28. Mina
Mina
Art class feels like torture today. I glance at the half-finished painting in front of me, the vibrant strokes of color blurring as my vision unfocuses. It’s hard to concentrate on something as mundane as this when Callan continues to ignore my existence. The sting of it gnaws at me, deepening with every passing day. He treats me as if I’m less than nothing. I wonder if he even notices me lingering at the edge of his world.
I tighten my grip on the paintbrush, forcing myself to focus. Today, I’m working on a painting of a gryphon. Not just any gryphon, though. His gryphon. Or at least, my best attempt at what I imagine it might look like. I’ve seen others on campus, magnificent creatures soaring above the grounds, feathers catching the light like shards of glass. Their coloring, I’ve learned, often mirrors their human form. So I picture Callan’s, guessing his feathers would match the rich honey brown of his hair, the same shade I’d memorize if he’d ever let me get close enough .
From the shoulders up, the gryphon gazes out from the canvas, its predatory eye piercing and intense. I brush some highlights along its beak, shaping the curve until it gleams as though caught in the sunlight. The room around me fades, leaving only the image in front of me. If I could just get this right … Maybe then he’d look at it—at me—and see something more.
“Miss Mina, the image looks extraordinary,” Nigel’s voice cuts through my focus like a sudden breeze, cool and unexpected. Startled, I glance over my shoulder to find him hovering behind me. He’s opted for his human form today, it’s a rare occurrence. It always throws me off seeing him like this—a lanky man with pale, almost translucent skin. His floppy black hair hangs messily over his forehead, as if even it can’t decide what to make of him. The loose black button-up and cargo pants do nothing to make him less intimidating.
“Thank you, sir.” I murmur, shifting in my seat as I turn back to my painting. My hand trembles slightly as I add another stroke, refining the shine on the beak. For a moment, I feel his eyes studying the canvas with a scrutinizing gaze.
“It’s Callan, isn’t it?” The casual question sends a jolt through me, and I freeze. My heart clenches painfully, the familiar ache growing stronger. I nod, unable to trust my voice.
He steps closer, the back of his paintbrush hovering just over the gryphon’s face. “The scar comes more this way,” he murmurs, tracing an invisible line in the air to indicate the correct direction. I follow his guidance, my fingers moving mechanically to adjust the scar’s placement.
“There’s a small one right here, too,” he adds, pointing midway down the beak. I hesitate, then add the mark where he indicates. Each correction sharpens the image, bringing it closer to the real thing—closer to Callan.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my gaze lingering on the scarred beak. The sight sends a fresh wave of sorrow crashing over me. Will I ever see him like this, in his shifted form? Or will he keep pretending I don’t exist until the bond between us snaps entirely?
“You met my nephew Vaughn a few months back.” The sudden shift in conversation catches me off guard. I blink up at him, trying to recall the encounter through the haze of so many painful memories.
“I wouldn’t say met,” I reply softly. “He stepped in when Arista and the bitch sisters were bullying me. To be more specific, he caught me before I fell and protected me until Zigmander could get to me.” Sighing, I turn my stool to face Nigel, his intense gaze making me uncomfortable. “Please thank your nephew for me. I appreciate him stepping in.”
He gives a nod of acknowledgment, his expression unreadable. I offer a faint smile, raising my hand to stroke the egg carrier strapped across my chest, hoping the small motion will ground me.
“Which egg did you receive?” Nigel’s question comes with a hint of curiosity, his eyes flickering down to the bag I cradle protectively.
“Klauth, the mighty red dragon.” The name alone warms me, the egg within pulsing gently in response to my praise. Reverently, I unbuckle the flap, revealing the red and silver swirled egg nestled inside. Its surface shimmers under the shade of the cherry tree, a soft, comforting glow that soothes my frayed nerves.
“Beautiful,” Nigel murmurs, leaning closer to study the delicate patterns etched across the shell. I run my finger slowly along the top, tracing the swirls. Something about the way it feels—alive and strong beneath my touch—eases the tightness in my chest.
He straightens, his gaze lingering on the egg before shifting back to me. “You know, Miss Mina,” he begins thoughtfully, “sometimes the bonds we struggle with the most end up being the ones that define us.” His words hang heavy in the air, a soft smile playing at his lips as he glances back at the gryphon on the canvas. “Just keep painting. Sometimes, you can bring a piece of their soul to life through your art.”
I swallow hard, nodding as I shift my focus back to the painting. If only I could paint away the emptiness that Callan’s indifference leaves behind. Class concludes and I wrap the canvas up to bring it to Shadowcarve with me.
