Page 22 of Progeny of the Cursed Egg (Dragonis Academy, Year 3)

Mina

Abstract art is surprisingly enjoyable to drag Klauth through, though the echoing halls of the academy give our laughter a hollow ring.

Poor Nigel trails behind, his footsteps uneven against the polished stone floor, eyes darting between Klauth and me like he’s expecting a dragon to appear at any moment.

I catch a whiff of anxious perspiration clinging to him; it blends with the faint smell of parchment and old varnish that always seems to permeate these corridors.

By the time we reach Royal Protocols class, my shoulders ache from the tension of Nigel’s persistent worry.

We settle in, the tall arched windows letting in only a weak, gray light that does nothing to soften the severe lines of the instructor’s scowl.

This class is a nightmare, especially when they start us on drafting official announcements.

My handwriting is little more than glorified chicken scratch.

Klauth takes one look at my wobbly letters and breaks into laughter—warm and rich, cutting through the dusty hush of the room.

His own penmanship is immaculate, each stroke deliberate.

When I glance at his script, it’s as though he’s weaving patterns on the page.

He makes a point of scooting closer, pressing the length of his body against my side, and slowing my hurried attempts.

The faint musk of leather from his jacket mingles with the damp ink as he places a hand over mine.

“This is going to be important sooner than later, Mina,” he whispers into my ear, his breath sending a soft shiver down my spine.

I lean into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as he adjusts my grip on the pen.

The nib scratches lightly against the thick parchment, each line more jagged than I intend.

“Did your parents not spend any time on the finer points of being a dragoness?” He bites his bottom lip, exhaling roughly as he clarifies, “What I mean to say is, did your mother teach you anything about running a nest—or flight?” His brow arches, a hopeful flicker in his crimson-flecked amber eyes.

“She tried … but my father insisted the gauntlet and training came first.” My voice drops, shoulders tensing at the memory.

Klauth moves my hand gently, guiding the pen in slow, deliberate motions.

I catch the faint sound of other students murmuring around us, chairs scraping, but I focus on the faint rasp of our pen strokes.

“Well,” he says softly, kissing my temple in a surprisingly tender gesture, “if you’ll permit me, I’d like to teach you enough that you won’t have any difficulties.” His tone is warm, threading through the quiet atmosphere of the room.

He releases my hand, and I attempt the decorative script on my own.

My pen glides over the parchment, forming swooping loops and elegant lines that resemble, if not match, Klauth’s effortless flourish.

My fingers tremble slightly at first, but with each stroke, I find more confidence.

“How’s that?” I ask, turning to gaze into his mesmerizing eyes.

A faint reflection of the sputtering lanterns dances across them.

“Very good, my treasure. Let’s try the next section. Take your time— don’t rush,” he encourages, pressing a light kiss to my temple again, the warmth of his lips sending a small thrill through me.

“I’d rather be sparring,” I admit with a soft laugh, the tension easing from my shoulders.

Each carefully crafted letter feels more challenging than parrying a broad sword, yet strangely satisfying.

I push forward, letting the gentle scratch of the pen fill the silence.

Occasionally, Klauth’s hand slides over mine to correct my grip, a subtle reminder of his patience.

Eventually, we reach the signature line. I write out Willamina, pausing at the surname, heart thumping in my chest at the weight such a choice carries.

“Try writing both, my treasure,” Klauth whispers next to my ear, his breath brushing the tiny hairs at my nape, sending a warmth trickling down my spine.

“See which one you like better? I promise I will not be upset, no matter which one you choose.” He kisses my shoulder before leaning back, giving me the space to decide.

I take out a separate sheet of paper and try writing all the surnames for shits and giggles.

Willamina Havock

Willamina Ragnar

Willamina Whitlocke

Willamina Husk

Willamina Crosse

Willamina Dagon

Willamina Xander

Willamina Mrithun

My eyes lock on the sheet of paper, the thin pages rustling under my fingertips as I examine how my name looks written alongside each of my mates’ surnames.

