers trembling as I wound it around his wing. The doctor’s careful removal of it feels ominous, laden with unspoken dread, each layer revealing more of the healing skin beneath.
“We’re going to remove some of the sutures today from the leather,” the doctor explains, his tone neutral as he reveals the healing progress. The sight of the neat stitches is a stark contrast to the ragged wound they once held together. “You healed up nicely, but unfortunately, there will be white spots where the sutures were—scar tissue, General.”
Abraxis offers an easy smile that belies the situation, his lips curving upward in a show of nonchalance. “I’ll take white spots over torn flight leather any day,” he remarks, his tone light and reassuring, the words a brave front. I wonder if his relaxed demeanor is for my sakeor if he truly feels so at ease. The thought nags at the back of my mind.
I take his hand, drawing closer to catch every detail of the doctor’s demonstration, my eyes roving over the exposed wing. From my vantage point, Abraxis’s wing appears nearly flawless, a testament to my level of care, the sight of it filling me with a fierce pride. “You did wonderfully, Mina, taking care of your mate’s wing,” the doctor compliments, his eyes kind, his smile warm and genuine. “I think you did better than some of the wound specialists I’ve seen. If you ever want a job, just say the word.” His words are a soothing balm to my battered soul. For a moment, hope flutters in my chest like a trapped bird.
I shake my head, smiling back, the expression feeling foreign on my face. “No, thank you. I only learned how to care for my mate. The females who came to tend his wound angered me—this was the safer alternative for everyone.” I step aside to get a better look at his left wing, tracing its lines and scars with anxious eyes, my gaze lingering on the puckered flesh.
“It appears to have healed better than I originally expected, General,” the doctor observes, now standing before us, his hands clasped behind his back. His smile is gentle as he instructs, “I want you to stretch and start using the wing, but non–weight bearing. Stretch it, flex it, but do not attempt to fly.” He concludes with a lighthearted promise, his tone teasing, “I’ll see you in another week, same time.”
I watch as Abraxis gingerly stretches his wings, the movement slow and cautious. His right wing unfurls fully like a banner in the wind, the sight of it breathtaking. While his left lags, moving slowly until it opens only halfway, the muscles straining with the effort. I smile encouragingly, murmuring, “We just need to re-stretch it slowly. It’s been resting for almost a month and a half.”
Abraxis nods and leads me out of the infirmary, his steps measured, his gait slightly uneven. “This is going to sound weird,” he begins,coming to a stop before me, his eyes searching mine. “Can you take us flying? I want to feel the wind in my face.”
I return his smile and nod, the motion feeling more natural now. “Anything you want, my love. Just promise me you won’t try flying,” I say, raising an eyebrow in playful caution, my tone stern but laced with affection.
“I promise—I won’t risk damaging my wing further. I want to fly on my own again someday. Besides, one day, I want to take our hatchlings out for their flights. I kinda need both wings for that.” His smile radiates honesty, the sight of it easing the knot of worry in my chest. And I believe him.
Shifting as we step outside, I lie down on the cool ground. The grass ticks my scales as I invite him to climb onto my back, my scales smooth and warm beneath his touch. The fresh air envelops us like a comforting blanket, and when I feel him settle in, his weight is solid and reassuring. I rise and take off, my wings beating powerfully as we soar into the sky. Catching a thermal—a warm, rising current—I glide effortlessly, the wind caressing my face; the sensation is exhilarating. I sense the pure joy radiating from Abraxis, and in this moment, I’m grateful to be able to do this for him.
CHAPTER 39
Callan
The air crackleswith anticipation as the rematch we’ve all been waiting for finally arrives. Abraxis returns to teach, not with weapons this time, but with tactics—a minor consolation, but better than nothing. The classroom buzzes with nervous energy, the scent of stale sweat and old leather permeating the air.
“I’m here,” Idris announces as he enters, his voice low and steady against the backdrop of murmuring students.
Mina sits in the back corner, a curious glimmer in her eyes as she cradles Thauglor’s egg on her lap instead of in its carrier. “Alright everyone, to your assigned terminals for the next battle. Those who attacked last time must defend now,” Abraxis commands, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere.
I move through the room, my footsteps echoing on the cold, hard floor as I set up the terminals for every student. The hum of machinery blends with the tense silence, a strange symphony of anticipation.
“I am personally watching over this matchup,” Abraxis declares, his tone as measured as his actions. He plugs into the terminal where Mina and Idris sit, then carefully routes the cable back to my desk, where the unfolding battle will soon illuminate the big screen.
