Page 2 of Beneath Scales and Shadows (Lost Lunas of Artania #1)

CHAPTER TWO

SORA

Cold came first. Not the sharp bite of New York winter, but something deeper—a bone-deep chill that radiated from her core outward. Sora drifted through darkness, consciousness ebbing like the tide. Pain pulsed through her body, though when she tried to catalog its source, her mind refused to cooperate.

Am I dead?

The thought floated through her awareness like a tea leaf on dark water. She remembered falling, remembered the train. By the Stars, the train.

No one could have survived that impact. Yet here she was, thinking, feeling.

Sensation crept back slowly. Rough fabric against her skin. The scent of woodsmoke and baking bread—something that didn’t belong together. Not in New York. Unless she was at some fine dining—which confused her the most—because she shouldn’t be alive.

And yet, she was.

A distant cacophony of unfamiliar voices, pots clanging, orders barked in authoritative tones.

“Girl, you’ve caused enough trouble. Wake up already.”

The stern voice cut through her fragmented thoughts. Sora fought to open eyes that felt crusted with ice, but without the wintery bite.

The world appeared in fragments—a stone ceiling, flickering firelight, a woman’s face hovering above her. The face was lined with both age and disapproval, framed by gray-streaked brown hair pulled back in a severe bun.

“M-Mother?” The word emerged from her lips unbidden, in a voice that wasn’t quite her own—higher, softer.

Something about the word tasted wrong. The woman in front of her wasn’t her mother—and yet, something deep inside told her that she was.

“At least your wits haven’t frozen completely.” The woman pressed a rough hand to her forehead. “The fever’s broken. You’re lucky they found you when they did. What possessed you to wander out to the lake in winter?”

Sora tried to push herself up on her elbows, but her arms trembled with weakness. This body felt wrong—smaller, softer, unfamiliar, as though she’d stepped into clothing tailored for someone else.

“I don’t...” she began, then faltered, unsure what to say. She couldn’t recall a lake, only the oncoming train.

“Rest now.” The woman— Miranda , supplied a voice in Sora’s head—tucked woolen blankets around her with practiced efficiency. “Tomorrow you’ll be back in the kitchens. The Midwinter Ball approaches, and there’s bread to be baked.” Her tone softened slightly. “Your father was worried sick. Sadly, Morgana’s had to take your shifts in order to keep up with our daily demands.”

Sora’s gaze drifted past the woman to a small window cut into thick stone walls. Outside, snow fell in lazy flakes, illuminated by torchlight. And beyond that, hanging in the night sky like an impossible hallucination, was Earth—a blue-green orb surrounded by stars.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Am I dreaming? This can’t be real...

The woman followed her gaze. “Beautiful night. The White Moon blesses us tomorrow.” She cupped Sora’s cheek and gently tapped it. “Sleep now. Your strength will return.”

When the door closed behind Miranda, Sora forced her trembling body to sit upright. The small room swam before her eyes: a rough-hewn bed, a simple wooden chest, a cracked mirror hanging on the wall. A stranger’s room, yet something in her mind recognized it as an unused—until now—spare room in the servants’ quarters .

She pushed back the covers and placed her feet on the cool stone floor. Her legs nearly buckled as she stood, muscles protesting with unfamiliar weakness. Three unsteady steps brought her to the mirror.

The face that stared back was her own—but wasn’t.

Same blonde hair, though duller and more brittle. Same sapphire eyes, though surrounded by shadows of exhaustion—more than what she normally had whenever she returned from a long shift of intense research.

But her cheekbones were more pronounced, her jaw sharper with hunger, her skin weathered by labor rather than academia. Her hands, when she raised them to her face, were callused and rough, bearing burns that spoke of years near ovens and open flames.

“What the hell is happening?” she whispered harshly, the words fogging the mirror’s surface. “None of this makes sense.”

Two sets of memories battled for dominance in her mind. Sora Valerith, thirty-two, PhD, specialist in medieval weaponry and artifacts.

