13. Mina
Mina
The day before the dance…
Math class feels like an excruciating waste of time today. My leg bounces impatiently under the desk, a restless energy that has nothing to do with the equations in front of me. All I can think about is how we’ll be excused from classes early to go dress shopping with Cora’s mother. Dress shopping—something that feels more like a punishment than a privilege. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around that part. The plan is to attend this class and then art before we get released. My professor was kind enough to let me skip the art of war and archery courses for the afternoon. I guess being ahead of the class has its perks.
“Are you excited for later?” Cora whispers, sliding into the seat next to me. Her shoulder brushes against mine, and I feel the buzz of her enthusiasm vibrating in the air between us.
“No. I hate dresses,” I mutter, a low growl reverberating in my chest. The very thought of being stuffed into some flowy fabric prison makes my muscles tighten.
Cora’s eyes brighten with excitement, undeterred by my sour mood. “You might find your mate,” she says, her voice practically bubbling over. “And that outranks a betrothal.”
I barely manage not to roll my eyes, turning my gaze back to the notes sprawled across my desk. The formulas blur together, numbers and symbols bleeding into a meaningless mess. “My betrothed will not keep me as a pampered breeder,” I state flatly, clenching my jaw at the mere thought of it. “My father promised me that since we started my training. He knows what I want.”
Cora sighs softly, giving me a sympathetic look, but I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes. I know she means well, but the life she’s chosen—a delicate path of pleasing other nests and keeping the peace—just isn’t for me.
“Dividers up and clear your desks! Test time!” Professor Anipe’s voice slices through the room like a whip, snapping my focus back to the present. “Top five grades will win the first of many surprises today,” she adds, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous gleam.
There’s a rustle of paper as the student teacher moves down the aisles, distributing test booklets, pencils, and a small scrap piece of paper to each of us. My senses sharpen as the test lands in front of me, the crispness of the sealed booklet practically begging to be torn open.
“Turn in your scrap paper with your test booklet. Pencils go into the basket on the table when you’re done,” Anipe says, her gaze flicking up to the clock. She nods once, a silent command that has everyone straightening in their seats .
“Break the seal and begin.”
I flip the booklet open, the satisfying crack of the seal breaking, punctuating the silence. The first problem stares back at me, a complicated algebraic equation that would have sent most of my classmates spiraling. But for me, the numbers are a welcome distraction. I let out a slow breath and pick up my pencil, letting the familiarity of the calculations ground me. The soft scratch of graphite against paper becomes my world, the tension of the classroom fading away as I immerse myself in solving the problems one by one.
The simplicity of this test bores me to death. I plow through it, barely sparing a glance at the problems that most students would find challenging. My pencil scratches across the page, filling in answers in a rhythm that almost lulls me to sleep. When I finish in record time, I rise from my seat, ignoring the curious and envious looks from the others still hunched over their desks.
Anipe watches me approach, her gaze sharp but approving. She dips her head slightly as I drop my scrap paper, booklet, and pencils on the front table. “You know the drill,” she murmurs, motioning for me to take a seat on the bench against the wall. The wait is always the worst part—thirty minutes of doing nothing but pretending not to notice the whispers and stares directed my way. I lean back, my foot tapping in a restless beat against the cold tile floor.
The minutes tick by. Finally, Anipe’s voice cuts through the room. “Time. Pencils down. Hand in the booklets and wait for your scores.”
A collective groan echoes through the classroom, but no one dares to argue. Anipe’s student teacher moves quickly, gathering up the booklets and carrying them to the front with stiff, jerky movements. I catch a glimpse of the beads of sweat dotting his forehead. He must be new if he’s still nervous around her .
The moment the last booklet is collected, I slip back into my seat beside Cora. Her shoulders sag with tension, and I reach out, resting a hand on her forearm.
“How did you do?” I ask softly, knowing the answer before she even speaks.
“Not good,” she mutters, barely meeting my gaze. “Mom and Dad didn’t bother pushing the core material on me. They were focused on political and royal studies.” She shrugs, a faint smirk twisting her lips. “Think your dad wants another daughter?”
I laugh with her, the sound more genuine than I expect. “Mom refuses to give him a son after what he put me through.”
Her laugh mingles with mine, and for a brief moment, the tension in the room fades. But then my eyes drift to the clock, and I can’t help the flicker of nerves tightening my gut. Ten minutes left in the class when Anipe’s assistant, looking far too eager, starts passing out sealed envelopes.
“Your grades, along with any... surprises, are in the envelopes,” she announces with a dramatic flourish. “May the odds be in your favor.” Her words are punctuated by the shrill ring of the bell signaling the end of class.
