No... don’t eat the mug! Blow fire at it!" Luna groaned, rubbing her temples in frustration.

For the past hour, she had tried everything to coax a flame from her little dragon—clapping, encouraging speeches, even pretending to blow fire herself. Chameleon, however, simply stared at her with wide, confused eyes, as if the very concept of fire-breathing was beyond him. Or worse, as if he thought she was the strange one for expecting such a feat.

"Are you... defective? Is that why they threw you away from the palace?" she muttered, half to herself, half to the little creature curled on her lap.

Chameleon tilted his head and let out a soft, confused chirp. The expression on his face was almost human, and it melted Luna's irritation into a sigh.

"You just aren’t getting it, are you?" she murmured with a small smile, stroking his head gently with a knuckle. "Maybe you're just too young. No matter... let's try something else."

Determined to make some kind of progress, she leapt up and hurried to gather her clothes—a collection of scraps and hand-me-downs in various colors. She spread them out across the bed, forming a rainbow patchwork.

"Okay, new plan," she said brightly. "Color changing. Let’s see what those shiny scales can do."

Chameleon blinked and padded forward hesitantly. He sniffed at a green scarf, then nudged it with his snout.

"No, no, don’t eat it! Just walk on it!" Luna laughed, gently guiding him.

As he stepped onto her faded blue shirt, something miraculous happened. His dull gray scales began to shimmer, shifting hue until they matched the fabric perfectly.

Luna gasped. "You did it! Look at you, little illusionist!"

Chameleon blinked, then puffed up slightly, clearly proud of himself.

"Alright, let's speed it up," Luna challenged. She placed him on a red blouse.

The dragon paused, wriggled his nose in concentration, and began to change—first to purple, then orange, then finally, red. With the effort, however, he let out a startled squeak and... peed.

"Oh, Chameleon!" Luna wailed, scooping him up. "Good job, but really? My only red shirt?"

The dragon chirped apologetically and nuzzled her neck.

They spent the next few hours playing and practicing. Luna clapped with joy as Chameleon zipped across the bed, leaping from one colored cloth to another like a tiny dancer. His color changes became faster, more precise. At one point, he even managed to blend into the wooden wall behind her.

"You're getting so good at this!" Luna grinned. "And... bigger too. Your wings are longer. Look at them!"

Indeed, his wings had grown out dramatically—longer than his thin body now, like sails waiting to catch the wind. He flapped them excitedly, managing to lift off the ground for a second before landing with a thud and a triumphant trill.

Luna laughed until her sides hurt. For a moment, the world outside didn’t matter. There was only her and her dragon.

But the magic was broken when she heard her name.

"Luna?"

Menorah's voice rang from outside.

Instantly, Chameleon scrambled across the floor and leapt into her hammock, his skin shifting to the pattern of her sheets.

"Hello, Mother!" Luna called out, rushing to the door.

She expected Menorah's familiar smile, her warm embrace, maybe something sweet in her hands.

But today was different.

Her mother stood stiffly, her face pale and grim.

"What’s wrong?" Luna asked, alarm rising in her chest.

"We need to leave, darling," Menorah said quietly. "We aren’t safe here anymore."

Luna froze. "What happened? Who is after us?"

Menorah hesitated, lips pressed together. "I’ll explain later. Just... pack your things. Quickly."

Without another word, Luna obeyed. She packed what little she had—some clothes, a comb, her tiny wooden flute—and signaled Chameleon, who eagerly curled up inside a bundle of shirts.

Outside, the sky was dark. Clouds masked the moon, and the wind carried a whisper of danger.

Luna didn’t know where they were going or why, but she knew one thing for sure: her mother was afraid. And Menorah was never afraid.

She followed silently, clutching the bag to her chest, where a small, warm creature breathed softly within.

Unbeknownst to her, Menorah's heart was racing. A source inside the palace had warned her—a search party had been dispatched. They were looking for someone.

She feared she knew who.

Eighteen years ago, she had risked everything to save that baby. The one the palace called cursed. She had fed her, held her through fevered nights, and watched over her every tear. She had become mother not by blood, but by love.

And now, they had come to take her back.

Over Menorah's dead body, they would.