Chapter 4
Mina
The hallways buzz with the excited chatter of students as I navigate through the crowded corridors, the scent of new textbooks and freshly polished floors filling my nostrils.
First day of senior year—I’ve survived three years in this hellhole, and now I’m entering the home stretch.
Glancing down at the crumpled schedule in my hand, I let out a heavy sigh.
“First period physics,” I mutter, turning to Balor with a raised eyebrow.
He shrugs, his broad shoulders rising and falling beneath his leather jacket. “You needed one more class to have all the credits to graduate.”
“Physics? You couldn’t pick anything else?” I grumble as we make our way towards Anipe’s classroom, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the worn linoleum. We enter the theater, choosing seats in the top row, far from the prying eyes of my classmates.
Balor leans back, his arm brushing against mine as he settles into his seat. “Everything else will bore you to tears,” he points out, his eyebrows lifted in a knowing look. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. Any other subject, and I’d be complaining about the monotony.
Anipe strides into the room, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
Her student teacher follows close behind, distributing the math books for today’s lesson.
As he reaches my desk, he bows his head, a gesture of reverence that feels excessive.
“Your Highness,” he murmurs, placing the book before me.
I roll my eyes, leaning closer to Balor. “Here we go,” I whisper, flipping open the book to the page Anipe has scrawled on the board. The formulas stare back at me, the same ones my father drilled into my head for using siege weapons. Bloody hell, yet another class I have zero use for.
Anipe’s monotonous voice fills the room as she drones on about the formulas and their applications. I find myself fantasizing about someone pulling the fire alarm, anything to escape this mind-numbing lecture.
As the hour crawls to an end, Anipe assigns homework due for our next class on Wednesday.
I shove the book into my bag, but before I can sling it over my shoulder, Balor snatches it from my grasp.
“Really?” I scoff, tilting my head to look up at him.
“How are you supposed to protect me with the bag in your hand?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Easy. Drop the bag or use it as a weapon. Besides, you don’t have the cursed eggs slowing you down now,” he reminds me, his eyes glinting with mischief.
I shake my head, a wry smile on my lips as we head towards Samara’s class. “You’re right. I have three possessive, overbearing, dominant drakes, a just as dominant basilisk, and my other mates,” I growl, my voice laced with sarcasm.
As we walk, the other students give us a wide berth, some waving hesitantly in my direction while others openly stare. I keep my head high, ignoring their curious gazes. My mind is already racing with thoughts of what challenges the rest of the day might bring.
As we walk down the hall towards Samara’s class, Rebel comes and lands on my shoulder. In his beak a folded note. I nuzzle his feathers before plucking the note free. Flipping it open, I read it.
Mission successful.
T
I arch a brow and smile. The oil I created worked.
Now there’s the minor issue of creating a container to hold the mixture to keep with me.
Balor offers me a piece of paper before we enter the classroom.
I shake my head and reach up into my hair, pulling down a thin braid.
Carefully, I cut it free and tie the end off.
“Rebel, bring this back to Thauglor,” I instruct. I turn the braid into a circle and hold it for him. When Rebel clamps it in his beak, I let go and watch him take off, his wings stirring the cool morning air against my cheeks.
“What is the significance of the braid?” Balor asks as we step into Samara’s art of negotiations class. The rich scent of old books and sandalwood incense fills the air.
We take our seats in the back, and I sigh, settling into the worn leather chair.
Before I answer, I pull down and cut another braid free.
Instead of tying it off with another band, I lean over and reach up into Balor’s hair.
I braid my hair in with his, then use twine to tie it in place.
My braid is longer than his hair, and I pull it forward so he can see it, the silver and green strands gleaming against his midnight locks.
“It’s usually given early in courtship as a way for the male to know the female accepts him.
She deems him worthy of being the sire of her progeny.
” I stare at my silver and green hair peeking out from under his iridescent black hair, the colors dancing together in the dim classroom light.
“I haven’t had the chance to braid the other braids into the dragons’ hair. ”
“You did mine first.” I see something flicker behind his usually guarded gaze, a warmth that makes my pulse quicken.
“You may not have been the first male to know I was theirs. But you were the first that showed no fear of what I am.” I laugh a little, the sound soft in the gradually filling classroom.
“Abraxis may play all big and tough, but he was afraid of me after I killed the ambush drake. So was Callan, if we’re being honest.” I shrug my shoulders, then turn in time to see the student teacher passing out the books for the class, the heavy tomes thudding on desks.
“Seeing you in your leathers told me more than anything else. The cut of your leather and the color told me you were highly skilled and deadly. The green leathers are only made for those trained by Abaddon personally. The most deadly Shadowblades came out of Risedale.” His words place a bit of weight on my history.
My nest, my home, is known for producing assassins.
The memory of training rings in my ears—steel against steel, harsh commands, the copper taste of blood.
I bite my bottom lip, thinking about the future of my nest and Risedale as a whole.
Samara starts her lecture, her voice cutting through the murmur of students.
I ponder what I want my nest to be known for.
“Hmmm.” I tap my pencil on the book in front of me, the rhythmic sound drowning out my thoughts.
“That look usually spells trouble,” Balor says playfully, his breath warm against my ear.
