Page 72 of Progeny of the Cursed Egg (Dragonis Academy, Year 3)

Balor’s basilisk keeps striking at Lysander’s smaller basilisk, the impact of scale against scale echoing through the cavernous space like thunder.

His massive body moves with deadly precision until Lysander’s coils loosen enough that I can crawl free.

My skin is scraped raw where the rough scales had pressed against me.

Panting, I move off to the side to catch my breath, my lungs burning with each desperate inhale of the damp, musty air.

The stone floor is cold beneath my palms and knees, gritty with dirt and age-old dust that clings to my sweat-slicked skin.

Something has shifted inside me—I can feel my mates again, each connection distinct and vibrant.

The bond with Abraxis pulses cool and steady like a mountain stream, while Ziggy’s flutters with anxious energy.

Whatever Lysander gave me is almost completely out of my system, the drug’s haze lifting from my mind like morning fog burning away.

Klauth’s tether burns bright, a searing presence in my consciousness, and I feel a surge of power through it, hot and insistent.

He’s trying to force my shift to save us, his desperation a tangible force through our connection.

The next surge burns through me, even more powerful, and it’s not from Klauth but from Thauglor.

He roars again. The sound is so powerful it rattles my teeth and vibrates through my bones.

More dirt falls down into the catacombs, pattering on the stone floor like rain.

The first glimpse of his white maw peeks through the dirt above us, massive teeth gleaming like polished ivory in the dim light.

My chest constricts, heart hammering against my ribs.

“Balor!” I yell at the top of my lungs, my voice raw and cracking, just as my shift overtakes me.

The transformation ripples through me—bones cracking and reforming, skin stretching to accommodate my larger form as my dragoness emerges.

The pain is exquisite and familiar, a burning rush that consumes me from within before subsiding to a dull throb.

I barely fit down here in the confined space, my wings pressed uncomfortably against my sides, scales scraping against the ancient stone .

I crawl to the area with the highest ceiling, talons gouging deep furrows into the floor, and it’s still not enough—I can’t stand up.

My head brushes the ceiling, sending more dirt and small rocks showering down.

The air is thick with dust, making my nostrils flare as I struggle not to sneeze.

Balor strikes Lysander again, the wet sound of tearing flesh accompanying the ripping of a sizable chunk of scales off the smaller basilisk.

Blood spatters across the floor, dark and viscous, filling the air with its metallic tang before Balor slithers quickly towards me, his body a sinuous blur of motion.

I lift a wing; the membrane stretching tight, and he darts under quickly.

I feel him shift back to his human form beneath the protective canopy of my wing, his body heat radiating against my side as I pull my wing tight to my body.

The loudest roar I can muster escapes my maw, the sound reverberating through the chamber and making small pebbles dance across the floor.

I crawl backwards towards where Thauglor’s maw is breaking through the ceiling, my tail sweeping behind me, knocking against sarcophagi and sending them crashing to the ground.

The sound of crumbling stone grows louder as huge black talons reach down and rip upward, taking a massive chunk of earth with them.

The scent of freshly turned soil fills the chamber, rich and loamy, mingling with the sharp scent of male dragon musk.

Lysander’s basilisk is wounded but not badly enough that it’s stopped trying to fight.

He slithers slowly towards us, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

Balor’s strikes must have damaged muscles.

Blood trails behind him, a dark, glistening path that marks his progress across the stone floor.

By the time he’s halfway to us, Thauglor has his entire face in the catacombs, the massive white scales around his maw gleaming with an iridescent sheen in the dim light.

His eyelids are shut tight, leathery folds sealed against the dirt and debris.

I feel his presence tickling the back of my head, a light pressure that seems to ask permission .

Relaxing, I let him see through my eyes, our connection strengthening until I can feel his rage burning alongside mine.

His mouth opens like a blackened abyss, rows of dagger-like teeth catching what little light there is.

His long, sinuous forked tongue curls out, tasting the air, sensing the location of his prey.

A pop and a hiss can be heard, like the sound of pressure being released, before a torrent of green gaseous acid escapes his lips.

The air immediately fills with an acrid smell that burns my nostrils and makes my eyes water.

Within seconds, Lysander is bathed in the acid, and I watch in horrified fascination as his flesh melts slowly off of his bones.

The sound is worst of all—a bubbling, hissing sizzle accompanied by a high-pitched keening that I realize is Lysander’s death cry.

I lay there in awe, feeling Balor’s rapid heartbeat against my side through my scales, seeing the full magnitude of what a great wyrm black dragon can do.

His acid hits and rolls off of my scales harmlessly, the droplets beading up and sliding away like water off oiled leather.

I dare not move until Lysander is reduced to a pile of molten goop and bones on the ground.

The stench of dissolved flesh and acid filling the chamber with an unbearable stench.

The last of him—a segment of spine collapses with a wet splash into the bubbling puddle that was once a living being.

All that’s left is his skull, empty eye sockets staring into the abyss.

As I crawl through the acid on the floor, the caustic liquid making small popping sounds beneath my weight.

Thankfully, it cannot penetrate my thick scales.

I make my way to the hole that Thauglor made.

The edges are rough and uneven, dirt still crumbling down in small cascades.

When I can, I rise up onto my hind legs, muscles straining with effort, and start climbing up the tunnel he dug.

My talons find purchase in the soft earth, pulling me upward toward freedom.

The scent of salt water and dragon musk fills the air as I near the surface, growing stronger with each foot I climb.

The clean, open smell of the ocean breeze mingles with Thauglor’s distinctive scent—like thunderstorms and ancient forests.

Freedom has never smelt so good. The promise of open sky and unfettered flight makes my heart soar even before my body can follow.