There’s a stale chalkiness lingering in the air—Finlay must have been writing on the board before class.

Around me, the gentle hum of murmured conversations forms a low backdrop, but my attention narrows on the ink scrawled in front of me.

I shake my head, glancing up at the four names that tug at my focus more than any others: Havock , Ragnar , Whitlock , and Mrithun —the last one generously supplied by Thauglor, though I wish he hadn’t.

My fingertips brush over the page, feeling the slight grooves where I’ve pressed the pen too hard.

Then I rewrite my name again, pairing it with only those four.

Finally, I narrow it to Callan’s and Klauth’s surnames.

Willamina Ragnar

Willamina Whitlocke

A comforting warmth spreads through my lower back as Klauth rubs gentle circles there, his touch effortlessly calming the tight coil of anxiety in my belly. I can sense the faint heat his dragon form radiates even in this human guise; it’s like standing near the mouth of a forge.

“I can’t decide,” I sigh, my exhale catching the faint scent of old paper and dust. Klauth leans closer to peer at the two names I’ve painstakingly circled.

He inclines his head toward the full sheet with all eight surnames, the overhead lights reflecting off the paper. “I recognize three of these. Which mate is Whitlocke?”

“Callan, the gryphon,” I say quietly, letting my pen drag over the sheet in a slow, deliberate line. I write it out once more. Then, I scribble a quick note with Ragnar at the end of my name and stare at the result, my heart thumping as I weigh each option.

Klauth’s gaze sweeps over my scrawl. “He has a very aristocratic surname. If I wasn’t concerned about how the other dragon dens would take it, I would say choose his.” His remark surprises me. The subtle dryness of his voice mixes with a warmth that is entirely his own.

I turn in my chair—a slightly stiff, squeaking auditorium seat—to look at him. “We’d have to announce your awakening if I use yours.” I rest my palm against his cheek, the skin there so much hotter than mine, and look up into his crimson-flecked amber eyes.

“Our bond would have to be acknowledged by the temple of Bahamut,” he says softly, “as well as the others in the bond.” His gaze drops to an ancient ring on his pinky.

The metal is darkened in places, tiny etched symbols winding around the band.

He slides it off his pinky finger and onto my ring finger.

It’s snug, but oddly comfortable, like it’s molding itself to me.

“That’s the royal seal of my bloodline. My family line ended when I went into the cursed egg.

It will be reborn through you.” He leans down to kiss me, the press of his lips igniting a spark that chases away the stale air of the classroom.

I find myself sinking into that moment of warmth, letting out a soft sigh.

A sudden voice slices through the room. “Miss Havock, do I need to call the general and tell him about your indiscretions?” Finlay’s sharp tone booms from the front of the auditorium, and I feel the weight of every classmate’s gaze fall on Klauth and me in the back row.

I straighten, the seat squeaking as I shift.

“Should I summon him for you?” I tilt my head, letting my voice carry.

My dragoness stirs, impatient with the interruption.

Before Finlay can retort, I reach through the tether linking me to Abraxis, sending a gentle come here pulse.

Heat flares beneath my skin when he replies, and I smirk, leaning back against Klauth.

“You love playing with fire, my treasure,” Klauth whispers against my ear, his breath hot on my skin.

“You’re a red dragon,” I murmur with a teasing grin, “you’d be the expert on that.” I lean up and brush a kiss under his jaw. My nose catches a hint of something smoky—remnants of his earlier shift, perhaps.

The door on the stage swings open, revealing Abraxis. The speed at which he arrived suggests he was waiting close by. Footsteps echo across the wooden boards as he advances.

“General, did you know your young mate is having a dalliance with that male up there?” Finlay points a bony finger in our direction, practically shaking with indignation.

Abraxis’s gaze coolly sweeps through the auditorium. “He’s one of her mates, so yes, I’m well aware.” His blunt tone leaves Finlay momentarily speechless. The general ascends the stairs, heading toward us. “How’s class?” he asks, his voice dropping a bit when he’s near.