“Can I change the name of my nest?” Tilting my head, I turn to look at him, studying the sharp angles of his face.
“I’m not sure.” Balor shrugs his shoulders, looking back at me with curiosity dancing in his eyes.
Carefully, I pull out my phone and put it on silent. The screen’s glow illuminates my face as I flip through the dozen or so chats I have until I find the family chat, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as I contemplate my next move.
Mina: Can I change the name of my nest?
Callan: Why?
Leander: I have no idea that’s a dragon thing.
Abraxis: It’s never been done, to my knowledge.
Klauth: What are you thinking?
Mina: I don’t want everyone to think I’m carrying on my father’s legacy. Risedale is known for producing Shadowblades.
Balor: She has a point.
Vaughn: Can it be done?
Thauglor: What would you name it?
Mina: Sovereign … It is where Klauth is ruling from.
Klauth: Where WE are ruling from.
Ziggy: Sorry was busy watching Kai fail at shifting. Sovereign sounds amazing.
Mina: Any other suggestions? Ideas?
Leander: We can use the secret ballot bag later to read suggestions.
I facepalm at the mention of the bag.
Mina: Do we really have to?
Thauglor: What’s the secret ballot bag?
Abraxis: A therapy tool for the nest to ask questions without feeling bad about asking them.
Thauglor’s message keeps sending three dots, then stopping. It starts and stops several times, then stops.
Callan: According to the books Leander and I have been reading, it helps for the nest to talk without being called out about their questions.
Klauth: Dragons are direct. We don’t need such things.
Vaughn: Have you seen Mina in a rage? It’s not pretty, and she threatens males manhoods. I personally would like to keep all of me where it belongs.
I laugh a little and have to cover it up with a cough as Samara glares daggers at me.
Balor: Samara is glaring at Mina because you made her laugh. Vaughn is correct, though. I would like to keep myself in one piece.
The chat goes silent after Balor mentions Samara. I can only guess either the guys have a side chat or someone is explaining to the ancients about the bag. The static charge of an unread message lingers in my palm.
Samara’s class isn’t horrible, but lord save me, it’s basically arguing with a purpose.
The drone of her voice fades into background noise as I watch dust motes dance in the sunbeams cutting through the tall windows.
The last two classes of the day are in Shadowcarve, and two of my mates are teaching them.
War Strategies with Callan—he basically uses me as an assistant.
I’m the only fourth year left alive. Shadowcarve graduating class of one.
A soft chuckle escapes my lips thinking about it, the irony bitter on my tongue.
Callan and I go head to head on the simulator to demonstrate how they work.
Our battle is up on the big screen for all to see, the holographic images casting an eerie blue glow across the students’ faces.
Of course, Klauth brings Thauglor into the classroom to watch the demonstration, their heavy footfalls, and the scent of smoke and leather announcing their arrival.
I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder at them, my concentration breaking for a heartbeat. “Let’s make this harder. You need to win in three moves,” Klauth says and leans in to speak with Thauglor, their whispers like rustling leaves.
“Are they serious?” Callan asks, and I chuckle, the sound dry in my throat.
“Deadly. Pick the scenario and let’s show the third years how it’s done.” I roll my neck, and you can hear several cracks, the tension releasing with each pop.
Klauth takes this time to speak to the class about the last four years of school, recounting all of my victories.
His deep voice resonates against the stone walls, sending vibrations through the floor beneath my feet.
“How come you didn’t run this year?” A third-year questions from the back of the class, his voice cutting through the respectful silence.
“She is your sovereign Queen and ruler of the Aurelian Isles,” Thauglor answers and flares his wings for a moment before Klauth places my diadem on my head.
The cool metal settles against my brow, its weight familiar yet still strange.
I want to grumble about having to wear it, but secretly I actually enjoy it.
After all, it’s a gift from Ziggy, something that belonged to his mom.
The gems catch the light, sending tiny rainbows dancing across my hands.
“Ready, Callan?” I lean around the side of the simulator to look at him, breathing in the scent of ozone from the machine.
“As ready as I’m going to be,” Callan says with a wince, his fingers drumming nervously on the console.
Balor steps forward and hits the start button.
The scenario plays out on the big screen in front of the classroom.
The tactile controls warm beneath my fingertips as I execute my strategy.
Within three moves, I’ve destroyed Callan’s forces and wiped the map clean.
Leaning back, I smile, the taste of victory sweet in my mouth.
“This is why I was the six-time reigning champion of both gauntlets and the purge.” I tilt my head, looking at both of my dragon mates. They smile back at me, proud of what I’ve done, their eyes glowing with that possessive heat that makes my skin tingle.
“Anyone want to analyze where I went wrong to get my butt handed to me so badly?” Callan offers, and I step away from the simulators, the soles of my boots silent against the stone floor.
Thauglor pulls me to him and rests my back against his chest, then rests his hands on my shoulders.
His heartbeat thunders against my spine, steady and reassuring.
The heat from his body seeps through my clothes, and his scent—smoke and spice and something uniquely him—envelops me.
Knowing I have him at my back and Klauth within reaching distance, I relax instantly, my muscles uncoiling like a spring finally released.