Page 9 of Beneath Scales and Shadows
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—andher, 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.