“Survivable.” I can smell the faint leather of his uniform and feel the powerful aura he carries. My fingers flex around the paper I’m still clutching. “We’re working on my penmanship—and I’m trying out everyone’s surnames.” I hand Abraxis the list, feeling the edges of the sheet scrape my palm.

He arches a brow at the names. “I mean, for the good of the nest, the ancient surnames would do best. Selfishly, I want you to keep mine.” He shifts his attention to Klauth, offering his hand. “Thank you for yesterday. I took your guidance to heart and will make the needed changes going forward. ”

Klauth accepts the handshake, the mutual respect radiating from them both. I feel the tension in the row before us, classmates no doubt craning their necks for a better view.

My gaze darts from one dragon to the other. “We need to go to the temple of Bahamut to have the bonds acknowledged before Mina has her first clutch,” Klauth says. His tone is hushed, but I sense the gravity in every syllable. Abraxis’s eyes widen.

“That means revealing yourself to all dragon kind,” Abraxis whispers, leaning closer. I can almost taste the adrenaline in the air—thick, electric.

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for our nest and mate.

” Klauth’s voice is resolute. “All that belonged to me before my capture will be returned to me, per tradition. Including ownership of the lands and buildings this academy is built on. This was all my territory, plus the lands north of the dragon dorms for about thirty miles.”

My breath catches, and I fumble in my bag for a rolled-up map, the worn parchment crackling as I smooth it out on the armrest. “Thirty miles north … That touches the mountains where my nest is built. Which means my territory extends another twenty-five miles. Combined, that’s…

” My eyes widen at the magnitude. “We control nearly thirty percent of the continent.”

“ Our territory, my treasure,” Klauth says, kissing my temple. His lips are warm, pulling me out of my startled haze. We both look up at Abraxis, whose expression is thoughtful. I recall he hasn’t inherited his father’s den yet, so he’s effectively landless for the moment.

“When is all of this happening?” I ask, my pulse skittering with unease. Something cold nips at the edges of my mind, reminding me that when Thauglor hatches, Abraxis’s father’s lands might revert as well.

“The next temple verification is in five days,” Abraxis says, pulling out his phone. The soft glow of the screen lights up his face. “I’ll fly over and put our names on the list.”

I stand, the stiff chair scraping against the floor, and wrap my arms around Abraxis.

The faint musk of his jacket mixes with a hint of metal—probably the buckles on his uniform.

I try to raise my arms to his neck, craving the press of his cheek against mine.

Abraxis stops me and adjusts so my hands only make it around his waist. A warning growl resonates in his throat, low enough that the rest of the class might not catch it, but I feel it reverberate against my chest.

“Mina…” His voice is a caution, a firm reminder of some boundary he’s set.

My dragoness bristles, but I force a tight smile. “Fine…” I settle for hugging him around his waist, feeling his heartbeat under my cheek. I nuzzle my nose under his jaw, inhaling the clean, spicy scent that’s uniquely his. The arrangement feels awkward, so different from our usual easy closeness.

Abraxis runs his fingers through my hair, letting a soothing warmth slip into that space between us. “Finish your lesson. I’ll see you later,” he says, stepping back.

“I love you,” I whisper, holding his hand for a moment. The soft brush of his thumb over my knuckles reassures me.

“I love you too, Mina.” He nods to me and offers a polite bow of the head to Klauth before turning to leave.

A quiet shiver races down my spine as I watch him go. Everything about that exchange felt … strained. Though I know it’s for our own good. My scales prickle beneath my skin in protest.

“Good girl, my treasure,” Klauth murmurs, pressing his lips against my temple again.

There’s a faint hint of sulfur, a reminder of his ancient dragonic heritage.

My pen scratches against the paper one last time as I sign the invitation I’d been drafting: Willamina Ragnar …

The name sits on the page, and I can practically hear the unspoken possibilities echo in the quiet hush of the auditorium.