33. Callan
Callan
My mate is going to be the death of me. Every nerve I have is on edge as we walk across campus, the crisp autumn breeze doing little to calm my racing pulse. The tension in Willa’s shoulders melts away with each step, the lingering storm in her eyes dissipating like mist in the morning sun. But I can’t shake the memory of her earlier rage, the way her entire being crackled with power that could have easily turned this place to ash. Yet now, she’s a picture of tranquility as we approach the gardens where Nigel holds his classes.
Rows of easels are scattered across the lawn like soldiers awaiting orders, their blank canvases stark white against the lush green backdrop. Willa chooses the spot closest to the cherry blossom trees, the petals overhead swaying softly in the breeze. She moves with a grace that belies the turmoil I know she still carries inside, setting up her supplies with the steady hands of someone determined to keep that darkness at bay.
“You amaze me, Willa,” I murmur, unable to keep the admiration from my voice .
She pauses, turning on her stool to face me. A delicate brow arched in question. “What do you mean?”
“You go from ready to destroy the world to calm and peaceful in record time,” I say, slipping a book out of my bag to give my hands something to do. “Most female dragons take days to calm down after a flare-up like that.”
Willa’s gaze shifts downwards, her fingers absently adjusting the strap of the egg carrier on her chest. My chest tightens as I catch a glimpse of the red egg nestled within. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft, tinged with a sorrow that cuts through the quiet peace of the garden.
“It’s more of a learned response,” she sighs, unbuttoning the flap to look at the precious cargo inside. “If I stayed angry, my father would make me run the gauntlet until the anger was gone. Sometimes it took the entire afternoon. Other times … a full day or more. He and his commanders would take turns watching me, making sure I didn’t rest or stop. They’d give me food, drink, and bathroom breaks—but that was the only kindness they showed.”
My grip tightens on the book, nails digging into the cover as a swell of fury surges within me. Her words are so matter-of-fact, like it’s something she’s long accepted. I see the shadow in her eyes, the haunted look that flickers there before she glances up at me. I wish I could go back in time, rip through every barrier, and tear those bastards apart for the way they broke her. Instead, I take a breath and push the rage down. Right now, she needs something else from me—someone to remind her of where she is, who she is now.
“You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” I say softly, forcing my voice to remain steady. “You’re free now, Willa. You’re loved and safe. ”
Her lips twitch into a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She nods, a stiff, almost mechanical movement that feels like a thousand miles away from the calm she’s trying to project. Before I can say more, Nigel steps to the front of the class, his gaze sweeping over the students.
“Today, paint something you’ve seen in your dreams,” he instructs, checking his watch briefly before glancing back at the group. “Begin.”
The students set up, rustling canvases and clinking paint jars filling the silence. I look back at Willa, watching as she brushes her fingertips over the egg’s surface one last time before turning back to her canvas. She hesitates, fingers hovering over the paints as if she’s unsure where to start. It’s strange—seeing her like this, vulnerable and unsure—when she’s usually so fierce, so determined.
As the first stroke of paint glides across the canvas, a shiver runs down my spine. The colors she chooses are dark and brooding, swirling together in a chaotic dance that speaks of nightmares, of long-forgotten fears clawing their way to the surface. I’ve seen her angry, powerful, even broken, but this … this feels different. Like she’s channeling something from deep within that’s never been allowed to see the light of day.
I watch, mesmerized, as her hands move faster, more urgently. A sharp line here, a slash of red there—each motion heavy with an emotion that thrums through the air, thick and suffocating. She’s lost in it now, breathing hard, her gaze fixed on the shapes emerging on the canvas.
Towards the end of the hour-long art class, I finally see what Willa has been working on. My eyes widen as the roaring head of a massive red dragon comes into focus. Its maw is a jagged landscape of scars, each one a testament to battles fought and won. Thick, spiraling horns jut from the top of its head, curving back like vicious spears ready to impale. The protective spikes along its eye ridges catch the dim light, some chipped and dulled with age, others still razor sharp.
It’s the intricate detail of the scars that snags my attention. Each crevice and fissure are rendered with painful accuracy, as if she’s captured a living creature’s agony and victory on canvas. The dragon’s mouth is open, its throat a dark cavern. My gaze tracks down, and I see the thick tongue curled within, glowing embers of fire licking its way up from the depths. Droplets of saliva dangle from the tips of its fangs, glistening ominously. Smoke wisps from its flared nostrils, curling upward like twisted ghosts. But it’s the dragon’s eyes—narrow black slits, seething with malice—that seem to lock onto me. My breath catches.
