Dragon Born Luna

CHAPTER 8 Marked by Shadows

Kiara

The palace at night was a living thing.

Not the way the kitchens were alive—all heat and noise and frantic movement—but something older. Something that watched from the shadows with patient, predatory stillness. The stones themselves seemed to breathe, exhaling centuries of secrets in th toe chill air that coiled around my bare ankles as I slipped through the corridors.

I told myself I wasn't going to the archives.

That would be stupid. Reckless. Exactly what they wanted.

The note had been too obvious. A child could have seen the trap in those four words: Midnight. The old archives. Come alone.

But the hunger gnawing at my ribs wasn't for food. It was for something far more dangerous—answers.

So I went exploring instead.

The west wing I'd heard being talked about in the kitchens as restricted called to me, so I went there instead. Its stairs were narrow, the stone worn smooth by generations of servants' feet. My toes curled against the cold as I climbed, every sense stretched taut. The palace slept around me, but I knew better than to trust silence. Silence was when the most interesting things happened.

The abandoned wing welcomed me with a sigh of stale air and dust. No torches burned here. No guards patrolled. Moonlight streamed through broken panes of stained glass, painting the floor in fractured blues and reds.

I paused at the first mural.

Dragons.

Not the twisted, fire-breathing monsters from the Purge stories, but creatures of impossible grace—their wings spread wide enough to eclipse suns, their claws curled gently around mountain peaks. One coiled protectively around a wolf pup, its massive head bent low as if whispering secrets.

My fingers itched to touch the paint.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

I whirled, my back hitting the wall with a thud that sent dust swirling.

The man in the doorway didn't move. Violet robes pooled around him like spilled wine, the gold embroidery catching the moonlight in fleeting glints. His cane—polished black wood topped with a silver wolf's head—tapped once against the stone.

Vanquise.

The Alpha's shadow. The mouth in the ear of the past Alpha. The rumored architect of the Purge. The man who'd walked out of dragonfire with half his body burned away.

And he was looking right at me.

I dropped into a curtsy so deep my knees protested. "M-my lord. I was just—"

"Cleaning?" His voice was softer than I expected. Almost amused. "At midnight? In a restricted wing?"

The silver wolf's eyes seemed to watch me as he stepped forward. His gait was uneven—not quite a limp, but something careful. Calculated. Like every movement cost him.

I kept my gaze fixed on his boots. Fine leather, spotless. The kind that never saw mud or blood.

Vanquise stopped before the largest mural—a dragon standing upright like a man, its golden eyes blazing even through centuries of grime. My eyes.

"They used to walk among us, you know." He traced the dragon's claw with his cane. "Not as beasts. Not as enemies. As equals."

My pulse thundered in my ears. Was this a test?

When I didn't respond, Vanquise turned. Moonlight carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, turning his grey eyes nearly colorless. "Do you know why this wing is sealed, girl?"

I shook my head.

"The past has claws." His cane tapped again. Closer this time. "Some memories are too dangerous to remember."

A draft slithered through the broken window, raising goosebumps along my arms. Or maybe it was the way he studied me—like a surgeon deciding where to make the first cut.

His nostrils flared slightly. "You smell like the kitchens."

"Yes, my lord."

"And yet..." The cane lifted, tilting my chin up until I had no choice but to meet those frozen eyes. "There's something else beneath it. Wolfsbane, isn't it?"

My breath hitched.

He knew.

He had to know.

But Vanquise only sighed and lowered the cane. "Tell me, kitchen girl—do you believe in ghosts?"

The question caught me off guard. "I—I don't know, my lord."

"I do." He turned back to the mural, his scarred hand flexing around the cane. "They whisper in these halls. The dragons. The wolves we couldn't save. The children who burned." His voice dropped. "Do you hear them?"

The hair on my nape rose. Somewhere deep in the palace, a pipe groaned. Or maybe it was a voice.

I swallowed hard. "No, my lord."

Vanquise smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Liar."

The cane moved faster than I expected.

