Page 33 of Progeny of the Cursed Egg (Dragonis Academy, Year 3)

“We don’t have a ton of time,” Ziggy says, his voice low and urgent, as he stretches up to help me off Leander’s back.

The contact with the cool ground jolts me, and I can taste the dust and adrenaline on my tongue.

I grab my gown—a heavy, dark fabric that brushes softly against my skin—and we take off running, the sound of our hurried footsteps echoing off stone walls.

Ziggy laughs, a sound that mingles with the night’s crisp air, shaking his head as he phases us into the changing room.

Inside, the space smells of polished wood and faint incense.

We burst into laughter, marveling at how Ziggy’s quick thinking saved us time.

With practiced ease, he unties the corset of my black gown.

His fingers, warm and precise, work quickly as he helps me step out.

“I am so sorry you have to go through this,” he murmurs, gesturing to the elaborate outfit change and the intricate web of ribbons and boning that await me.

“That makes two of us. I hate gowns,” I grumble, and even as I speak, my dragoness rumbles deep within, emphasizing my displeasure.

“At least you look phenomenal in the gowns,” Ziggy insists, his eyes gleaming with genuine admiration.

“This one almost exactly matches your scales. Vox’s seamstress really outdid herself.

” He threads the ribbons with meticulous care, cinching me into the corseted top of the gown.

I watch, almost hypnotized, as my emerald and silver scales peek through along my forearm.

I compare their iridescent shimmer to the delicate hues of the fabric.

“She did a wonderful job matching the colors,” I agree softly, shifting slightly as I let my eyes roam over the interplay of light on the gown and my skin.

I make my scales recede and draw in a deep breath.

“Are you nervous?” Ziggy asks as Cora and Cerce catch up, their voices light and teasing as they fuss over my long, green-and-silver hair. Their touch is gentle, and I can smell the faint aroma of lavender in Cerce’s hair, mixing with the cool scent of the changing room.

“I’ll have you at my side every step of the way. I know you’ll never let anything happen to me.” I lean forward and press a warm kiss to Ziggy’s lips, feeling a comforting steadiness in his embrace as I smile at him .

“Almost done,” Cerce calls out, her voice echoing softly off the tiled walls as she sets ornate combs into my hair, expertly sweeping it up into a classic French twist. Ziggy catches my glance and takes it as his cue to shift into his large, sleek black packlord displacer beast. His fur, depending on the angle, either as dark as pitch or glimmering with a hint of blue-black.

“Five minutes, m’lady,” a deep, resonant voice calls down the hall, each word heavy with expectation.

“Go take your places; Ziggy and I will be fine,” I say, offering a small smile that barely conceals my unease about what’s coming.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” Cora says, her smile warm as she steps forward to give me a gentle hug before departing.

Cerce lingers, her eyes bright with pride as she says, “I am so proud of you. You are doing what is best for the nest and the continent,” she presses a soft kiss to my cheek before leaving.

Ziggy and I move into position, waiting for the double doors to swing open.

I run my fingers through his thick fur, its soft, velvety texture grounding me as my heart races.

With each measured step, I remind myself that once we pass through those doors, my life will never be the same.

My thoughts drift to the coming year and a half at the academy, and the purge looming in four days.

I am painfully aware of my three clear enemies—two definite, and an entire nest of fire drakes whose presence prickles the air with menace.

Thauglor, I remind myself, lies hidden in my poison garden, nestled among the most toxic plants I own. The sharp, almost metallic scent of their poison hangs in the air. It’s a silent warning that any who dare reach for him will find death swift and merciless.

Tonight, all of my mates are being made consorts—except for Klauth, of course. I draw in a steady breath as the heavy doors before us creaks open, revealing a grand hall lined with polished chairs and bathed in the soft glow of flickering chandeliers .

We take our first few measured steps out, my gaze locked on the dais at the far end of the aisle.

There, Balor’s basilisk is coiled behind the thrones, its head held high as if it were a silent sentinel keeping a watchful eye on us.

To the right of Klauth, Abraxis stands tall, surrounded by the rest of my mates.

I am relieved to have Ziggy by my side. I keep a reassuring hand on his back as we proceed.

Every sound—the murmur of disapproving voices, the rustle of fabric, and even the distant hum of anticipation—reminds me of how surreal and fraught with danger this entire event feels.

I am a mixed-breed dragoness, looked down upon by the pure bloods—not just because of my non-purebred status but also because I am half green dragon.

Klauth and Abraxis, however, have never held my bloodline against me.

I dare not meet the eyes of the onlookers.

I can almost hear their whispers of discontent as I walk down the aisle.

“The King deserves better!” Arista’s voice suddenly rings out, cutting through the murmurs and silencing the crowd. Every head turns, shock and indignation etched on their faces. “He deserves a pureblood mate!” she yells, her words laced with venom as security moves in to remove her from the hall.

I ignore her outburst, my focus unyielding. What she fails to realize is that he chose me two years ago. His egg ignited for me, burned bright, and demanded my attention. He soothed me when no one else could.

We ascend the five stairs, each step echoing softly under the weight of tradition, until I finally drop into a low curtsy before Klauth.

I close my eyes and bow my head, waiting for him to retrieve me, per custom.

I feel the warmth of his body before the tip of his fingers gently graze my jaw.

I rise, then lower my head again in the practiced rhythm we’ve shared countless times.

Taking my hand, he leads me toward the priestess as the ceremony is about to begin.