Meteor Garden Novels & Stories

Luna even enrolled in a cooking class to learn the secrets of Moroccan culinary art, preparing a flavorful feast of delicacies under the guidance of a skilled chef. Seeking respite from the bustling Medina, Luna made her way to the peaceful oasis of the Majorelle Garden. She wandered through the vibrant botanical paradise, with its lush greenery, exotic plants, and vibrant blue structures. Luna found solace amidst the tranquil fountains and winding pathways, taking a moment to reflect on the beauty and serenity that surrounded her.

As the torture continued, Luna's screams grew hoarse, and her body felt like it was on the brink of collapse. The flames ignited into a maelstrom of scarlet and gold. They licked the edges of her consciousness, each tendril a seductive promise of more torment to come. As the second tendril reached out, a scream erupted from her lips. Merlion was watching beneath her, his eyes wide in bewilderment. The amber light showed even brighter, showing that Luna was still able to endure more. Luna let out a primal scream; Merlion felt it was enough and turned off the switch. Luna's body convulsed, and the flames around her flared brighter for an instant before abruptly extinguishing. Smoke hung in the

Up here, the glass dome overhead revealed a clear, star-filled sky—a view that 99% of Aethelgard’s population would never see in their lifetime. Ren swirled his wine—a vintage red from the hydroponic vineyards of the Orbital Gardens. It cost 500 credits a glass. "You like it?" Ren asked, his voice low. "I love it," Maya said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. Her grip was warm. "But... I feel guilty, Ren. Eating this. Sitting here. When I look down..." She gestured toward the edge of the terrace. Far below, through the layers of clouds and neon mist, they could see the faint, sickly yellow glow of the lower sectors. It looked like a festering wound in the earth.

The construction of the Moon-Port, now officially christened "The Argentum Gateway," transformed the lunar surface. Where obsidian vines had once choked the silver dust, soaring arches of Star-Steel and translucent quartz now rose toward the stars. It was a masterpiece of necessity—a neutral ground where the high-tech elegance of the Consensus met the rugged, survivalist grit of Silver Creek.

Nothing except tend my plants. The herb garden Kael gave me is my sanctuary—the one place where I have complete freedom to move, to create, to exist without feeling like I’m being watched by invisible eyes. Here, among the moonbell, silverleaf, dragonfern, and carefully cultivated nightshade, I can pretend I still have purpose.

He waited until they turned to speak to each other, then slipped quietly around the side wall. There, a small crack in the stone caught his eye. He pressed himself against it and managed to slip through. Inside, the garden spread like a maze of herbs and flowers. The air smelled rich with medicine and earth. Every plant had a purpose, but Calder’s eyes searched for only one—the moonshade root.

That’s how I knew we were close. We found the first warding circle just before dusk. Dead animals arranged in twisted symbols. Fresh blood, but no scent trail. Magic. Dark. Worse than before. “Burn it,” I ordered. “Then move.” An hour later, we hit the outer edge of the old graves and found what we were looking for. A camp. Temporary. Cleverly hidden. Empty. But not abandoned. They’d left in a hurry. Scorch marks were still warm. Bedding half-packed. A fire smoldering. And written on the back wall of a stone outcrop, scrawled in something black and stinking “We see your Luna.”

ZANA’S POV Caden led me outside and through the academy grounds to the moon garden. It was one of the most beautiful places on campus. It was a circular garden filled with flowers that glowed softly in the darkness. The place was also decorated with moonstones that gave off a gentle silver light. The air smelled sweet too. The sudden quiet felt unreal after the noise inside. The garden glowed softly under the night sky. Somewhere nearby, water trickled from a fountain. The air smelled clean and cool.

The morning sun could not break through the thick, milky fog rolling off Lake Como. Instead, it hung like a dull pewter coin over the estate’s private botanical gardens. Nestled deep within the western terraces, far from the prying eyes of the perimeter guards, stood the Victorian-era greenhouse. Its elaborate iron framework was rusted black, and its glass panes were permanently clouded by decades of internal condensation.

“Come with me.” I did not lead him toward the bedroom. Instead, I took him through the quiet corridor and out toward the eastern garden. Modric looked surprised when we reached the restored gate. “You want to go outside?” “First.” The night was clear. Lanterns glowed along the rebuilt path. Workers had repaired part of the fountain, though no water flowed yet. The greenhouse stood straight beneath its new glass roof, and the wildflowers moved gently beneath the evening wind. Our scent filled the garden.