Silver kissed my wrist—just a brush, barely there—but pain lanced up my arm like liquid fire. I bit down on a scream, my vision swimming with gold-tinged spots.

When I blinked back to myself, Vanquise was already at the door.

"Midnight wanderings are dangerous, little girl." His robes whispered against the stones as he left. "The cats aren't the only things that hunt in the dark."

I didn't move until his footsteps faded.

Then I looked at my wrist.

The skin was blistering—angry, raw. My healing—the dragon blood in my veins—was at war with the silver laced in his cane. Fighting it. Burning through it. Slowly.

Vanquise hadn’t seen.

He didn’t know what I was.

Didn’t know how close he’d come to dying.

I exhaled shakily, forcing my pulse to slow. My hands trembled—not from pain, but from the violence I’d buried behind my teeth.

I wanted to gut him. To carve his name into the palace walls with his own bones. But I couldn’t—not yet. Killing him now would be suicide. Sloppy. A waste.

And I refuse to die before I bring this empire to its knees.

The mural stared down at me, golden eyes aglow in the moonlight like they knew. Like they judged. My mother’s face. Her fire. Her blood in mine.

I looked back without flinching.

Somewhere in the palace, a clock struck one.

Five hours until kitchen call.

Five hours to cool the inferno roaring in my chest. Five hours to stop feeling like prey.

That’s why I had decided to go.

Not for curiosity. Not for secrets.

But for power.

The archives held names. Lineages. Weaknesses. Every lie the wolves told to justify their blood-soaked crown. And if I couldn’t kill Vanquise tonight, I could at least start mapping out the ruins of the world I planned to destroy.

Because no one would hurt me again without consequence.

Not him.

Not Ryden Fall.

Not any of them.

I shoved the sleeve down over my wrist, hiding the golden glow and the crackling burn beneath it. A breath. Then another. Just enough to walk. To move without shaking.

Tonight, I wouldn’t lose control.

Tonight, I’d choose the first thread in the tapestry of their extinction.

And when it all came down—

I’d make sure they remembered exactly who unraveled them.

Hayden

The archives were a trap.

An obvious one.

Which was why I wasn't waiting inside like Ryden wanted.

Instead, I perched on the roof opposite, watching the single window like a hawk. The moon was bright enough to see by, the night air crisp with the promise of autumn. Perfect hunting weather.

Julise would have called me paranoid.

Julise wasn't here.

A shadow detached itself from the east wing. Small. Quick. Moving with that unnatural grace that set my teeth on edge.

Her.

I grinned and unsheathed my knife.

Showtime.

Kiara

The archives smelled of dust and old books.

Moonlight filtered through the high windows, illuminating row upon row of ancient tomes. Some were bound in leather so old it had cracked. Others in materials I didn't recognize—scales, maybe. Or skin.

I moved silently between the shelves, my fingers trailing over spines. History books. Genealogies. Accounts of the Purge that would have been burned if anyone knew they still existed.

Then I found it.

The Dragon Clans: A Complete History.

The cover was warm to the touch.

I barely had it open when a voice purred from the shadows: "Looking for something?"

Hayden Moore stepped into the moonlight, twirling a knife between his fingers. His smile was all teeth.

I didn't run. Didn't scream. Just closed the book slowly and met his gaze. "Actually, yes. Do you have anything on poor attempts at ambushes?"

His laugh echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "Oh, I like you." The knife stilled. "Pity I have to kill you."

I tilted my head. "Do you, though?" For the first time, Hayden looked uncertain.

Then the window shattered.

Ryden

Glass rained down as I landed in a crouch, my claws scraping against stone.

Hayden swore. The girl—Mira—didn't even flinch.

She just looked at me with those golden eyes and said, "Dramatic much? Took you long enough."

Hayden's knife hit the floor with a clatter. "What the hell, Ryden?"

I straightened, shaking glass from my hair. "Change of plans."

Because the moment I'd seen her standing there—calm, defiant, bathed in moonlight—I'd known.

She was mine.