Page 1 of Beneath Scales and Shadows (Lost Lunas of Artania #1)

CHAPTER ONE

SORA

The Metropolitan Museum’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their harsh glow a stark contrast to the dim display cases housing the dragon artifacts. Sora circled the central pedestal, her fingers hovering centimeters from the ceremonial dagger’s obsidian surface.

Closing time had come and gone an hour ago, but the curator had granted her special access—a privilege earned through years of dedicated research and published papers on medieval weaponry.

“You really should get some sleep, Dr. Valerith,” said Maurice, the night security guard, his keys jingling against his hip as he leaned through the doorway. “Those ‘dragons’ have been dead for centuries. They’ll still be here tomorrow.”

Sora glanced up, dark circles framing eyes that sparkled with academic fervor despite her exhaustion. “Just thirty more minutes. There’s something about these etchings I can’t quite place.”

Maurice shook his head, a paternal smile crossing his weathered face. “That’s what you said an hour ago. Don’t make me lock you in here.”

“Promise. Thirty minutes, then I’m gone.” Her stomach growled, punctuating the lie. “Please?”

“All right.”

When his footsteps faded down the corridor, Sora returned her attention to the dagger. Unlike the other artifacts in the collection—ornate shields emblazoned with dragon motifs and ceremonial armor scaled to mimic dragon hide—this piece seemed almost functional. Practical. The blade curved like a talon, its spine etched with symbols unlike any language she recognized from her decade of study and research.

None of her colleagues had come across anything like them either.

“What do you say?” she whispered, leaning closer as she slowly twirled the blade. “And why do you exist?”

The symbols appeared to shift under her scrutiny, as if rearranging themselves when viewed from different angles. Fatigue, she reasoned. They’d always seemed to move whenever she’d pushed herself too far.

She’d been working sixteen-hour days since the collection arrived, surviving on vending machine coffee and protein bars. How could she sleep when such unique pieces that no one had ever come across existed? Especially when it was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in a long time.

Not every discovery resulted in something groundbreaking. Donors didn’t care about work sites that turned up simple artifacts with little value, like eating utensils. If there were no precious metals or jewels, they weren’t excited to fund excursions.

She knew that was the main reason her current collection wasn’t just fully funded—it had captured global interest.

Dragons. The entire collection was themed around the mythical creature, crafted from materials the world had never seen before.

And no matter how hard she tried to resist, something compelled her to trace the largest symbol—a crescent moon overlapping what might have been a stylized eye. Her finger hovered a breadth away from the surface. Biting her lip, she hesitated, flicking her eyes toward the door where Maurice had just disappeared through.

Museum protocol forbade touching artifacts without gloves, but she’d left hers at her workstation…

Just this once.

The metal felt impossibly warm against her skin, almost alive. A jolt shot through her fingertip, up her arm, straight to her chest. Sora jerked back, heart racing.

“By the ghost of Kathleen Kenyon, what the hell was that?” She checked her finger for damage but found nothing—no mark, no burn, though the phantom sensation of heat lingered.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her department head: Results tomorrow?

Sora sighed. Dr. Landry had been pressuring her for preliminary findings for the upcoming academic journal publication deadline. “Nothing like a little career pressure to spice up a Thursday night,” she muttered, quickly typing a response promising a morning email.

After photographing the dagger from several additional angles, she reluctantly packed her notes. A strange sense of unfinished business tugged at her as she turned away from the display—like a conversation cut short.

She hated leaving a project behind, especially when her instincts screamed that she was close to discovering something. Each artifact begging her to uncover their truths that were locked away from the universe.

Sighing, she shook her head, pushing the gut feeling away, knowing she was being silly. The last thing she wanted was to be here when Maurice returned from his rounds and found her in the same spot he’d left her.

The subway would be nearly empty this late, and she welcomed the relative peace after hours of intense concentration.

Outside, Manhattan greeted her with a blast of autumn chill. The late October wind sliced through her thin blazer, and she hunched her shoulders against it, mentally calculating the fastest route to the nearest station—cursing herself for not pulling her winter jacket out of storage.

Her small loft apartment—more of a walk-in closet by most standards—saw her less than the office did. She returned only for a few hours of rest before the routine began all over again.

Three blocks south, two east. Her shoes scuffed against the pavement as she navigated through near-empty streets—at least by Big Apple norms—though there were still enough people on the sidewalks that she had to watch where she was going.

The subway entrance loomed ahead, a gaping mouth swallowing the occasional late-night traveler. Sora descended the grimy steps, swiping her MetroCard at the turnstile, the familiar routine grounding her racing thoughts.

The platform stretched empty before her, save for a couple leaning against the far wall and a businessman typing furiously on his phone. Sora positioned herself near the edge, allowing her mind to drift back to the artifacts.

Tomorrow she’d compare the dagger’s symbols to the other artifacts they’d uncovered and hadn’t studied yet, hoping to find some connection to what was available in the university’s linguistic archives.

The familiar rumble of an approaching train vibrated through the platform. Sora stepped closer to the edge, subconsciously checking the time on her watch—1:17 AM. The train’s headlights appeared in the tunnel, growing brighter as it approached.

Behind her, she heard a sudden commotion—raised voices, the scuffle of feet. Something about the angry tone made her turn her head.

The businessman was now standing, his phone forgotten, shouting at someone Sora couldn’t see. “I told you to leave me alone!”

She shouldn’t get involved. This was New York, after all. Mind your business, eyes forward—especially when you’re a woman traveling alone in the midst of the night—but something about the escalating tension pulled her attention away from the approaching train.

A third figure stepped into view, face obscured by a hood. The businessman backed away, hands raised defensively.

Sora’s historian instincts kicked in—observe, document, analyze—to recall later on. But as she turned more fully to watch, she caught a glimpse of the figure reaching for their pocket as they advanced toward the businessman with alarming intent.

The train thundered into the station, brakes squealing, covering the screams from all around them.

In the moment of distraction, someone slammed firmly against her back, shoving her forward with shocking force.

Time slowed. Her body pitched over the platform edge.

The train’s metal face rushed toward her with terrifying speed. Her research bag slipped from her shoulder, papers exploding outward like confetti. Her mouth opened in a scream that never found voice.

In that final moment, as life compressed into a single point of awareness, two certainties rose from the chaos:

Those symbols on the dagger—they were moving .

And no matter what her colleagues may believe—dragons were real .

Then came searing pain, blinding light, and a pair of haunting unfamiliar eyes watching impassively as darkness claimed her completely.