Page 42 of Progeny of the Cursed Egg (Dragonis Academy, Year 3)
Vaughn
The last two periods of the day are canceled, and I can only assume something’s happened.
I make my way back to Malivore, the corridors cold and echoing with my footsteps, and when I step into the suite, it’s eerily empty.
I rifle through my backpack—the rough fabric scratching against my fingers—and pull out my phone.
Its screen glows softly in the dim light as I tap out a message to the family chat.
Vaughn: Where is everyone?
Leander: Risedale, where are you?
Vaughn: Malivore. When did you guys leave?
Callan: Right after the faculty meeting this morning.
Mina: Ziggy, can you go get Vaughn, please?
Ziggy: Already there.
“Holy shit…” I look up—and there’s Ziggy, standing in the doorway li ke an unexpected specter. I drop my phone onto the worn wooden floor. His presence sends a jolt of adrenaline through me.
“We were waiting for you to finish classes before I came back and got you,” he says, his voice calm yet laced with mischief.
He pivots smoothly and strides into Mina’s room, the soft rustle of his steps mingling with the faint hum of the building.
I catch the sound of canvas bags crinkling as he retrieves two of them—bags I know Mina must have asked for.
“Grab whatever you need. We’re sleeping at the Risedale nest tonight,” he adds before continuing on his mission.
One by one, he moves through the rooms, gathering packed bags and depositing them in the living room.
The clatter of zippers and rustling fabric punctuating the silence.
I retreat to my room, where the stale air carries the faint odor of old books and a lingering trace of cologne.
There, I find the bag Abraxis had insisted we pack just in case—a weighty reminder of the uncertainty ahead.
Shaking my head, I change quickly; the texture of the cool fabric against my skin is a brief distraction from the gnawing tension.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I head back into the living room, only to find that the pile of bags and Ziggy have both vanished.
Left alone, I cross the room to the fridge.
The chill from its interior contrasts with the warmth of the anxiety building inside me as I gather the food Mina prepared for tonight’s dinner.
The soft clink of jars and the crinkling of plastic provides a small, comforting rhythm amid the chaos.
I can’t help but wonder what happened at the meeting to send everyone rushing to the nest. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker as I secure the last tray in the cooler bag—just then Ziggy reappears, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
“Good thinking, Vaughn. Mina was just complaining she wasn’t going to have her wings she wanted for tonight,” he teases, his tone light yet carrying an undercurrent of urgency. He helps me pack the sides, his deft fingers moving quickly, and soon enough, we vanish from Malivore.
Arriving at the nest—I find Mina hunched over a canvas, her brush dancing feverishly across its surface.
The scene she’s captured is nothing short of nightmarish.
It appears as though she’s painted herself ensnared in the twisting coils of a monstrous basilisk, with the head of a second basilisk looming menacingly.
The acrid scent of turpentine and bitter paint fills the air.
“What did I miss?” I manage to ask, my voice trembling with disbelief as I struggle to comprehend the horror unfolding before me.
Leander steps closer, his footsteps soft on the creaking floorboards, as he surveys the three canvases Mina has hastily taped together.
“She’s been having half visions. Apparently, all the pieces weren’t in place for it to play out,” he explains in a low, measured tone, his words mingling with the ever-present smell of oil and paint.
I furrow my brow and ask, “What changed?” My gaze shifts from Leander to the canvases.
On the left, the painting reveals what looks like a basilisk lunging towards the next canvas.
In the center, a basilisk—rendered in sinuous, chaotic lines—twists around a figure that eerily resembles Mina.
On the right, the white-faced dragon’s snarling maw and flaring nostrils threaten with silent menace.
The detail sends a chill crawling up my spine.
Before I can dwell further, Abraxis ambles over, a drink in hand. The cool glass meets my fingertips as he passes it to me. “We exchanged scales,” he states casually, as though discussing the weather.
I blink, trying to process the significance. “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask. The convoluted nature of their kind—especially when it comes to dragons’ freaky mating rituals—often makes my head spin.
“Eyes on me,” Klauth commands suddenly, his deep voice reverberating in the charged air. He unbuttons his shirt deliberately, the fabric whispering against his skin as he reveals something glinting on his chest.
I can’t help but snort, “Dude, I don’t go that way, so don’t start…” My protest dies as I notice the unmistakable shimmer of one of Mina’s scales, embedded on his chest like a secret badge.