It’s not just the red dragon staring out from the canvas. No, deep within the reflective void of its one eye, there’s something else. A smaller figure—a green dragon with a tall, regal frill and no horns—stands caught in the red dragon’s gaze. It’s a faceoff. The red dragon is on the verge of obliterating the green one, and for a moment, it feels as if I’m witnessing a predator locking onto its prey in real time.
Mina tilts her head, her gaze tracing the lines and shadows of her own creation, as if seeing it for the first time. “Hmm…” The sound slips from her lips, soft and contemplative. She seems almost puzzled, as if the image has a meaning she can’t quite grasp.
Nigel strides over, brow furrowed in curiosity. “Wow, this was a dream, Mina?” He leans closer, peering at the raw intensity of the painting. The fiery reds and ashen blacks seem to pulse under his scrutiny, the dragon’s rage almost tangible.
“Yeah…” Her voice wavers, unsure, like the ground beneath her feet is shifting. I don’t miss the way her shoulders tighten.
Nigel’s eyes dart to the green dragon reflected in the red’s pupil. “Who’s the green dragon?” The question tumbles out before I can ask it myself. I clench my jaw, a strange dread pooling in my gut.
Mina’s expression is unreadable, her gaze unfocused as if the real her has drifted somewhere far away. When she finally speaks, the words fall like stones into the silence. “My dad.”
The area seems to grow colder. There’s no remorse in her voice, no tremor, or hesitation. She’s detached, as if naming the green dragon and the man are the same thing. My chest tightens. I stare at her, at the ease with which she’s portrayed such violence, and I wonder just what kind of dreams she’s really having.
The red dragon’s open maw, its glowing throat, the reflection in its eye—it’s more than a painting. It’s a death sentence. The quiet rage buried within every stroke, every careful scar, makes the air crackle around me. Mina’s painted her father’s death, and I can’t tell if she’s scared or relieved.
Nigel takes a step back, his smile faltering as he looks from the canvas to Mina. “That’s … intense, Mina.”
She shrugs, a small, indifferent motion that does nothing to ease the tightness coiling in my gut. The red dragon’s eyes seem to bore into me, daring me to look away. But I can’t. My gaze is drawn back to the green dragon, isolated and defiant in that small, mirrored sliver of space .
Willa doesn’t speak again. She doesn’t need to. The silence between us is heavy, crackling with unspoken thoughts. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, trying to glimpse the emotions she’s keeping buried. But she gives nothing away. She simply stands there, staring at the dragon as if waiting for it to take flight from the canvas and finish what it started.
We walk across the empty campus, the air around us carrying the faint scent of freshly turned soil from the newly planted flowerbeds. Mina clutches the canvas to her chest as if it’s some kind of shield, her gaze distant. I glance at her, trying to gauge if she’s going to share more about today’s painting. She’s been adding to her collection at Shadowcarve for weeks now, filling her walls with these surreal, haunting images she refuses to explain. Each one is more ominous than the last. Today’s piece? I think it’s about him . Klauth. The way he’s appeared in her dreams, taunting and dark, the edges of her sanity fraying with every encounter.
We reach the double doors, and I spot Balor and Leander waiting outside. Balor’s shoulders are tense, his ever-present grin replaced with a hard line, while Leander’s eyes are like flint, sharp and wary. The tension radiates off them, crackling like static before a storm.
“Every Wednesday,” I mutter, more to myself than to them. Every Wednesday we meet to study Mina’s paintings … trying to decipher what she’s trying to tell us. Or perhaps what she can’t bring herself to say out loud. My chest tightens as I consider what I’ve been suspecting for some time. These paintings—they’re not just dreams or nightmares. They’re prophecies. Warnings .
I look over at Mina, who is already turning away, heading toward her apartment to get changed. The empty feeling she leaves behind as she slips through the door makes me swallow thickly. Once she’s inside, I wave to Abraxis and Ziggy, signaling them to join us. They cross the quad quickly; the air growing colder as they approach, the weight of our collective anxiety palpable.
