All Chapters of Dragon Born Luna : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

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

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

KiaraEleven years ago, they called it the Purge.The kingdom had been peaceful once—at least on the surface. Home to dragons and wolves, two predator races balanced by old treaties and older grudges. Most of the other magical creatures had faded long before—extinct through war, disease, or bloodlines stretched too thin. Only the humans remained, clever and opportunistic, always willing to align with whichever side promised them power.The dragons had once ruled the skies, untouchable in both power and legacy. But they were fading. Slowly. Tragically.Centuries of low birth rates had pushed them into desperation. Infertility plagued their kind, and so they’d begun to mix—first cautiously, then openly—with humans. It was survival, not surrender. But the price was steep.Few true-blooded dragons remained.Those who came from mixed lines were weaker. Some could barely shift. Some never shifted at all. Many bore golden eyes but lacked wings or flame. Some had fire resistance, strength, or

KiaraThe 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 ta

Kiara “Masks are meant to hide — but tonight, they only made it easier to see who people truly were." The Grand Ballroom of the Wolf Palace didn’t just sparkle. It glowed, pulsed, breathed—like something alive, gilded in gold and lies. It was different from the one used for the Alpha's Banquet held every three weeks. This one was older, grander. Reserved only for nights steeped in history, drenched in blood. The masquerade ball was held each year to mark the death anniversary of the previous Alpha King. He'd been many things—a tyrant, a strategist, a monster—but above all, he had been theatrical. He’d loved his pageantry. Even his funeral was a performance. Tonight was no exception. Gold leaf crawled up every column like molten honey. Crystal chandeliers hung like jagged teeth from the vaulted ceiling, scattering fractured light over a sea of silks and jewels. Velvet drapes in midnight blue and wine-red framed tall arched windows, each flung open to let in the breeze—and the go