I gather my things quickly, slipping the envelope into my hand with a sense of dread coiling tight in my chest. Cora bumps my shoulder, offering a faint smile before she’s swept up in the surge of students pouring out of the room.
“Off to art for a bit,” I call over my shoulder, trying to sound nonchalant, but my voice comes out strained.
I’m barely a few steps down the hall when Balor falls into stride beside me. I don’t see his hand move—he’s that fast—but suddenly, my envelope is dangling from his long, calloused fingers.
“Hey, give that back!” I lunge for it, but he just chuckles, raising it high over his head.
Balor’s easily a full foot taller than me, his six and a half feet towering over my smaller frame. I jump, fingers grazing the edge of the envelope, but he jerks it away at the last second. My pulse spikes, a mix of irritation and something else buzzing under my skin.
“What’s the big deal?” He grins down at me, the smug expression that always gets under my skin. “Afraid I’ll see something embarrassing?”
“No,” I snap, leaping again and grabbing the corner of the envelope. He shifts back, his broad shoulders blocking out the fluorescent lights above us.
He chuckles, deep and rich, the sound echoing in the nearly empty corridor. “Now that’s the Mina I know.” With a casual flick of his wrist, he drops the envelope into my outstretched hand. “Relax, I’m just messing with you.”
I narrow my eyes at him but can’t hold back a grin. “You’re infuriating.”
“Likewise.” He winks, his gaze lingering on the envelope clutched in my hand. “Come on, let’s see what your surprise is. I bet you blew everyone else out of the water.”
I hesitate, fingers hovering over the flap. Whatever’s inside could change everything... or nothing at all. My heart hammers against my ribs as I slowly tear it open, anticipation, and anxiety twining together like a noose tightening around my throat .
We stop just outside the gardens where the art class is being conducted. I clutch the envelope in my hands, the paper edges biting into my fingers. My heart thrums an erratic beat as I stare at the wax seal. It’s like staring down a viper, daring me to peel back its skin and see what venomous surprise it holds. I take a shaky breath and then—like a coward—I shove it into Balor’s hands.
“You look,” I say, my voice tight.
He blinks at me, then at the envelope, his brow furrowing in confusion. “You want me to look? Did you fail the test?” His expression shifts from puzzled to almost pained, as if he’s bracing for some terrible news.
I shake my head. “Anipe said some of us were getting tickets to try for one of the eggs today. Well, the top five were.” My hands are trembling, so I slide them up over my face, hiding from the inevitable truth of whatever is written on that cursed card. “You look,” I repeat, my voice softer, pleading.
The envelope crinkles as he carefully breaks the seal. The sound feels too loud, like the crack of a whip in the otherwise tranquil air. I hear the papers slide free, then a sharp intake of breath. My heart drops, a leaden weight that sinks into my stomach.
Dropping my hands, I search his face, desperately trying to read the answer there before he speaks. But it’s what he’s holding that draws my gaze. In his hand is the four-by-four card of doom, its ominous crimson border standing out starkly against the cream-colored paper.
“I received a ticket to try for a cursed egg.” The words fall flat from my lips, like stones sinking into deep water.
“Oh, shit…” Balor whispers, handing me the card as if it might burn him. “But, hey, on the bright side, you passed your test with a hu ndred and five.” He flips the paper over, as if searching for some mistake. “How did you get a hundred and five?”
“Bonus question.” The response is automatic, my mind barely registering the triumph in those words. I stuff the invitation card into my backpack, as if hiding it away will change its existence. “I should just head to class.”
“No time for that.” Balor glances down at his phone, his face tense. “Your ride’s here. Ziggy’s getting Cora now.”
Before I can react, he’s shuffling me towards the entrance of the Arcanum Campus. Up ahead, I catch sight of Cora and Abraxis, deep in conversation with a woman whose hair shimmers like a cascade of polished copper and brass. The sunlight catches on each strand, making her look ethereal, almost otherworldly.
Cora spots me and breaks into a run, her arms wrapping around me tightly. The hug is suffocating, but I let her hold on for a moment before she pulls back, passing my bag to the driver. “Are you ready?”
I roll my eyes, letting out a low groan. “No, I don’t want to go shopping. I hate it,” I mutter under my breath.
Cora’s eyes sparkle with excitement, oblivious to my reluctance. “You need a dress for the dance. And who knows, you might meet your mate.” The way she says it, her voice practically bursting with hope and anticipation, makes my stomach twist. But before I can respond, a chill spreads through the air as the woman’s gaze—Cora’s mother, I realize—lands on me. Cold, assessing.
