Page 3 of Beneath Scales and Shadows (Lost Lunas of Artania #1)

CHAPTER THREE

SORA

The north tower’s spiraling staircase seemed to stretch endlessly upward, each stone step worn smooth by centuries of usage. Sora pressed her back against the wall at the sound of approaching guards, her heart thundering in her chest. The parchment with its dragon symbols felt like a burning brand against her skin where she’d tucked it into her bodice.

When the guards passed, she continued her ascent, guided by nothing but the faint glow of moonlight through narrow-slit windows. The blue-tinged light caressed her skin, and with each touch, something stirred beneath her surface—a warm and restless energy that both terrified and exhilarated her.

What’s happening to me?

Lyra waited at the top, silhouetted against a circular window that framed the impossible vision of Earth hanging in the star-strewn sky. In her arms, she cradled a leather-bound tome nearly half her size.

“You came.” Relief colored her voice. “I feared you might think me mad.”

“After everything that’s happened, madness seems the most rational explanation.” Sora approached, her gaze fixed on the formidable-sized book. “What is that?”

Lyra’s fingers traced the embossed cover reverently. “Lady Elspeth believes I borrow her herb lore texts. She doesn’t know I’ve been accessing the restricted section when she sleeps.” She set the book on a dusty table beneath the window. “This is the true history of Artania—the one King Ralph’s grandfather purged from the official records.”

The book fell open with the weight of ages, its pages crackling with protest. Illuminated illustrations sprawled across yellowed parchment—dragons soaring above mountain peaks, humans with scaled skin walking among ordinary folk, ceremonies conducted beneath dual moons.

Other creatures framed the pages—elves with their pointy ears and bows, fae with their two pairs of strong, iridescent wings, similar to dragonflies, and large horse-sized wolves transforming into humans.

What type of creatures live on Artania? Those of myth and legend on Earth?

“The Dralux Clan,” Lyra whispered, pointing to an illustration of a massive obsidian-scaled dragon. “They once lived in harmony with Celestoria. Dragon riders protected the kingdom from invaders, and in return, humans gave them treasure and protected dragon eggs to usher in the next generation of dragons for new riders.”

Sora’s historian mind drank in the images. “What changed?”

“King Aldric—our current king’s great grandfather—betrayed them during peace negotiations.” Lyra’s finger moved to an illustration showing a royal figure standing over the body of a fallen woman with silver scales shimmering across her skin. “He murdered their omega queen and began hunting both dragons and all omegas—no matter their species—within reach.”

A chill rippled down Sora’s spine. “Omega. You used that word before. What does it mean here?”

Lyra studied her face, concern evident in her eyes. “The lake took more of your memories than I feared.” She turned several pages, revealing diagrams of human bodies marked with strange symbols. “Our society operates on a hierarchy—alphas are rulers and leaders of our warriors with commanding voices that can control others. Betas form the general population. Deltas are neutrals, often scholars or healers.”

“And omegas?”

“Rare and coveted. They can stabilize alpha rage and a populace unease, bear powerful children, and once were revered as spiritual conduits.” Lyra’s voice dropped lower. “Until prophecies foretold that the Moon Goddess would cry, her tears forming into unique omegas that would help overthrow human dominion, returning balance to Artania.”

Sora’s fingers absently traced her collarbone where earlier she’d felt the strange heat. “And you think I’m...”

“I know you are. Your scent has changed, Sora.” Lyra leaned closer, inhaling. “You smell of ash and embers and moonflower.” Her eyes widened slightly. “That’s impossible for a baker’s daughter.”

Something clicked in Sora’s mind, dread seeping into the core of her stomach. “The nobles who noticed me in the kitchen. That’s why, isn’t it?”

Lyra nodded. “Alphas are drawn to omega scents instinctively. It will only grow stronger as you approach your first heat.”

“My first—” Sora choked on the word. “Heat?”

“A time when your body will call for a mate. Your first time is when your powers will manifest fully.” Lyra turned more pages, revealing illustrations of people with light emanating from their hands, their eyes, their hearts. “Omegas once channeled magic from the Moon Goddess herself, to help guide and unite all the species of her world.”

Outside, clouds parted, allowing moonbeams to stream unfiltered through the window. The light bathed Sora’s skin, and this time, there was no mistaking what happened. Silver scales shimmered across her forearms, delicate as fish scales but hard as metal when she touched them.

“Goddess protect us,” Lyra breathed, reaching out to touch the transformation with trembling fingers. “It’s not just omega traits. There’s dragon blood in you.”

Sora stared at her arms, transfixed by the metallic shimmer that faded as soon as she moved out of the direct moonlight. “How is this possible?”

