The Rejected Luna
Luna froze and listened intently.
"Who is present?" Her voice cracked as she whispered. Quiet. The darkness grew deeper. Just outside the circle of torchlight, a little, hunched form moved in the corner. Luna gasped for air. Her hand automatically went for the closest instrument, an ancient scalpel with a nicked but still sharp blade. The way her father had taught her to chop herbs without cutting her skin, she kept it low. "Show yourself," she continued, her voice faltering but louder this time. "I hear you." The figure shifted. As the torch flickered, a face flashed, its eyes sunken yet full of fevered life, its cheeks hollow. Luna felt sick to her stomach. That face was familiar to her. I
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