Dragon Born Luna

Kiara The first rule of stealing from wolves?Don’t get caught. Second rule? Don’t bleed. Somehow I’ve just broken both—spectacularly. Blood drips from my split knuckles onto the cobblestones, each drop a bright, damning smear in the moonlight. The guard groans at my feet, his silver-plated armor dented where my boot slammed into his ribs. His sword lies beside him, gleaming with a cruel edge—its steel wet with a streak of red. My red. Idiot. I wasn’t supposed to fight. I was supposed to slip past like shadow. But when he lunged from the alcove, blade aimed for my throat, instinct took over. Now he’s bleeding. I’m bleeding. And I’ve lost the element of surprise. Somewhere behind me, a horn sounds—low and hollow, echoing through the stone corridors like a death bell. The alarm’s been raised. I curse under my breath and bolt, my boots pounding against damp stone as I tear down the narrow service alley. My palm presses against the gash on my forearm. Not deep, but messy. Enough to leave a trail. Enough to be scented. The wolfsbane oil I rubbed on my skin earlier has worn thin. Its bitter scent is fading fast, replaced by the sharp, iron tang of blood. A shutter bangs open overhead. “Intruder in the west wing!” a voice calls. Male. Rough. Close. So much for subtlety. I duck under a sagging clothesline and leap over a stack of crates, landing hard and skidding on the slick stone. My shoulder slams into a wall. Dead end. My breath catches in my throat. The back wall of the kitchen annex rises before me, slick with moss and smoke-stained soot. No doors. No windows. Just a tall, narrow chimney carved from the same black stone. Perfect. Or suicidal at all. No time to hesitate. I throw myself at the bricks, fingers clawing for purchase. The mortar crumbles under my nails. I scale the lower wall, boots scraping, knees slipping. The opening is narrower than it looked—my shoulders barely squeeze in. The inside reeks of ash and old grease, smoke-slick and suffocating. I wedge myself into the flue and start climbing. Then I hear it. A howl. Not human. Not even pretending to be. The sound splits the night like a blade, sharp and wrong and hungry. The hunters. Another joins it. Then another. The sound circles like a pack—closer, tighter, hunting. They’ve picked up my scent. I scramble faster, the flue narrowing with every inch. My skin scrapes raw against the brick. My breath burns. Below, a thud. Then a low growl curls up the chimney. Hot breath follows, steaming up the shaft and carrying with it the stench of wet fur. They’re here. One jumps. I hear it—the claws against stone, the hiss of rage, the click of fangs. Climb. Climb faster. My back presses to one wall, my boots brace against the opposite side. I shove myself upward in short, frantic bursts, arms shaking, lungs screaming for air. A sliver of moonlight gleams above me—so close. Freedom. Safety. Then— A hand snatches my ankle. Fingers, not claws. Still, I thrash, panic choking me. “Stop fighting, you i***t,” a voice growls. Feminine. Low. Familiar. Julise. Her grip tightens. “You’ll bring the whole pack down on us.” “What—how—” I gasp, twisted around, trying to see her face in the smoke. “Quiet,” she hisses. “You want to live? Listen to me. There’s a hatch three meters up. Use it. Move silently. No stumbles. No sound. They’re hunting with ears now.” “Why are you helping me?” My voice shakes. Her eyes catch the light—hard, unreadable. “Because if Hayden finds you first, it’s not just your life at risk.” She doesn’t wait for my answer. She releases my leg and drops down the chimney like she’s done it before. A moment later, I hear snarls erupt below—then the unmistakable clash of bodies. She’s drawing them away. I blink sweat from my eyes and climb. Three meters. One chance. At the top, I find the hatch—small, iron-rimmed, nearly invisible in the soot. I shove it open and tumble into the pantry beyond, landing hard on cold stone tiles. I don’t move. I barely breathe. Outside, the howls fade. Footsteps thunder past. But no one opens the door. I’m alone. Safe—for now. But Julise… she knew this place too well. Knew the chimney, the hatch, the patrols. She’s not just the head of the kitchens. No servant with a sharp tongue and flour-dusted sleeves. She’s something else. And I have no idea whose side she’s really on.