Page 2 of Beneath Scales and Shadows
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 weremoving.
And no matter what her colleagues may believe—dragons werereal.
Then came searing pain, blinding light, and a pair of haunting unfamiliar eyes watching impassively as darkness claimed her completely.
CHAPTERTWO
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.