“Dragons—and those of the dragon's extended family—can exchange scales,” Abraxis explains matter-of-factly. He pulls at his collar, revealing another of Mina’s scales on his chest. His tone is clinical, as if discussing an odd piece of family heirloom.
“So what does that do?” I ask, watching as Mina’s hand glides over the canvas, her fingers stained with paint and lost in the intensity of her vision.
“Even when external forces dull the bonds between us, we can sense the missing of a part of ourselves,” Klauth says. “She has one of ours on her as well.”
I arch a brow, a mixture of curiosity and relief washing over me. “So it’s like a tracker of sorts?”
Abraxis nods, his eyes never leaving the painting. “It strengthens our bonds with Mina. We can sense each other more acutely than before. In case her vision comes true, we’ll be able to locate her faster.”
I scoff, the tension in the room thickening as I challenge, “But that’s a second basilisk. Won’t you be turned to stone?” I scan the room—and catch Balor stepping silently out of the shadows, his presence as foreboding as the scene on the canvas.
“I won’t be,” Balor replies evenly, moving to examine the painting.
His eyes narrow as they lock onto the depiction of the basilisk coiled around Mina.
“I’m the second basilisk—the one coming to attack Lysander coiled around her.
I just have to get him to attack me and give her time to …
shift if she can.” His gaze shifts over the canvases fr om several angles, as if he’s deciphering a hidden message in the chaos of brushstrokes.
My curiosity isn’t sated yet. “Who’s the white dragon?” I ask, glancing between Klauth and Abraxis.
“Thauglor,” Klauth answers quietly, his voice steady as he watches Mina work.
I tilt my head in confusion. “I thought he was another black dragon?” I probe, eyes flicking to Abraxis.
Abraxis chuckles softly, a sound that almost seems out of place in the tension.
“As we age, our faces turn white.” He glances at the painting, then pulls out his phone.
The cool screen reflects in his eyes as he shows me one of Mina’s older paintings—a close-up of a dragon’s eye and the graceful curve of a horn.
The horn is black as pitch, while the face is white as freshly fallen snow.
In the deep reflection of the dragon’s eye, I can just make out the unmistakable image of Mina’s own dragon form.
In the dim light of the nest, every sound—the soft shuffle of feet, the whisper of fabric, and the distant hum of anxious conversation—reminds me that tonight, nothing is as it seems.
I watch as what feels like hours pass before Mina finally steps back from the easel in our living room.
Her paint stained fingers lingering on the intricate details of the image she’s been working on.
The dim lamplight casts long, wavering shadows across the room, mingling with the pungent aroma of turpentine and oil paint.
She tilts her head slowly, her eyes locked on the stark portrait of Thauglor’s side.
The soft, rhythmic murmur of her concentration fills the quiet space with a hypnotic cadence .
“Hmm…” she breathes. The sound is barely more than a soft hum. It’s as if she is deciphering secrets hidden within the canvas.
Before she can add more, I step up silently behind her. Feeling the gentle rustle of her clothing against my arms, I pull her close until her back nestles against the steady warmth of my chest. “What’s puzzling you?” I ask in a low, steady tone, my voice barely disturbing the still air.
Her eyes remain fixed on the canvas, dark and searching.
“I’m guessing Thauglor digs down to where I am,” she replies, her tone threaded with a quiet challenge as she narrows her eyes to scrutinize the image.
In that moment, a subtle inner fire ignites in her gaze.
I can almost feel the electric tension as her fingers twitch with restless energy.
Without missing a beat, Ziggy moves swiftly—the soft scuff of his shoes on the creaking wooden floor punctuating his actions—as he sets up another canvas.
Together, we help Mina settle back onto the worn stool she’d been occupying.
The room is alive with the gentle rustle of movement, underscored by the distant clink of glass from the kitchen, merging into the constant, underlying hum of our home.
Now, her pencil dances across the surface of the new canvas, each delicate scratch whispering a burst of creativity.
She sketches what appears to be a gaping maw on the side.
The jagged teeth of a dragon rendered with chilling precision, glistening as though still slick with saliva, each stroke vivid against the pale, almost ghostly background.
A spray of green, thick and viscous in texture, bursts from the maw on the canvas.