And... someone else.

A baker’s daughter. A royal kitchen servant in a kingdom called Celestoria.

She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to sort through the fragmented memories. The castle. The royal family. King Ralph and Queen Marcille. Crown Prince Markth and Princess Jewels. Her father Garth, the master baker. Her mother Miranda, head pastry chef. Her sister Morgana, assistant to their mother.

And her. The clumsy one. The dreamer. The disappointment.

But all that wasn’t her …

A sharp knock at the door startled her back to the bed. She barely managed to pull the covers over herself before the door swung open, revealing a young woman who looked to be only a year or two older than her current body’s apparent age.

An older sister she’d never had…

Morgana had their mother’s stern mouth and their father’s hazel eyes, her brown hair neatly braided and tucked beneath a simple cap.

“So you’ve decided to rejoin the living.” Morgana set a steaming bowl on the small table beside the bed. “Mother said you might be hungry.”

Sora’s stomach growled at the scent of savory broth. “Thank you.”

Morgana studied her with narrowed eyes. “You’re different.”

“What do you mean?”

“Since they pulled you from the lake.” Morgana crossed her arms. “You look confused and act like you barely know me.”

Sora reached for the soup to avoid meeting her supposed sister’s gaze. “Near-drowning does strange things to the mind.” The explanation came from nowhere, yet felt right—recalling similar cases she’d read about in her history books. “I’m still lost…” She gingerly pointed to her forehead and then waved her hand aimlessly in the air, as if trying to conjure all the answers to the questions she was missing. “And still sorting through things.”

“Well, figure it out quickly. Father expects you in the kitchens at dawn.” Morgana’s tone softened slightly. “I’ve covered your shifts for three days, but I can’t manage both our work forever.”

“ Three days!? ” Sora nearly dropped the spoon. “I’ve been unconscious for three days?”

“They found you half-frozen on the lake ice. No one knows how you got there or what you were doing out in that storm.” Morgana’s expression shifted to something unreadable. “Father was beside himself. Mother hardly slept.”

Guilt washed over Sora, though she had no memory of causing this family distress. “I’m sorry.”

“Just recover your strength.” Morgana moved toward the door then paused. “And Sora? Whatever fascination drew you to the lake—let it go. The castle has enough rumors going around. I would rather not put any more focus on our family.”

After Morgana left, Sora forced herself to finish the broth, her historian’s mind automatically cataloging every detail of her surroundings as she tried to piece together exactly where she was—and how she’d gotten here.

Medieval architecture, likely 14th or 15th century by Earth standards. Primitive, yet the room was clean and meticulously kept. Though it lacked modern conveniences like electricity, certain details stood out—glowing stones encased in glass spheres, their appearance coal-like, but emitting an otherworldly white light laced with a faint rainbow sheen. Undeniably unnatural.

The small window facing north provided a clear view of Earth in the night sky—impossible, yet undeniable.

She was on another world—and perhaps another realm?

Somehow, at the moment of her death, she had been transported to this place— Artania , supplied that same inner voice—and into the body of a kitchen maid who shared her face.

She placed the spoon in the empty bowl and pushed the dish away, sighing.

Logically, this should be some weird dream, perhaps brought on by her unhealthy habits she’d had for far too long. But the deep, unshakable sensation in the pit of her stomach—and her instincts paired with the odd voice in the back of her head—told her that this was very much real.

Somehow, this world was her new reality… but how? And why?

* * *

Dawn arrived with another knock, this one more insistent. Sora opened her eyes to find Miranda setting out a simple dress of rough-spun wool, a clean apron, and sturdy shoes beside the bed.

“Up with you now.” Miranda’s tone brooked no argument. “Your father needs help with the morning bread, and there’s pastry dough waiting to be molded.”

Sora dressed quickly, her body moving with muscle memory her conscious mind didn’t share. When she reached to tie back her hair, she noticed something strange—a faint shimmer across her skin in the early morning light. She examined her arms, turning them in the weak sunbeams streaming through the window, but the phenomenon vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

How odd…

Was it a figment of her imagination? Another oddity from her other self’s memory, a glimpse from a distant memory perhaps?

