Luna’s senses tried to tell her that she was being dragged, that she should fight, but her mind could not yet comprehend.
Oh, man. So, this is my first critique in about 7 months. Let me just say thank you for this first sentence, it made me remember a lot just like riding a bike. Let me just break down the issues I have with this.
Critical This is your first sentence. The philosophy of a first sentence, to my mind, is that it should make me want to read your next sentences. I hope to make it clear to you that this fell entirely flat on this note.
Luna's senses -- The problem I have with this was a critical breakthrough I had in writing. What are you trying to describe here? Luna's senses are an abstract idea. They don't make me feel anything.
tried to tell her -- this is personifying Luna's senses, usually having senses acting on a subject is an undesirable device to use in writing. We want our characters to feel things, not have their senses try to tell them things. Unless her senses are an important character in this narrative I would rework this idea. A greater note on writing, you, the writer, are trying to communicate ideas to me, the reader, in a way that is elegant enough to make me feel like I am not reading, but experiencing the story in whatever way you want me to. I experience nothing and have to imagine for myself what you were trying to say here. That's bad and lazy.
that she was being dragged -- what does the sense of being dragged feel like?
that she should fight -- How do my senses tell me I should fight? What does that feel like?
but her mind could not yet comprehend -- See, to me, both of the things you were trying to communicate are distilled from sensory inputs. What are those sensory inputs for Luna? Why can't she comprehend them but still sense what her situational awareness is trying to tell her?
The world felt strangely far away, blocked by the veil of hazy semi-consciousness. She was reminded of horrible nightmares where she screamed and screamed for everyone to escape a raging fire, but no sound escaped her lips. Then the sounds of grunting, sliding, and clinking probed the air around her, though all the sounds seemed deadened, as if she had cotton stuffed in her ears. The ground felt cold and smooth beneath her cheek. Part of that made sense to her, but she could not remember why she lay on the floor. She stretched her fingers and gingerly moved her hands outward, trying to make sense of the fog that penetrated her mind. She tried to focus on the last coherent memory at the fringes of her perception. She remembered descending the stone stairs to the arena floor, the whispering padding of her bare feet against the marble, the soft glow of her single torch dancing patterns out into the darkness overhead in the large space.