SHE IS NOT OUR LUNA

CHAPTER 4

Luciano stood on the castle balcony, the morning air brushing through his golden hair. From here, the forest stretched endlessly, the treetops mist-kissed and swaying. A hawk circled far in the distance, its cry echoing faintly through the crisp sky.

He held his phone to his ear, his voice low but urgent.

“It’s her,” he said, pacing slowly. “I could feel it, Father. The pull—it was immediate.”

There was a pause on the line, followed by the deep voice of the King.

“Are you sure?”

“I followed her scent,” Luciano continued. “I thought I was just drawn to it out of… curiosity. But it wasn’t just that. I needed to see her. And when I found her, she was sitting there. Quiet. Like she belonged to the forest itself. Then she turned—panicked, I think. She passed out. I didn’t know what else to do, so I brought her here.”

Silence hung for a beat.

Luciano leaned on the stone railing, eyes narrowed. “She’s not like the others, Father. Even the way the forest reacted—how quiet it got. She carries something… ancient. Something raw.”

The King’s voice came again, measured and grave. “You think she’s the one Kaelith spoke of?”

“I don’t just think,” Luciano said, his voice hardening. “I know. It’s in the way the air bends around her. How the wolves near the gates lowered their heads when she passed. She doesn't even realize what she's carrying yet. But it's powerful. It's buried deep.”

“And if you're wrong?” his father asked.

Luciano’s jaw clenched. “Then I’ll bear the consequences. But if I’m right…”

He paused, eyes scanning the far horizon.

“Then everything changes.”

The morning sun bathed the school courtyard in a golden glow, and for the first time in days, Amara felt a little normal. The kind of normal that came with backpacks slung over shoulders, the echo of sneakers on concrete, and the hum of students buzzing about lectures and looming assignments.

Rita walked beside her, animatedly talking about how she forgot to submit her geography homework—again.

"I swear, if Mr. Radebe glares at me one more time with those judgmental history-teacher eyes, I might spontaneously combust," Rita huffed, flipping her braids over her shoulder.

Amara chuckled. “You always say that, and you never do. Maybe you're fireproof.”

“That would actually explain a lot,” Rita smirked.

As they reached the shaded bench near the science block, their usual group was already there—Thabo, with his overstuffed physics folder; Nandi, stylish and serene with her ever-present mug of tea; and Zuki, who was midway through dramatically mimicking their literature teacher’s obsession with metaphors.

“And then she said,” Zuki gasped in a high-pitched voice, “‘The tree weeps because it carries the burden of memory!’ Like… ma’am, it’s a tree. It’s got sap, not trauma!”

Laughter broke out around the bench.

“I swear she reads too much into everything,” Thabo said, adjusting his glasses. “Last week, I wrote ‘the sun set behind the hills’ and she said it represented emotional closure.”

“Maybe she’s not wrong,” Nandi mused, sipping her tea. “Sunsets are kind of sad.”

“I think they're peaceful,” Amara added, surprising even herself with how easily she’d slipped into the conversation.

They all looked at her, noticing the brightness in her face. Nandi tilted her head. “You seem… lighter today.”

Amara smiled. “Yeah. I guess I needed a reset. Things got… heavy for a while.”

Rita bumped her shoulder playfully. “She saw a sunset. Emotional closure achieved.”

Everyone laughed again, and for a brief moment, it felt like everything was fine. No unspoken powers lurking beneath her skin.

Just friends. Just school. Just life.

But somewhere in the back of her mind, Amara knew—this calm wouldn’t last forever.

And when it passed, she’d be ready.

By midday, the sun was high, and the laughter in the cafeteria buzzed like usual—loud, easy, unbothered. Amara sat with her tray untouched, her fork barely scraping at the salad Rita insisted she needed to eat.

Across the table, her friends were still joking around—Zuki ranting about an upcoming presentation, Nandi arguing that chamomile tea could cure anything, even heartbreak.

But Amara couldn’t focus.

It started as a flicker.

A subtle hum beneath her skin. A warmth in the pit of her stomach that wasn’t from hunger. It pulsed slowly—like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.

She blinked and rubbed her eyes.

Then the noises around her began to blur—muffled, warped. For a second, she could hear everything: the fluttering of wings outside the window, the scuff of sneakers in the hallway, the quiet sob of someone crying two tables away.

She jolted upright.

The lights above flickered.

“Whoa,” Rita said, eyeing her. “You okay?”

Amara’s breath came faster. The temperature around her felt like it was rising. Her palms were burning. Literally burning. She looked down and saw nothing—but she felt it, as if fire were coiled under her skin, pressing to get out.

“I—I need air,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and stumbling away from the table.

She rushed into the corridor, heart pounding, hands pressed to the cool brick walls. Her vision blurred again, and this time she saw flashes—trees, glowing eyes in the dark, the moon overhead—images that didn’t belong to this moment. Or maybe they did.

“Amara!” Rita had followed, her face drawn with worry. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know…” Amara whispered. “Something’s… wrong with me.”

“No,” Rita said firmly, grabbing her shoulders. “Not wrong. Different, maybe. But you’re you. And we’ll figure this out.”

Just then, the hallway lights flickered again—and every nearby phone buzzed. Amara’s included.

She glanced down.

Message from UNKNOWN:

You’re not losing control. You’re waking up.

Her blood ran cold.

“Rita,” she said, barely breathing. “I think someone’s watching me.”