She shook her head, mentally filing the strange phenomenon aside for later, and continued down the hall of the servants’ quarters.

Now isn’t the time to act any more suspicious than I know I already am.

The castle kitchens sprawled beneath the main halls, a warren of stone rooms filled with roaring ovens, preparation tables, and harried servants. Heat blasted Sora’s face as Miranda led her through the main doors into controlled chaos.

Garth—a barrel-chested man with kind eyes and flour dusting his salt-and-pepper beard—looked up from a colossal wooden table where he kneaded dough with practiced efficiency. “There’s my girl.” Relief flooded his features. “Back from the dead, are we?”

“Nearly,” Sora managed, the word catching in her throat, unable to process how he was the split perfect image of her father back on Earth… who was an accountant… and definitely wasn’t the man in front of her.

“Just don’t do it again, okay? You nearly made me lose all my hair with worry.” He embraced her quickly, then guided her to a station beside him. “Let’s start you out slow. Nothing clears the mind like honest work. Simple rolls today—think you can manage?”

Before she could answer, a servant boy rushed in, eyes wide. “Master Baker! The queen requests your presence—something about the menu for tonight’s feast.”

Garth sighed and wiped his forehead. “Duty calls. Morgana, watch your sister. She’s still weak.”

As he departed, Morgana appeared at Sora’s side, dropping a ball of dough before her. “Simple rolls,” she repeated, eyes narrowing. “Even you can’t ruin those.”

Sora stared at the dough, panic rising in her chest. She’d never baked anything more complicated than store-bought cookie dough in her entire life. And so, it wasn’t like she had an oven in her studio apartment to experiment with.

Yet as she tentatively pressed her hands into the soft mass, her fingers began to move with a confidence she didn’t recognize, dividing and shaping with practiced ease.

“Seems your hands remember, even if your mind often wanders.” Morgana’s tone held both relief and suspicion. “Perhaps you’ll be useful after all.”

The morning passed in a blur of activity. Sora’s body worked while her mind observed, cataloging the fascinating medieval kitchen operations. Servants rushed back and forth, carrying ingredients, finished products, and messages from above. Orders were shouted, complaints muttered, gossip exchanged in hushed tones between tasks.

By midday, her arms ached, and sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. When Miranda announced a brief rest for the kitchen staff, Sora gratefully collapsed onto a bench in a quiet corner, nursing a cup of watered wine.

A slender young woman in finer dress than the kitchen staff slipped through a side door, scanning the room until her gaze landed on Sora. She hurried over, her movements graceful despite her haste.

“You’re awake!” The young woman clasped Sora’s hands. “When I heard they’d found you by the lake, I feared the worst.”

Recognition flickered through Sora’s borrowed memories. “Lyra,” she said, the name feeling right on her tongue.

Relief crossed Lyra’s delicate features. “Your mother said you might not remember everything. The cold coupled with a near-death experience can do strange things to the mind, and you were lost to us for over three days.”

Lyra was a handmaiden to Lady Elspeth, a minor noble in Queen Marcille’s court. And, if the warmth in her eyes was any indication, Sora’s closest friend in this world—at least, her body’s best ally.

“I’m still... piecing things together,” Sora admitted, frowning. “But there’s blind spots in my memory… and unexplainable fog.”

Lyra leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

The question sent a chill through Sora that had nothing to do with her recent near-drowning. “I don’t remember what I was seeking.”

Disappointment flickered across Lyra’s face. “Perhaps that’s for the best. The royal library has been... restricted since you were found. Lady Elspeth can barely access her usual texts on herb lore, let alone anything more... sensitive.”

Before Sora could question her cryptic statement, Miranda’s sharp voice cut through the kitchen. “Break’s over! Back to work, all of you!”

Lyra squeezed her hand. “I’ll come find you tonight. There’s something I need to show you.”

