Nobela ni Luca Fei

Days after the inspection, I was certain that Julise didn’t know what she was saying when she said that the Beta knew. I’d half expected to be dragged out at dawn and executed in public for all to see, but here I was—heading to a banquet.The Bloodmoon Banquet wasn’t optional. Every servant in the palace was pulled in, and thanks to Julise, I’d been reassigned to serve wine in the main hall.“Better the hall than the dungeons,” she muttered, adjusting my collar. “Just stay quiet. Don’t stare. And whatever you do, don’t drop anything.”Easy to say when you weren’t walking into a room full of killers dressed like they ruled it.The banquet hall was massive—stone walls draped in blood-red banners, chandeliers dripping gold and firelight, and long tables filled with nobles talking too loud and drinking too much. The air stank of perfume, roasted meat, and power.I kept my eyes low and the tray steady. One wrong move and I’d be dragged out by my hair.They didn’t care about girls like me.

They say a dragon’s heart beats louder when it senses a threat. I wonder if the wolves can hear mine since it hasn’t stopped thundering since dawn.The scent of lemon oil and vinegar clung to the walls like sweat. Steam curled from the hearth, mingling with the nervous breath of overworked hands. Every chopping board gleamed, every pot sparkled, and the floor had been mopped so many times it was nearly slick with panic.The kitchen was too clean. The kind of clean people chased when they feared blood would be the next thing staining the tiles.Marga prowled the room with her cleaver drawn—not for chopping. No one dared touch a blade unless she told them to. That knife was her voice, and her silence? A sentence.“You!” she barked at a shivering apprentice blanching asparagus. “The Beta likes his meat rare.If I see one overcooked cut, you’ll wear it as an apron. Understand?”“Y-yes, ma’am!” the girl squeaked.Marga moved on like a brewing storm. Her eyes caught everything. Crooked spic

The sun hadn’t risen yet when I was shaken awake.“Up.”The voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp enough to slice through the fog in my head. I jolted upright, heart pounding like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.Julise stood over me, fully dressed, her red braid pulled tight against her scalp. Her eyes were shadowed, like she hadn’t slept but she looked alert, focused. She tossed a bundle of clothes onto my chest, while she holds unto one piece. “Wear that. You smell like smoke.”I blinked at her, still groggy. “What?”“Move.”She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t even look particularly angry, but her tone brooked no argument. I shoved off the thin blanket and reached for the bundle—just a plain beige tunic, rough brown trousers, and a stained apron. It smelled like soap that didn’t quite do its job.“Are you a cook?” I asked, watching her tie on her own apron. Hers was cleaner, and she wore it like armor.She gave a small smirk. “What, you thought I was just another maid?”I

Weeks before the chimney climbWolfsbane oil burns like liquid fire under my sleeves.It clings to my skin in invisible streaks, stinging every shallow cut I’ve earned from the thorns on the forest path. A price worth paying. It masks my scent—for now. Later, it will be a beacon when the sweat thins it out.I adjust the scratchy wool scarf around my neck—too heavy for early autumn, but necessary to hide the scars. The fabric rubs against my throat like judgment. The gates loom ahead, black marble threaded with veins of silver that catch the moonlight just right to make the snarling wolf carvings seem alive.They aren’t just warning signs. They’re promises.“Remember,” Nana Fiona’s voice whispers in my memory as I take the first step forward. Her calloused fingers had gripped my chin that final morning, her breath smelling of bitter tea and fear. “You are Mira now. Close enough to answer to without hesitation. Different enough to keep breathing.”I can still feel the ghost of her touch

KiaraThe 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