“I’d rather wait for my betrothed, thank you.” I lift my chin and finger the pendant he gave me, drawing strength from its weight against my skin. “Other males will try to force me to be a breeder.” My eyes flick to Cora’s mother, careful, gauging her reaction. “No offense. But I’m not built that way. I don’t want to be kept in a fancy room and showered with jewels.”
There’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—in Abraxis’s eyes as I glance his way. The corner of his mouth twitches up in a half-smile, and I find myself smiling back, despite the tension coiling in my chest like a living thing.
“Weapons,” I add with a small laugh, “are this girl’s best friend.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turn on my heel and slide into the car. The door clicks shut, sealing me off from the world outside, from the expectations and the eyes that judge and weigh my every word. I take a deep breath, staring out the tinted window as the gardens blur into a wash of greens and golds.
I would rather face a thousand gauntlets or run through fire than try on another dress. Cerce, Cora’s mom, has me stuck in this torture chamber of tulle and satin, forcing me to endure this hellish parade of fifty—yes, fifty—dresses. Each one is more ornate and suffocating than the last, a cascade of ruffles, beads, and lace that seem to tighten around me like a noose. I catch Cora out of the corner of my eye, already in her chosen dress, looking radiant as she perches on the bench with her earbuds in, chatting away on a video call as if this entire process is a breeze.
“Mom, have her put on the blue dress with the black lace again! I think that’s a winner for sure!” Cora calls out from her spot, her voice cutting through my exhaustion like a blade .
I let out a defeated sigh that’s practically a whimper, my fingers brushing over the blue dress in question. My gaze shifts to the side, hoping for some reprieve, and that’s when I see him—Ziggy. He’s standing off to the side, leaning casually against a rack, waving a dress in his hand. It’s a deep pewter sweetheart gown with a daring slit up one leg and a corset cinched around the waist. The fabric catches the light, casting an almost metallic sheen that reminds me of molten silver. The moment I see it, I know it’s perfect. A dress that isn’t just decorative but functional—a place to conceal a blade or a vial of poison if need be.
I dart over to him, snatching the gown from his hands like a lifeline. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, my voice sharp but soft enough that only he can hear.
“Bailing you out once you pick a dress. This one,” he murmurs, his gaze dipping to the gown, “will let you keep all those lovely weapons of yours close and hide more behind the bodice.” He grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m going to pretend I just got here and tell Cerce you’re needed for weapons training. Should buy you some time.” He winks, then turns on his heel and saunters off, casual as ever.
I stare down at the dress he found, tracing the lines of it with my eyes. It’s as if it was crafted just for me. Excitement flutters in my chest, a feeling so foreign that it almost feels wrong. I quickly hang the blue monstrosity back on the rack and head for the dressing room, clutching the pewter gown like a talisman.
Slipping into it, I feel an unfamiliar sensation—a sense of anticipation and, dare I say, confidence. The gown molds to my body, the fabric soft and firm in all the right places. The slit up the leg allows for movement, and the corset hugs my waist just tight enough that I know I could hide a dagger in there if I needed to. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for the first time in my life, I pause.
My reflection stares back, almost unrecognizable. The pewter color brings out the silver undertones in my green hair, and my normally hidden scales—those faint, shimmering marks that trace from the tops of my shoulder blades down to my collarbones and spine—glisten under the soft lighting. I pull my hair up into a loose twist, letting the curls tumble artfully around my head, the scales more visible now.
I look … beautiful. Powerful.
The pendant from my betrothed, a weight I’ve never fully appreciated until now, rests just above the full swell of my breasts. I fight the urge to cover myself, remembering how awkward I felt when Cerce fussed over the binders I typically wear under my leathers, insisting they wouldn’t work with any dress. And she was right. This gown demands confidence. I look less like a warrior and more like something out of a legend—maybe not a dragoness, but a siren capable of luring sailors to their doom with a single glance.
I slide my feet into the heels I picked out earlier and step back out, my heart hammering against my ribs. The world slows as I approach them, each click of my heels a steady beat in the silence. Ziggy’s mouth falls open, Cerce’s hand freezes mid-gesture, and Cora’s video chat falls silent. Their stunned expressions fuel something wild in me—a thrill I can’t quite name.
Ziggy recovers first, his phone trembling as he snaps pictures like a madman. “You look stunning,” he breathes, his voice almost reverent. He steps forward and, in an unexpectedly formal gesture, bends at the waist to kiss my hand .
I blink, warmth creeping up my cheeks as his lips brush against my knuckles. “Thank you...” I mumble, glancing at myself in the mirror again. My own reflection stares back, fierce and captivating.
Maybe … just maybe, doing this girly shit isn’t so bad after all.