Page 8 of Beneath Scales and Shadows
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.
