The following morning, Moonveil High looked the same—but Amara could feel the change. It wasn't just in the air. It was in the way shadows clung longer to corners, in the flicker of lights that hummed a second too long, and in the silence between students' conversations. Something had been disturbed.
And Amara was the reason.
She stared out the window in third-period history class, barely listening to Mr. Felton drone on about ancient wars and broken treaties. Her notebook lay open, but her pen hadn't moved in minutes.
What she had seen last night didn't just haunt her.
It demanded her attention.
Beside her, Micah sat upright, feigning attention, but Amara knew his thoughts were with hers. He hadn't said much since they left her house. He'd seen something his logical mind couldn't quite file away. A reality that lived outside textbooks and late-night horror movies.
Miss Voss hadn't shown up for first period.
She hadn't appeared at all.
Amara's fingers curled around the edges of her desk.
The curse had power. Real, tangible power. And if the myths were true—if what her mother's grimoire had said was real—then the child Miss Voss carried wasn't just a burden. It was a threat.
A soul unborn. A soul never meant to live.
It was 10:04 AM when the classroom door opened.
Everyone turned.
Elara Voss stepped inside.
Her figure was once again flawless—curves in perfect measure, glowing skin, her eyes glittering with a mysterious calm. There was no sign of the pregnant woman who had drifted through the dark halls only twelve hours earlier.
She moved with grace, whispered something to Mr. Felton, and walked out again.
And yet, her eyes met Amara's.
A spark passed between them.
Recognition. Warning. Challenge.
Micah leaned close. "She knows you followed her."
Amara nodded slowly. "She wants me to know she knows."
Micah shivered. "She's dangerous."
"I'm not backing down," Amara said.
Micah swallowed. "Then neither am I."
—
The bell rang, and students poured out of classrooms. Amara waited until the halls began to thin before she made her way toward the back staircase—the one that led to the old music room. It hadn't been used in years. Most students didn't even know it existed.
But her mother had mentioned it once.
"A spirit used to live there," she had said. "Trapped in the mirrors. Singing lullabies to no one."
Amara wasn't sure if she believed that part. But she did know something about magic—it lingered in forgotten places.
The music room smelled like dust and old wood. Broken violins lined one wall. A cracked harp stood in the corner like a skeleton of its former glory.
And in the center: a mirror.
Tall. Ornate. Covered in spiderwebs.
Amara approached it slowly, her reflection moving with her. But as she got closer, she noticed something off.
Her reflection's eyes were glowing.
Amara froze.
The glow faded.
She blinked. Her real eyes were the same. Normal.
She reached out, brushed the mirror's edge. Cold.
A whisper touched her ear—not from the room, but from inside her mind.
"She carries the unborn moon."
Amara stepped back.
"What?"
The whisper was gone.
But she had heard it.
The unborn moon.
What did it mean?
She flipped open her journal and scribbled it down, trying to decode the message.
And then she heard the door creak.
She turned.
Miss Voss stood there.
No longer smiling.
"You shouldn't be here, Miss Amara," she said, stepping into the room. Her voice echoed strangely, too smooth, too low.
"I'm not afraid of you," Amara said, clutching her journal to her chest.
"That's a mistake," Miss Voss said, circling the room like a predator. "You think you've seen things. You think you understand. But you are a child playing with fire you can't control."
"I know you're cursed," Amara said. "And I know you're carrying something that doesn't belong in this world."
Elara stopped.
Her eyes darkened. "You don't know anything."
"I know enough to stop you."
Miss Voss chuckled. "You think exposing me will save you? The curse isn't just mine. The witch tied it to blood. It spreads through the veins of anyone who sees too much."
Amara's chest tightened. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Miss Voss whispered, stepping closer, "that now that you've seen me… the curse has seen you too."
Amara backed up until she hit the mirror.
Elara smiled again, that same, cold smile.
Then she turned and walked out, her heels clicking like a death toll.
Amara stared at the mirror.
Her reflection was no longer glowing.
But it was… smiling.
And she wasn't.
—
That night, Amara sat with her mother's grimoire again, flipping through pages with trembling hands.
The Unborn Moon.
The Hollow Child.
The Mirror Curse.
Piece by piece, the puzzle began to form.
The child within Elara Voss was the spirit of a witch's vengeance. A soul that had never been born, yet never died. It took host after host—always female, always at night—feeding on their life, twisting their form. The curse was passed not just by blood, but by knowledge. Seeing it, understanding it, made you part of it.
She had seen it.
Now it saw her.
Micah called.
"I've been having dreams," he said. "About mirrors. About babies crying in the dark."
Amara closed her eyes.
"It's starting," she whispered.
"What is?"
"The curse. It's spreading."
"Then we need help," Micah said.
"I don't know who we can trust," she whispered.
There was silence.
Then Micah said, "What about your mother's old coven?"
Amara looked out the window.
The moon was full again.
And in the distance… she could hear a lullaby.
Soft.
And deadly.