Walking through the wooden gates of Shadowcarve feels like an arrow piercing my heart. Each clang of metal against stone echoes like a bell tolling, reverberating through my chest. As if sensing my turmoil, the egg nestled against my chest heats, a gentle pulse of warmth that spreads through me, momentarily easing the ache. I rub it absentmindedly, murmuring a soft reassurance under my breath. My fingers trail over the smooth surface, tracing patterns I’ve memorized. A flicker of peace settles inside me before I head toward my apartment.
There’s no point in attending Callan’s class today; nothing he says will change the emptiness that lingers. I shed my standard gear and slip into the black leathers Vox made just for me. They mold to my body like a second skin, every inch fitted to perfection. Beneath the sleek leather, hidden layers of armor weave through the fabric, offering protection without hindering movement. I sling the quiver over my shoulder, feeling the weight of Abraxis’s bow case against my back—a bow that belonged to him that he gifted me as a betrothal present.
The archery range is just next door at Ranathor Keep. When I step onto the packed dirt, Abraxis is there, leading his class of third years. His tall form, the tense line of his shoulders, and that rigid jaw all tell me he’s agitated—again. I can see it in the way he gestures sharply, his voice carrying just enough heat to singe anyone foolish enough to push him today. But they do, over and over, failing to grasp the finesse of their stance, the flow of the draw.
A flash of silver flits in my periphery, and I turn just as Iris, my tiny dragon familiar, lands on my shoulder. Her warm scales brush against my cheek before she hops down, pressing herself against the egg carrier, emitting those sweet, happy trills that always make me smile. I set the case down carefully and unzip it, placing the egg inside. Iris curls around it protectively, her wings fluttering as she settles in.
With practiced ease, I assemble my bow, sliding the limbs into the riser until they lock into place with a satisfying click. The black and green string slips into the grooves, and I secure it, my movements precise. The faint hum of tension vibrates through the string, mirroring the thrum of power beneath my skin. Iris shifts in the case, her eyes following my every move as I step to the range.
“What’s a female doing here?” a sneering voice cuts through the air, dripping with venom.
My gaze snaps to the source—a third-year with more mouth than skill. Abraxis’s eyes glow, a dangerous, eerie light flickering in their depths. His dragon is riled, and I can’t help but smile. Slowly, I turn to face the male, letting my gaze drag lazily over him, assessing. He’s too stiff in the shoulders, his stance too wide. An easy target.
“I’m here to shoot.” I keep my voice light, almost sweet. “Are you afraid of a little friendly competition?”
The male scoffs, puffing out his chest. “Sure, why not?”
I hide my grin as I pull the hood off my head, letting my hair cascade down. Gasps ripple through the crowd of students. My hair is the same deep green as my father’s scales, an unmistakable marker of who I am. The boy shoots, his arrow landing in the third ring from the bullseye. He smirks, pride rolling off him in waves as his friends cheer.
“Beat that,” he says, turning back to face me—then freezes, his face paling. Recognition flickers in his eyes, and I see the exact moment he realizes who I am.
“Hmmm … it’s approximately sixty yards to the target, right, Havock?” I call out, using Abraxis’s last name. He stiffens, his eyes narrowing at me, but he nods, the wind shifting slightly, carrying the crisp scent of pine.
“Sixty-five, to be exact. North wind at five miles an hour, low dew point.” His voice is low, a warning in it meant for me, but I ignore it, drawing an arrow from my quiver.
I unzip my jacket from shoulder to wrist, exposing the emerald and iron-colored scales that emerge to cover my left forearm down to the first knuckle. The courtyard falls silent. All eyes are on me as I draw back, my fingers resting against the riser.
The arrow flies straight and true, hitting the bullseye with a solid thud. I don’t even pause before nocking a second arrow. This one splits the male’s in two, the pieces falling to the ground with a dull clatter. The silence is thick, stunned .
“Okay, I’m warmed up. What do you want me to practice today, Havock?” I unzip the high collar of my armor, exposing the mark at the base of my throat. Abraxis’s mark seared into my skin. The possessiveness flares in his gaze, and I see the male who spoke earlier swallow hard.
“Anything you desire, my mate.” Abraxis’s voice is steady, pride lacing every word as he strides over to retrieve my arrows. He hands them back, his fingers brushing against mine before he cups my face, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Perhaps use the throwing knives and axes today. It’s been a while since you practiced.”
“Of course.” I flash the third-year a smile as Abraxis turns back to his class. “One day, you might be half as good as my mate,” Abraxis says, his voice carrying a dark promise.