As the afternoon wore on, Sora grew increasingly aware of strange changes in her body. Scents assaulted her with unexpected intensity—the yeast in the bread, the cinnamon in the pastries, the sweat of the kitchen workers. When nobles passed through to inspect the preparations, their scents hit her like physical blows—expensive oils, subtle perfumes, and something deeper, more primal. Some smells made her want to step closer, while others repelled her with inexplicable intensity.

Waves of warmth cascaded through her at unexpected moments, leaving her dizzy and disoriented. More troubling still was the strange pull she felt toward the distant mountains visible through the kitchen’s high windows—a tugging sensation in her chest, as though something important waited for her there.

As she worked, she overheard snatches of conversation about the upcoming Midwinter Ball. The event, it seemed, was more than a simple celebration—it was something called a Selection, where unmarked alphas and omegas would manifest their true nature under enchanted moonstone chandeliers.

“Alpha,” she whispered to herself, testing the word. “Omega.” The terms held meaning she couldn’t quite grasp, like a language half-remembered from childhood.

What type of kingdom-wide new age Greek Life cult was I forced to join?

By evening, exhaustion pulled at her limbs. As the kitchen staff cleaned up from the day’s labor, Morgana approached, wiping flour from her hands.

“You did well today,” she said, surprising Sora with the compliment. “Though you still seem... distracted.”

“Just tired,” Sora assured her. “And trying not to mess up.”

Morgana studied her face. “One of the nobles stopped me in the corridor. Asked about you.”

“About me? Why?”

“He said he caught your scent as he passed through.” Morgana’s expression darkened. “Said it was... unusually appealing.”

Something in her tone raised Sora’s hackles. “Is that bad?”

“Kitchen maids don’t attract noble attention unless they’re looking for trouble.” Morgana’s voice dropped. “Especially not with the Selection approaching. Be careful, sister. Something isn’t right about you since the lake.”

Before Sora could respond, Miranda appeared to usher them toward the servants’ quarters for the night. As they walked through the torch-lit corridors, Sora caught her reflection in a polished silver serving tray—and froze. For just a moment, as the torchlight played across her skin, she could have sworn she saw a faint shimmer, like silver scales, tracing the curve of her cheek.

She blinked, and it was gone.

In their shared room, Morgana fell asleep almost immediately, exhaustion claiming her after days of double duty. Somehow, there was a ping of guilt for being the cause of her sister’s overworked predicament.

She lay awake, staring at Earth through the window, her mind racing.

The strange sensations in her body, the pull toward the mountains, the flashes of scale-like shimmer on her skin—none of it made sense.

A soft tap roused her from her thoughts. Carefully, she climbed out of bed, hoping to not wake up Morgana. The last thing Sora wanted was to ruin her sister’s good night’s sleep by making her more suspicious of her.

She opened the door to find Lyra, a finger pressed to her lips in warning.

“Come with me,” Lyra whispered, glancing nervously down the corridor. “There’s something you need to see.”

“What is it?” Sora kept her voice low, conscious of Morgana sleeping behind her.

Lyra’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. “A book. About the thing you were looking for before the lake. About why you’re changing.”

“Changing?” The word sent a shiver through Sora. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen how you react to scents now. How you keep looking toward the mountains.” Lyra pulled a folded parchment from her sleeve. “This fell from your pocket when they brought you in. I kept it safe.”

Sora unfolded the parchment with trembling fingers. In the dim light, she could just make out a series of symbols etched in fading ink—the same symbols she had traced on the dragon dagger just before her death on Earth.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Lyra’s expression grew solemn. “It’s about the prophecy. About what you are becoming.” She glanced over her shoulder. “We can’t talk here. Meet me in the north tower at midnight.”

“What am I becoming?” Sora clutched the parchment tighter.

Lyra’s answer sent ice through her veins.

“Something the king would kill to prevent.” Her eyes locked with Sora’s. “Something that hasn’t existed in Celestoria for generations. An omega with dragon blood.”