Page 56 of Guardian of the Cursed Egg (Dragonis Academy #2)
Callan
I don’t know which feeling is worse—the ache of leaving my friend and nest mate behind to face countless enemies or the weight of knowing I’m flying straight into an ambush.
The bitter taste of guilt clings to the back of my throat, mixing with the sour tang of adrenaline.
The air around us is sharp and cold, biting against my skin even as Darvan’s earth-dragon beneath me radiates heat, his muscles coiling and flexing with every powerful wingbeat.
Darvan is pushing himself to the edge, his larger frame cutting through the wind with brutal efficiency.
Abraxis’s black dragon might be fast, but Darvan’s sheer size gives him the edge in both speed and stamina.
The roar of the wind drowns out everything else, and the rhythmic whoosh of his wings becomes an anchor, holding my fraying thoughts together.
As we creep up on the four-hour limit, the landscape below transforms—rolling hills flatten into a barren field, speckled with wild grass and dark soil.
Darvan scans the ground before folding his wings and diving.
The impact of his landing shakes the earth beneath us, and I brace myself as I dismount.
My boots crunch against the frost-kissed grass, and the cold air stings my lungs when I inhale.
Darvan shifts back into his human form, his breaths steaming in the chill as he motions toward the horizon.
“You’re about two hours out from Malivore from here.” His voice is steady but low, barely audible over the whisper of the wind that tears through the field. He raises a hand, his fingers splayed, feeling the direction of the current. “The prevailing wind is on your side. It might speed things up.”
I glance at the sky. The clouds race each other, moving faster than I’d like, a constant reminder of how far I still have to go. “That’s why you landed early,” I say, my voice rough from the strain of holding back emotions. “You’ll have to fight the wind on your way back.”
Darvan nods, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes. When I clasp his hand, his grip is firm, grounding me for a brief moment. “We appreciate this. Thank you,” I say, but the words feel hollow—too small to convey the depth of my gratitude.
“Go save your young mate.” His reply is simple, yet the weight behind it settles heavily in my chest. Without another word, he turns and strides away, shifting mid-step. His dragon form takes to the sky, disappearing into the swirling clouds within moments.
I stand still, my gaze fixed on the restless sky.
The clouds churn like they’re alive, driven by the same wind that’s meant to carry me closer to Malivore.
It’s cold, so cold that the tips of my fingers ache, but I push it aside as I shift into my gryphon form.
My talons dig into the soft earth before I leap forward, the motion smooth and powerful.
The first few beats of my wings send tremors through my body, but I stretch them wide, letting the wind catch me .
Every beat of my wings brings the unknown closer, the tension winding tighter in my chest. The icy air whips past my feathers, slicing at my exposed skin, but it’s nothing compared to the storm raging in my head. Questions hammer at me, each one louder than the last.
Where will I get shot?
How close to Malivore will it happen?
Do I survive getting shot down?
Will anyone find me?
The thoughts loop endlessly, an unrelenting drumbeat of dread.
The sharp scent of the wind fills my senses, tinged with the faint, acrid hint of something unnatural—something waiting.
My mind shifts to the battle ahead, to Mina.
The image of her fragile form against Abaddon’s monstrous ambition is a searing brand on my thoughts.
Abduction, death, or worse—the vision of her enslaved is a horror I cannot let come to pass.
The wind howls, and I push forward, cutting through the cold like a blade, my resolve hardening with every mile.
Several forevers and three borderline panic attacks later, the spires of the Malivore Conservatory finally break through the haze of treetops on the hills.
The dark, jagged silhouettes against the twilight sky feel almost mocking.
Maybe Mina’s vision was wrong? Maybe, just maybe, nothing happens to me after all.
The thought flits through my mind like a moth, fragile and fleeting, as I glide on a thermal, sucking in deep breaths of crisp air scented faintly with pine and decay .
A rustle from below sends a flock of birds shooting up through the canopy, their panicked squawks echoing in the stillness.
Instinct pulls me hard to the right, and that’s when I hear it—the twang of bowstrings slicing through the air.
Arrows hiss past my head, close enough that I can feel the disturbed air graze my feathers.
Panic surges, hot and fast, as I twist and roll to evade the unseen threat.