I take my place, picking up the weight of a throwing knife and spinning it between my fingers. My gaze never leaves the male who challenged me as I take aim, my smile sharpening when he flinches. It’s going to be a long day for him. And for once, I think it might actually be fun.
The alcove is quiet, save for the soft hum of my breath and the satisfying thunk of metal meeting wood. I throw another knife, watching as it flies through the air, perfectly straight, before burying itself dead center in the target. The knives are more than weapons—they’re an extension of me. With each throw, I feel a sense of release, like I’m shedding layers of the anger and hurt that cling to me like a second skin.
“Has anyone seen Willamina?” Callan’s voice breaks the silence, carrying across the courtyard. I stiffen, my fingers gripping the handle of the next knife. Slowly, I pull my hood back up, concealing myself in the shadowed alcove. The egg carrier presses against my chest, its weight familiar, grounding. I slip back, deeper into the darkness, merging with the shadows until I’m all but invisible.
“She was just…” Abraxis trails off, eyes sweeping the range as if I’ll suddenly materialize in front of him. He knows better than that. I hold my breath, willing myself to disappear entirely.
A faint whisper brushes against my ear, and I suppress a flinch. “Who are you hiding from?” Ziggy’s voice is as soft as the wind rustling through leaves.
“Who do you think?” I reply, arching a brow as I glance back at him. His lips twitch with restrained amusement, but he doesn’t comment further. Instead, he watches me slip on my black leather gloves, the dark fabric blending seamlessly with the shadows cloaking me.
“He’s here because of the painting,” Ziggy murmurs, leaning closer as we move along the shadowed alcove. “That, and Balor threatened to beat his ass if he didn’t straighten up his act.” His barely contained laugh reverberates through me, almost making me smile. Almost.
I watch from the darkness as Callan stands in the open courtyard, his shoulders slumped, eye cast down. He kicks at a few stray rocks, frustration and regret radiating off him in waves. “Can you convince her to come to dinner with me? I want to take her into town.” His voice sounds hollow, almost defeated.
“Class dismissed!” Abraxis calls out, his tone sharp and controlled. The students scatter, leaving the courtyard empty except for the three of us and Callan. Abraxis rounds on him, the low growl in his voice a clear warning. “You fucked up, man. I’m not forcing my mate to do anything. You should be able to sense her if you didn’t damage the bond so badly.”
Callan flinches, his jaw tightening. “I know! I know I fucked up. Help me fix it. Please…” His voice cracks, raw with desperation.
I clutch the egg carrier closer, feeling its faint hum pulse in time with my heartbeat. I rest a hand on it, and a calming warmth spreads through me. It’s been doing this more and more lately, responding to my moods, comforting me when I need it the most.
“When did it start that?” Ziggy asks, his gaze flicking to the egg.
“Last week. It’s … comforting. Like it knows when I’m upset.” I let out a soft sigh, watching Callan through lowered lashes.
“Mina, come out, please.” Abraxis’s gaze locks on mine, his eyes pleading. I draw in a deep breath and step out of the shadows, pulling my hood back. My hair tumbles down in a dark wave, catching the light as I lift my chin to meet his gaze.
“Please hear him out. Whatever you decide, I will support you one hundred percent.” Abraxis looks torn, the conflict clear in the tense lines of his face. He wants to be there for me, to stand by my side, but Callan’s his friend, too. It’s a delicate balance.
I keep my eyes on Abraxis for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch. Then I turn my gaze to Callan, taking in the slump of his shoulders, the raw desperation etched into his features. He’s a mess. But it doesn’t move me. Not anymore.
“Dinner on Saturday, five p.m.,” I say finally, my voice steady and cold. I see the flash of hope in his eyes, the way he straightens just a fraction, but I don’t linger on it. Instead, I glance at Ziggy. “Take me home.”
His hand comes up, and I grasp the bow case and quiver just as the world blurs around me. There’s a tugging sensation, a rush of cold air, and then everything shifts. The courtyard vanishes, replaced by the familiar dark wood and soft glow of my quarters. I let out a slow breath, the tension slowly unraveling from my shoulders.
Ziggy’s presence hovers behind me, silent and steady. “You okay?” he asks, his voice gentle.
“Yeah,” I murmur, though the words feel hollow. My gaze drifts to the egg carrier still cradled against my chest. “Just … tired.”
“Right.” He doesn’t push, just nods once before taking a step back. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
I nod absently, my attention already shifting back to the egg. Its soft hum vibrates through me, like a heartbeat, like reassurance. Like it understands.