Page 75 of Progeny of the Cursed Egg
High above the sunlit world, her dragonic form rumbles like distant thunder. The vibration traveling through her body and into mine, rattling my bones. “She says there are three potential outcomes—none with her directly involved in the war games,” Abraxis explains, his tone measured as he listens to another low rumble from her, her chest expanding beneath us with each breath. “The key is knowing when to attack and when to defend. That notebook in your hand is the key to victory. Memorize the three events and react appropriately.” His voice carries the weight of absolute faith in her visions, unwavering despite the cost.
My gaze lingers on the notebook, its pages rustling in the wind, carrying secrets and grim predictions. The paper feels almost alive in my grip, warm and insistent. “Her visions led her to create the book?” I ask, my voice nearly lost in the roar of the wind and the steady pulse of the bright sky. I still struggle to understand the inner workings of her prophetic insights, the burden she carries.
Mina rumbles, the sound reverberating through her massive ribcage, catching a thermal and gliding gracefully through shafts of sunlight that turn her scales into a kaleidoscope of color. “Yes. She had three different visions, each with you as the leader of her team.” Abraxis leans over and taps the book gently, his finger tracing the worn binding. “The dividers split the three events up.” Her rumble deepens, a sound like a distant storm brewing on a hot summer day, resonant and foreboding. “The middle one will be the most brutal. I hope it never comes to pass.” His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible over the rushing air.
Abraxis turns his face into the warm wind, closing his eyes as if to commune with the vast, cloudless sky, his skin flushing with the heat and exertion. I watch him, his body slowly angling as the gentle current ruffles the leather of his folded wings, every muscle taut with a silent grief that radiates from him in waves. He moves with a grace that mirrors the sinuous flight of Mina’s body.
“It’ll get better,” I say hesitantly, my voice mingling with the whisper of the wind, the words feeling inadequate even as they leave my lips. I glance down at Mina’s iridescent scales, trying not to let my eyesbetray the worry in my heart, the knot of concern tight in my chest. For a dragon, losing the skies is a fate worse than death—even under the relentless glare of the sun, a punishment that cuts deeper than any blade.
Abraxis lets out a soft, bittersweet laugh, the sound catching on the wind. “I might try gliding this week,” he admits. He shakes his head as he leans against Mina’s frill, his fingers absently stroking the ridged texture. “I know why Klauth gave me the promotion—just in case I can’t fly anymore.” The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken loss.
Then, Mina roars—a sound so raw and heartbreaking it cuts through the bright air like a physical force, vibrating through my chest and squeezing my lungs. A cry that echoes with the weight of loss. Abraxis turns, climbing up her neck to settle near her horns and ears, where he begins a quiet, intimate conversation with her, his words too soft to hear but his body language speaking volumes. I watch from the outside, knowing that the scars they share run deep beneath their skin. They have weathered hell together and even though their reconciliation came at a terrible cost. The pain of their shared past is as clear as the unyielding sunlight above, impossible to hide and impossible to forget.
Last night,we were seized by the senior staff and taken to the outpost we now guard for the games. I recall every detail as if it were etched in my skin. Ziggy and three other displacer beasts herded us with brutal efficiency. Their massive paws were silent against the cold stone, their eyes gleaming with a cold purpose like chips of glowing emeralds in the darkness. The memory of their hot breath on my neck still raises the fine hairs along my spine.
I awake before dawn, the chill in the air biting at my exposed skin like tiny needles, feeling the tug on my tether as Mina stirs me awake through our bond. Her urgency pulses through me, almost tangible, a rapid drumbeat in my veins that forces my eyes open.
I burst from my cot, the thin blankets falling away with a soft rustle, and sprint through the drafty barracks. The soles of my boots slap against the worn flagstones, my footsteps echoing down the cold, shadowed corridors that smell of damp stone and old fear. The air tastes stale on my tongue, tinged with the metallic scent of rusted metal and the lingering sweat of nervous bodies.
“We need to move. Get in position,” I shout, my voice cutting through the stillness like a blade, bouncing off the stone walls and amplifying my command. The sound of rustling clothes and hastily buckled armor fills the space as my team responds without hesitation. Each of them racing to their designated spots, their eyes alert despite the early hour, pupils dilated in the dim light.
Clutching my notebook tightly against my chest, its leather cover smooth and worn beneath my fingers. I ascend the rickety stairs to the tower, each wooden step groaning in protest under my weight. Splinters threaten to pierce through the soles of my boots as I climb. At the top, I can survey the horizon, the first hint of dawn painting the sky in muted purples and grays, the air crisp and sharp in my lungs. I flip through the pages, the paper dry and crackling beneath my touch, until relief washes over me. The third option is unfolding before our eyes, just as Mina predicted. The scent of the old ink rises from the pages, familiar and oddly comforting amid the tension.