Lyra’s face paled. “There’s only one explanation. Somewhere in your lineage, a dragon and human must have mated. The offspring would appear human but carry dormant dragon traits—traits that might manifest under certain conditions.”

“Like nearly drowning in an ice-cold lake?”

“Or like the approach of the White Moon.” Lyra pointed to the sky where, beside Earth, Artania’s largest moon hung full and bright, with its smaller, white-tinged companion rising behind it—what was called the moon back on Earth. “The white moon this season rises tomorrow night. The Midwinter Selection Ball is deliberately timed to coincide with it—when nascent alphas and omegas manifest under the moonstone chandeliers.”

Sora’s mind reeled with implications. “If I’m discovered—”

“Death would be the kindest outcome.” Lyra closed the book with a heavy thud. “The royal family has spent generations ensuring no omegas survive within their kingdom. Any would be a threat to their reign. A dragon-blooded omega? They’d make an example of you.”

The stone walls suddenly felt like a prison closing in around her. “What do I do?”

“We hide it.” Lyra pulled a small clay vial from her pocket. “This tincture contains herbs that will temporarily mask your scent. Use it sparingly—three drops each morning and night.”

Sora accepted the vial with shaking hands.

“And during the Selection Ball, stay in the shadows. Avoid windows and the direct light of the moonstone chandeliers.” Lyra squeezed her arm where the scales had been. “Most importantly, if any alpha approaches you drawn by your scent, walk away immediately. State that you’re wearing your mother’s perfume, used for special occasions. Their presence will intensify your reactions, making concealment impossible.”

“And if I can’t?”

“‘Accidentally spill a drink—even a tray—if you have to.” Lyra frowned. “You may get disciplined later, but it would at least get you away from the event.”

Later, as Sora crept back to her shared room with Morgana, she felt even more lost than when she’d first woken up.

Her historian’s mind methodically cataloged everything she’d learned, searching for patterns, for explanations, for some way to understand what was happening to her.

Deep down, she sensed a connection—the dragon dagger she studied, its unknown words shifting like they were alive, tied somehow to this world called Artania and the silver scales appearing on her skin under the moonlight.

I wonder where I will wake up the next time I open my eyes…

* * *

The next three days passed in a blur of mounting tension. Each morning, Sora applied Lyra’s tincture behind her ears and at her wrists, choking on its bitter herbal scent. Each night, she examined her body in private, watching with fascination and terror as moonlight revealed more silver scales across her shoulders, down her spine, along the curve of her hips.

The dreams came with increasing intensity—soaring over mountain ranges she’d never seen, diving through clouds, feeling fire build in her chest before releasing it in a triumphant roar. She would wake gasping, her body burning with fever that broke only with the coming of dawn.

In the kitchens, she struggled to maintain normalcy. Her hands remembered tasks her mind did not, allowing her to complete her duties adequately if not with Morgana’s practiced skill. But every time a noble passed through on some errand or inspection, Sora felt their eyes linger, their nostrils flare as they caught some trace of her scent despite Lyra’s tincture.

The castle hummed with preparations for the Midwinter Selection Ball. Garth supervised the creation of elaborate pastries shaped like dragons, wolves, and other creatures that Sora now understood represented the various species of Artania. When she questioned the symbolism, her father gave her a strange look.

“These are traditional shapes for the Selection,” he said, flour dusting his beard. “Meant to honor the old alliances, before the wars.” His voice dropped. “Your grandfather told stories of a time when dragons were guests at these balls, not just pastry decorations.”

This sparked Sora’s curiosity. “What happened to them?”

Garth glanced around nervously. “That’s not suitable conversation for the royal kitchens, daughter.”

“But—”

“Enough.” The rare sharpness in his tone silenced her. Later, she caught him watching her with worried eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Morgana’s jealousy grew more apparent with each passing day. Sora caught her sister staring with undisguised envy when Lord Perrin, a handsome young noble with hungry eyes, stopped by their workstation to compliment Sora’s herb bread.

“That’s the third noble this week,” Morgana hissed after he left. “What have you done to draw such attention? Bathed in honey?”

“I’ve done nothing,” Sora protested.

“Twenty years I’ve worked toward inheriting Father’s position,” Morgana whispered to a kitchen hand later, unaware that Sora’s newly enhanced hearing caught every word. “Yet they notice her—clumsy, forgetful, suddenly fascinating to all who matter. Something isn’t right, and I intend to discover what.”

The morning of the Selection Ball arrived with a flurry of activity. Servants rushed between the kitchens and the great hall, carrying platters of food, decorations, and messages. Sora worked beside her father, assembling delicate pastry towers while trying to ignore the increasing warmth flowing through her veins.