“What did she paint this time?” Abraxis asks, his voice tight. He sucks in a breath when I turn the canvas around. The color drains from his face as he takes in the image, the dragon staring back at us. Its eyes seem to burn with a terrible, knowing light, the scales a deep crimson, edged in black. “Oh shit. Do you think that’s?—?”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he makes the familiar motion of stroking the egg carrier. I nod, the weight of the truth settling heavy in my gut.
“I think so. That’s Klauth,” I say quietly, glancing at Ziggy, who’s gone pale beneath his freckles. “Ziggy, you need to take her to train with the third years. We’re going to study the paintings together.”
He nods sharply and heads into the apartment to retrieve her. I turn my attention back to the painting, to the dragon’s eyes that seem to follow my every movement. My skin crawls under the intensity of its gaze, like it’s seeing through me—through all of us.
Mina steps out a few minutes later, dressed in her black leathers with the egg carrier snug against her chest. The heavy weight of it seems to dwarf her slight frame, but she stands straighter, a fierce determination sparking in her gaze. Just as she follows Ziggy, her familiar, Iris swoops in silently, perching on her shoulder.
“Rebel,” Abraxis calls softly, his voice filled with a quiet command. His familiar, a massive black raven, lands on his forearm, the dark eyes glinting in the low light. “Watch over my mate,” Abraxis murmurs, stroking the bird’s chest feathers. Rebel caws once, a sound that echoes around us, before taking off, his wings slicing through the air like knives.
We watch Rebel’s silhouette disappear against the dusky sky when Lemon, the headmaster’s fruit bat, flutters in. Her small wings beat frantically as she hovers near Mina, almost as if paying her respects. It’s like watching a parade of familiars come to pay homage to royalty … but it’s not just Mina. It’s what she’s carrying. What she represents .
“We’ve got two hours. Let’s make it quick,” I say, my voice low as I lead the group back to the apartment. I use the spare key Mina gave me, the one that feels heavier in my hand, every time I unlock the door.
The northern and western walls are covered in her paintings. Each one pulls at something deep inside me, a strange mix of dread and awe. She’s painted each of us at least once, capturing our shifts with a precision that unnerves me. Her own dragon is the focus of several images—mostly just close-ups of body parts: a talon here, the curve of a tail there.
But everything changes after the egg.
The first painting in that series is a castle perched on the edge of a cliff, a place only a creature with wings could reach. Several paintings down, the same castle is engulfed in flames, crumbling down the mountainside. My breath catches as I move along the wall, seeing the progression. Emerald-green and iron scales appear in the next set of paintings, belonging to her dragon, the silver-steel edging on the ridges glinting like freshly sharpened blades. Then Abraxis’s dragon—a massive beast of black scales with brass edging where Willa’s are silver .
She’s even painted a close-up of my feathers, the iridescent browns, and golds shimmering as if I could reach out and touch them. But how…? “Did she ever see your shift?” I ask Balor, my gaze shifting to his own image: the matte-black scales of his basilisk, slick with some dark substance.
“Not that I’m aware of,” he mutters, shaking his head, his confusion clear.
I move on to Leander’s Nightmare, the eerie fire of its mane captured perfectly against the black of its fur. I glance at him, but he’s already shaking his head. “How is she painting creatures she hasn’t seen?” I whisper, the words almost choking me.
“Maybe my mate is a seer…” Abraxis murmurs, staring at the newest painting. The silence that follows is suffocating. He steps closer, pointing to the dragon in the reflection of the larger beast’s eye. “This is Klauth. At least, what he should look like, based on accounts from the hundred-year war.” His finger traces over the canvas, his hand trembling. “And that … that’s definitely Abaddon in his eye’s reflection. I’d bet a year’s salary on it.”
His words slam into me, each one landing like a punch to the gut. I look at the paintings again, my pulse hammering in my ears. My gaze locks onto the depiction of Klauth, his eyes blazing as if he’s staring right back at me. And there—caught in the reflective surface—is Abaddon, the unmistakable dark form of her father.
“Holy shit … I think you’re right.” My voice is barely a whisper, the weight of what that means settling over us like a shroud. If Mina has seen this … if she’s painted the hatching of Klauth and the death of Abaddon… My chest tightens painfully, the breath rushing from my lungs .
“If she’s truly a seer, then she’s more valuable than any treasure hoard in the world,” I say, the realization heavy and terrifying. A silence falls over us, the air thick with unspoken fears. Because if Klauth knows she’s seen his future … then she’s in more danger than we ever could have imagined.