A sharp sting cuts through the side of my wing, and I yelp, the sound strangled and raw.
Feathers spiral away like dead leaves caught in the wind.
Pain radiates from the wound, sharp and burning, but there’s no time to focus on it.
I barrel roll again, the world spinning wildly around me as more arrows streak past.
Then I see it. A silhouette among shadows, crouched at the forest’s edge: a drow.
The dim light of the setting sun glints off its crimson eyes, burning like embers against the dark.
Lolth-touched. The sight sends an icy spike through my chest, and my heart slams hard enough that I swear they can hear it echo.
I veer toward the water, desperate. If I can make it to the shoreline, maybe the light will keep them back.
But I don’t get far. Two arrows slam into my left wing.
Agony explodes, every flap dragging fire through my muscles.
I falter, the sky pitching violently as I lose control, and somehow manage a crash landing in the twisted branches of a massive swamp cedar.
The branches groan under my weight, but I press myself against the gnarled trunk, my feathers blending into the mossy, bark-covered surface.
The smell of damp earth and rotting wood fills my nose, clinging to me like a second skin.
My talons dig into the soft bark, holding on for dear life as I strain to stay still.
“It has to be here somewhere,” a low voice growls. The drow are close—too close .
“We all saw it go down. None of these trees could hold its weight,” another responds, the frustration evident in their tone.
I force myself to turn my head, slowly, carefully.
The movement sends a jolt of pain through my wing, but I stifle the groan threatening to escape.
Through the thick tangle of branches, I see them.
A smaller drow bends down near the cliff’s edge, picking up one of my feathers that must’ve drifted there. “I think it went over the cliff.”
“I might not be wrong,” it says, holding the feather up for the others to see.
Their glowing eyes flick between the feather and the jagged drop beyond the rocks. The faint crash of waves against the shore below adds weight to their assumption.
“Sounds like a plan,” one mutters. “Let’s go. We’re needed elsewhere.”
I watch, every muscle tense, as they disappear into the gloom. Only when their voices and footsteps fade entirely do I let myself exhale. My chest heaves as I take in a deep breath of swampy air, the weight of survival settling over me.
When I’m sure they’re gone, I shift back, remaining high in the tree.
The bark is rough against my palms, and the faint rustle of leaves around me does little to mask the pounding in my chest. My arm aches, the arrows still lodged deep, and every subtle movement sends a sharp, hot jolt radiating through my shoulder.
The metallic tang of blood fills my nostrils, mingling with the damp, earthy scent of the forest after the rain.
Thankfully, I have cell service. I fumble with the phone, slick with sweat, and text the group chat. Only Balor and Ziggy answer. Apparently, they were sent on a mission to gather herbs to sedate Klauth if needed. The irony of my situation—bleeding and half-stuck in a tree—doesn’t escape me.
I wait for what feels like forever. The tree creaks beneath me, and distant noises—branches snapping, the low call of an owl—set my nerves on edge.
The cool air bites at my skin, sticky with blood and sweat.
My arm burns in dull, rhythmic pulses, each heartbeat a fresh reminder of the arrows’ placement and the danger of removing them without help.
Out of nowhere, Ziggy manifests on the branch across from me. The sound of his sudden appearance—a faint pop and the rush of displaced air—almost scares me out of the tree. My footing slips on the mossy bark, and my stomach lurches.
“Whoa, it’s only me.” His voice is calm, but his hand snaps out fast, grabbing my shirt before I tumble backward off the branch. His grip is firm, his fingers digging into the fabric.
“Fuck, man, you scared the shit out of me.” I press my hand over my heart, my breaths coming fast and shallow, trying to calm the surge of panic.
“We brought a med kit to patch you up once I get you down.” Ziggy’s glowing green eyes are brighter than usual, cutting through the shadowy canopy. There’s an unsettling intensity in his gaze, like he’s already assessing the damage.
“Sounds good. Let’s get me down.” I reach out with my good hand, my grip shaky as I clasp his.
The descent is a blur—one moment I’m in the tree, the next I’m on the forest floor.
My boots sink slightly into the damp earth, and the sharp, tangy scent of crushed pine needles fills the air.
Balor crouches nearby, the harsh snap of the med kit’s latches echoing in the silence.
He wastes no time, pulling out snips and leaning in close.