“You’re flushed,” Garth noted, pressing a cool hand to her forehead. “Perhaps you should rest.”

“I’m fine,” Sora insisted, though fire seemed to dance beneath her skin. “Just nervous about whether everyone will enjoy what we’ve put in so much extra effort to create for them.”

By afternoon, the symptoms had worsened. Every scent in the kitchen assaulted her with painful intensity. Her vision occasionally blurred, bringing everything into sharper focus when it cleared. The pull toward the mountains had become almost physical, a tugging beneath her breastbone that made her want to run from the castle and never look back.

Lyra found her hiding in a storage pantry, curled against sacks of flour, trying to control her ragged breathing.

“It’s happening too fast,” Lyra whispered, kneeling beside her. “The White Moon’s influence is stronger than I anticipated.” She pressed another vial into Sora’s hand—this one filled with silvery liquid. “This is stronger. It will buy you a few more hours, but you cannot attend the ball tonight. The moonstone chandeliers will strip away any concealment.”

Sora uncorked the vial with trembling fingers. “If I don’t appear, Morgana will notice. She’s already suspicious. And thinks I’ve been sneaking away with nobles when no one is looking because of all the unwanted attention I’ve been getting with them.”

“Better her suspicion than the king’s executioner.” Lyra helped her drink the bitter liquid. “I’ll tell your parents you’re ill. With the chaos of tonight’s festivities, one absent servant will hardly be missed.”

The potion worked quickly, cooling the fire in her veins to manageable embers. Sora returned to the kitchens with renewed determination to maintain her facade for just a few more hours. She would feign illness before the ball began, retreat to her room, and then...

And then what? The question haunted her as she completed her duties. How long could she hide what she was becoming? She was prey in the middle of a predator’s den. Where could she go if she fled the castle? The mountains called to her, but what awaited her there besides snow and isolation? How would she survive?

As twilight approached, servants began donning their formal attire for the ball. Though they would primarily serve food and drink, tradition dictated all attendees wear enchanted masks that concealed their identities, theoretically allowing potential mates to find each other by scent alone.

It would’ve been a romantic theme, if she wasn’t trying to hide and not take part in the ball’s festivities.

Miranda presented Sora and Morgana with simple half-masks adorned with silver and copper accents. “These belonged to your grandmother and her sister,” she said, a rare nostalgic smile softening her features. “They served at many a Selection Ball in their time.”

Morgana accepted hers eagerly, while Sora hesitated, remembering Lyra’s warning about the moonstone chandeliers.

“I’m not feeling well,” she began. “Perhaps I should—”

“Nonsense.” Miranda’s tone brooked no argument. “Every available hand is needed tonight. The king has invited nobility from all over to celebrate.”

Trapped, Sora donned the mask, praying Lyra’s potion would hold through the evening. As she followed Morgana toward the great hall, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a polished shield hanging on the wall. The silver mask accentuated her eyes, making them appear deeper, more mysterious. And beneath the mask’s edge, just visible in the torchlight—a shimmer of silver scales along her cheekbone.

The great hall of Celestoria Castle had been transformed into a scene from ancient legend. Gossamer fabrics draped from ceiling to walls, creating the illusion of being inside a towering tent. Hundreds of candles floated in glass globes, while above it all hung the centerpiece—thirteen impressive chandeliers crafted from moonstone, their crystalline surfaces capturing and amplifying the White Moon’s light that streamed through high windows.

Sora positioned herself in the shadows along the wall, a tray of delicate pastries balanced in her hands. From this vantage point, she could observe the proceedings while avoiding the direct light of the chandeliers.

The royal family entered with ceremonial fanfare—King Ralph commanding and authoritative, Queen Marcille graceful yet shrewd at his side. Crown Prince Markth followed, his diplomatic smile never quite reaching his eyes, while Princess Jewels concluded the procession, her beauty matched only by the cold calculation in her gaze as she assessed the gathering.

As masked nobles began to fill the space, moving in practiced patterns of courtly dance, Sora found herself mesmerized by the subtle dynamics at play. Some guests moved with the predatory grace she now recognized as alpha traits, while others displayed the more fluid movements of deltas—unaffected by the volatile politics around them. The majority—betas—formed the foundation of the gathering, their steady presence anchoring the room’s restless energy.

Her body responded to the display with increasing urgency. Waves of heat washed through her, more intense than anything she’d experienced before. Her awareness sharpened until she could distinguish individual scents across the crowded hall—spiced wine, perfumed oils, and beneath it all, the core markers of designation: alpha, beta, delta—and her , the lone omega.