Within minutes, I bark orders drawn from my little notebook, its pages stained with our fears and hopes, the ink smudged in places from my sweaty fingers. My voice carries across the outpost, firm and commanding despite the dryness in my throat.
Just as I set my defenses, the enemy emerges on the horizon, dark shapes against a bruised sky, their outlines sharpening as theyadvance. The distant sound of their approach reaches my ears. The clink of armor, the low rumble of voices, the rhythmic thud of coordinated footsteps against the hard ground.
“How did you know?” Quent asks, disbelief lacing his voice as the unfolding events mirror our worst nightmares. His breath forms small clouds in the cool morning air. The scent of cinnamon and something darker, more dangerous, emanating from him as he shifts closer.
“Lucky, I guess,” I murmur, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. I open the notebook, the binding creaking softly. I see Mina’s careful handwriting detailing the formation advancing toward us. Her precise strokes are as familiar to me now as my own heartbeat. A lone bird slices through the air, its shadow briefly darkening the page, and I notice a note in the margin urging me to turn to a different section. The paper rustles as I flip to the indicated page, my fingers trembling slightly with adrenaline. There, Mina warns of an attack from behind, her words underlined three times. The pen having pressed so hard it left indentations on the following pages.
“Luc, Crassus—watch the south,” I call out, feeling my voice vibrate in my chest. Their silhouettes turn at my command, movements fluid and predatory. “Trever, Max—focus on the primary force coming from the north,” I repeat, my voice steady as I relay her precise orders. The surrounding air grows heavy with anticipation, the taste of copper flooding my mouth—the taste of imminent violence.
Frantically, I tear a blank page from the back of the book, the sound sharp in the tense silence, and scrawl a quick note, just as Mina instructed, updating her on the situation. My pen scratches against the paper, leaving dark trails of ink that bleed slightly into the fibers. The scent of ink and desperation mingles as I fold the note, the paper warm from my hands.
“Quent, bring this to Mina—she’s at Shadowcarve in Callan’s office this morning.” He accepts the note, his fingers brushing mine, cold as ice despite the exertion, before disappearing into the shadows. The air shifts as he passes, carrying the faint scent of sulfur in his wake.
Now, with nothing more than that solitary instruction, we settle into a tense waiting game, hoping Mina will soon send more words of wisdom to guide us through the impending storm. The weight of responsibility presses down on my shoulders like a physical burden. The cold air filling my lungs with each measured breath. In the distance, the enemy continues to advance, their shapes growing larger against the slowly brightening sky. I feel the first stirrings of something primal and dangerous awakening within me, ready for the fight that will soon come.
The damp,earthy scent of the forest fills my nostrils as I wait, my heart pounding against my ribcage. It feels like an eternity before Quent materializes from the shadows, his worn boots barely making a sound on the soft ground. He emerges into the mid-afternoon light, a basket and another weathered notebook cradled in his calloused hands. The overcast sky hangs low, its dull gray light softening the edges of the world and casting an eerie pallor over everything. A subtle chill lingers in the air, raising goosebumps on my skin.
Quent’s low, husky voice cuts through the heavy silence. “Your mate is terrifying, by the way.” He offers me the items with a measured calm, his eyes glinting with a hint of unease.
A wry smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “She can be,” I reply, my voice steady despite the thundering of my pulse in my ears. I run my fingers over the cover of the new notebook, feeling the rough texture against my skin. The pages crackle softly as I flip it open.
An undercurrent of tension mingles with the musty scent of damp earth. I remind myself that we haven’t yet reached the crucial moment.
My eyes scan every word on the page with cautious intensity. I trace the instructions carefully, committing the formations to memory. In the distance, the sounds of approaching chaos build into a low, foreboding murmur that sets my teeth on edge. The moment the first sign arrives, adrenaline surges through my veins like molten fire. I dash to the balcony, my voice slicing through the muted light with urgent commands.
“Luc, now!” My shout rings out, piercing the heavy air.
In that instant, the very atmosphere trembles as Luc and his clan shift into position. The outpost fills with the ominous presence of eight bronze dragons, their scales catching the subdued light and glinting like polished metal as they align against the overcast sky.
Then, as the enemy forces surge through the outpost, a deafening roar splits the afternoon. The dragons unleash their ferocious lightning breath, the crackling energy momentarily illuminating the gloom. The stench of charred flesh assaults my nostrils as the enemy is reduced to smoldering heaps. Overhead, Crassus, and Trever’s clansmen soar above the battlements on cleanup duty, their grim determination ensuring that no foe is left drawing breath.
I steal a glance down at the notebook, its pages a silent witness to the unfolding carnage. I scrutinize the words, ensuring nothing else escapes my attention.
But on the next page, the breath is stolen from my lungs. It’s a note from Mina. The paper crinkled and smudged with what looks like dried tears.