This is a dangerous game I’m playing that will only end badly if I don’t leave now… As soon as everyone’s attention is occupied, I need to sneak away and hope I don’t get caught, before it’s too late.

A nobleman approached her tray, his mask elaborate with golden filigree. As he selected a pastry, his nostrils flared, and his head snapped up, eyes locking onto hers with sudden, laser-focused interest.

“What are you doing serving?” he murmured, voice dropping to a register that seemed to vibrate through her bones. “With a scent like that, you should be among the presented.”

Sora stepped back, remembering Lyra’s warning. “You’re mistaken, my lord.”

“I don’t think so.” He moved closer, intentionally invading her space. “You smell of moonlight blossoms. Intoxicating.”

She retreated another step, bumping into the wall behind her. The nobleman reached for her arm, but before he could make contact, a stern voice interrupted.

“Is there a problem here?” Princess Jewels materialized beside them, her silver mask adorned with sapphires that matched her sharp icy gaze.

The nobleman bowed immediately. “No, Your Highness. I was merely complimenting the excellent pastries.”

Princess Jewels dismissed him with a flick of her wrist, then turned her penetrating gaze to Sora. “You’re Garth’s younger daughter, are you not? The one they found by the frozen lake?”

Sora cursed beneath her mask. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“How interesting.” The princess leaned closer, inhaling deliberately. Her eyes widened fractionally, then narrowed with dangerous speculation. “Very interesting indeed. Perhaps we should speak privately about your... recovery.”

Before Sora could respond, commotion erupted across the hall. The royal soothsayer—an ancient woman wrapped in star-patterned robes—had begun her ceremonial scrying. The ritual typically opened the Selection, with benign predictions about prosperous matches and fertile unions.

But tonight, something was different. The soothsayer froze mid-gesture, her wrinkled face contorting with shock. The moonstone bowl of water she used for scrying began to glow with unnatural intensity, illuminating her horror-struck expression from below.

“The prophecy awakens,” she whispered, her voice somehow carrying across the suddenly silent hall. “The first of the twice-born has arrived—a Luna of dragon blood.”

The bowl shattered in her hands, water and moonstone shards spraying across the marble floor. The soothsayer collapsed, her slight body crumpling like parchment. Queen Marcille gestured sharply, and guards moved to remove the elderly woman from sight.

“This is merely an unfortunate incident,” the queen announced to the gathered crowd, her voice steady despite the tension visible in her shoulders. “The soothsayer has not been well. Please, continue enjoying the festivities. The night of Selection awaits all who seek their destined matches.”

But as she spoke, her sapphire eyes narrowed suspiciously, scanning the crowd as though searching for something—or someone—specific. Beside her, King Ralph maintained a pleasant facade, though his knuckles whitened where he gripped his golden goblet.

Princess Jewels had disappeared in the commotion, leaving Sora momentarily forgotten against the wall. She used the opportunity to retreat further into the shadows, her heart hammering against her ribs. The soothsayer’s words echoed in her mind: The first of the twice-born has arrived.

Somehow, impossibly, the prophecy referred to her—a woman from Earth reborn in Artania. The royal family’s reaction confirmed Lyra’s warnings about what would happen if her true nature was discovered.

She slipped from her position along the wall, desperate to find a more secluded corner. The heat beneath her skin had intensified, and she feared the silver scales might begin to show, even in the shadows. She needed air, needed space away from the crush of bodies and overwhelming scents, while escaping the dangerous moonlight filtering through the chandeliers.

As she moved along the edges of the ballroom, a new scent drifted to her—powerful, ancient, and utterly foreign. It carried notes of midnight and fire, of mountain stone and starlight, calling to something deep within her—something that recognized its complement, its match.

Her steps faltered as warmth pooled in her abdomen, more intense than anything she’d experienced before.

She stopped, suddenly afraid. This reaction was precisely what Lyra had warned her about. Whatever—whoever—carried that scent might trigger the changes she so desperately tried to conceal. She turned away, moving in the opposite direction despite the almost physical pull urging her toward the source.

Focus. Survive the night. Find Lyra. Escape.

She circled the perimeter of the ballroom, keeping to the shadows, until she reached a small alcove where servants had arranged trays of wine goblets. Gathering her composure, she lifted an empty tray and stepped out to go to the nearest hidden servant’s hallway.

Three masked nobles—young lords from their fine attire—intercepted her path. Their scents marked them as alphas, though lacking the potent quality of the mysterious scent that had unsettled her moments before.

“Well, what have we here?” The tallest one placed an empty goblet on her tray, his fingers deliberately brushing against hers. “You smell too delicious to be merely serving wine, little one.”

Sora lowered her gaze. “You’re mistaken, my lord. Please enjoy the Selection.”

She attempted to step around them, but a second noble blocked her path. “I caught your scent from across the room.” His voice slurred slightly with wine. “Someone as sweet as you should be serving us… privately… instead of working on the floor.”

The third moved behind her, effectively boxing her between them. “Remove your mask,” he demanded. “Let us see the face that carries such an intoxicating scent.”

“I cannot, my lord.” Panic threaded through her voice. “Servants must remain masked at all times.”

The first noble leaned closer, his breath hot on her cheek. “We won’t tell if you won’t.” His hand moved to the edge of her mask. “Just a peek.”

Sora clutched the tray before her like a shield as the goblet fell with a clink onto the floor, unnoticed and drowned out by the loud music and conversation. “Please, my lords—”

“The lady clearly isn’t interested in your company.” The voice came from behind them—deep, resonant, carrying an undercurrent of leashed power that made the hair on Sora’s arms stand on end.

The scent hit her then—that same intoxicating blend of midnight and fire, now wrapping around her like a protective cloak. Where moments before she had fled from it, now she found herself leaning toward it, her body recognizing safety where her mind perceived danger.

The three nobles turned, affronted expressions quickly shifting to something closer to wariness. Through the gap between them, Sora glimpsed a tall figure in formal attire, his face hidden behind an elaborate black mask etched with ancient gold. The design caught the light like scales, a large ruby set at its center, with black horns curving from the top. The mask covered more of his face than was customary, leaving only his jaw and mouth visible, as his long rich crimson hair flowed behind him that would make models in a hair care commercial weep with jealousy.

Who is this mysterious masked Fabio, and why do I suddenly feel like the heroine on one of my great-grandma’s old clinch romance covers?

“This doesn’t concern you,” the tallest noble said, though his voice had lost its earlier arrogance.

“I disagree.” The newcomer stepped closer. “When three lords corner an unescorted serving girl, it becomes the concern of anyone with a shred of decency.”

The stranger’s scent enveloped her completely now, somehow calming the fire beneath her skin even as it intensified her awareness of him. The contradictory sensations left her dizzy, rooted to the spot.

“She’s just a kitchen maid,” the wine-slurred noble protested, his words revealing they hadn’t recognized her true nature—only her beauty and alluring scent. “We were merely seeking entertainment—”

“Then I suggest you find it elsewhere.” The stranger’s voice deepened, the pleasant court accent slipping to reveal something wilder beneath. “It’s clear she isn’t interested.”

“And what if we don’t?”

“The lady is under my protection now.” A hand came to rest on Sora’s shoulder, warm and strong through the thin fabric of her serving dress. The contact sent a jolt through her body—not pain but a buzzing sensation that raced across her skin like lightning seeking ground. She gasped softly, the tray trembling in her hands. “I will deal with the three of you myself if I have to. It’d be child’s play—but we wouldn’t want any unnecessary interruptions, now would we?”

The three nobles stared at the stranger’s hand on her shoulder, then at his face, something in his expression making them step back in unison.

“My apologies,” the tallest muttered, his earlier bravado evaporating. “We meant no disrespect to your... claim.”

“Leave us.” The words carried such authority that the nobles turned without another word, disappearing into the crowd as though they’d never been there at all.

Sora remained frozen, the buzzing sensation from his touch spreading through her body like wildfire, both soothing and intensifying the heat that had plagued her all day. The tray slipped from her nerveless fingers, but before it could crash to the floor, his other hand caught it with inhuman speed and grace.

“Careful,” he murmured, setting the tray on a nearby table without removing his hand from her shoulder. “Are you well?”

His touch should have frightened her. Everything Lyra had warned about her condition, about alphas and their effect on emerging omegas, told her to flee if she wanted to survive on this planet. Yet something deeper, more visceral, kept her rooted in place—a recognition that transcended her conscious mind.

“I... yes,” she managed, though her voice emerged thin and breathless.

She felt him step closer, his chest nearly touching her back, his scent wrapping around her like a protective shroud. The fear that had been her constant companion since awakening in this world receded, replaced by a strange sense of security—as though she had been running all her life and finally found shelter.

“Turn around,” he requested, his voice gentler now but no less compelling.

Slowly, afraid of what she might see, Sora turned to face him. His mask was unlike the others at the ball—but nothing could disguise the crimson eyes that stared down at her, holding impossible recognition.

Heat coursed beneath her skin as their gazes locked, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like waking up.

“You’ve come.” His voice resonated directly in her mind, ancient and powerful. “At last.”