CHAPTER FIVE: THE MOON'S ACCOUNT (Expanded)
The Moonstone pulsed in Sophia's chest, and with each pulse, reality seemed to fracture.
Even the house—the solid walls, the polished floors, the old wood beams—seemed thinner, less reliable, as if the air itself had become part of the stone's measure. Her reflection in the mirror was a stranger's: eyes too wide, dark-circled, skin pale as ash. She had begun to flinch at her own movement.
The first betrayal came quietly.
Sophia avoided Emma's calls. She ignored messages. Every time her fingers hovered over the screen, the Moonstone tightened against her chest, and she felt a spike of fear so sharp it left her gasping. She told herself it was protection, that distance would lessen Emma's suffering. But the relief she felt—calm washing through her like a poison—was terrifying. She had hurt her beloved and felt better for it. The Moonstone approved.
Emma felt it instantly.
She ran through the streets of Lagos barefoot, pale light of streetlamps flickering over wet pavement. The mark on her arm flared, veins of light burning across her skin. Pain spiked in waves, first in her hands, then chest, then spine. Each pulse of the Moonstone seemed to echo across the city, bouncing off walls, through alleys, under bridges. Emma's mind went wild: if she slowed, she'd hurt Sophia. If she stopped, she would betray her. If she ran too fast… she screamed into the night, body convulsing in exhaustion and terror.
She nearly drowned in a sudden flood that rose along a low street. The water surged unexpectedly, gushing from a clogged drain as if the city itself was punishing her for her thoughts. Her feet slipped on the slick pavement. Panic hit, white-hot and unstoppable. She clawed at the edges of the road, gasping, thinking only of Sophia's safety, only of the Moonstone.
When she finally made it to a bridge, shivering and soaked, she realized her legs were cramping. She could barely stand, and the mark burned brighter than ever. It demanded acknowledgment. It demanded submission.
Meanwhile, Sophia made mistakes born of fear.
She had begun to measure every thought, every movement, every heartbeat against Emma's suffering. Every moment of tenderness risked punishment. And yet, sometimes she forgot. Sometimes she looked at Emma's image on her phone, smiled too long, whispered her name.
The Moonstone flared violently in response, and the backlash was immediate. Her stomach heaved, nausea washing over her like tidewater. Her knees buckled. Her hands shook so violently she could not hold her cup. She fell into the corridor, vision blurred, the house itself groaning as if it were aware of her failure.
She wanted to scream, but fear froze her. She wanted to run, but the Moonstone kept her bound to the house.
The punishment extended across the city. Emma writhed in her apartment, cries tearing from her throat as the mark pulsed in perfect sync with Sophia's panic.
They were two halves of the same punishment.
Small betrayals began to multiply.
Sophia snapped at a servant who accidentally brushed her arm while handing her a tray. Emma shouted at a hawker who blocked her path, her voice harsh, untempered. In both cases, the Moonstone pulsed, approving the emotion, encouraging the friction, feeding the ledger.
Every misstep, every micro-aggression, added weight. Every word, every glance, every involuntary thought became a line in the Moonstone's account, and both girls began to live in perpetual dread of the next flare.
Fear twisted love into obsession.
Sophia began to monitor Emma's movements obsessively. She asked herself, constantly, if Emma was thinking of her, if Emma was suffering, if she—Sophia—had done enough to mitigate the pain. Every hesitation, every second of doubt, triggered spikes of panic and nausea.
Emma mirrored this obsession. She could no longer distinguish between concern, desire, and guilt. Every heartbeat reminded her of the ledger. Every thought of Sophia brought immediate consequence: white fire racing up her arms, chest tightening, breath caught in a choke of guilt and fear.
When they saw each other, even across a crowded street, it was impossible to remain calm. A glance, a tilt of the head, a smile almost formed—all of it triggered the Moonstone. Anxiety surged, trembling hands, gasps, panic, nausea.
Love had become instrument and punishment simultaneously.
The Moonstone escalated further.
It manipulated events directly, using Lagos as its instrument.
Rain fell suddenly in the middle of Emma's run, drenching her to the bone, slicking the streets. A stray dog barked, snapping at her heels, sending her sprawling into mud. Streetlights flickered ominously as if measuring her endurance. At the same moment, Sophia's air conditioner rattled violently. Glass shook. A vase tipped and fell, shattered, sending shards across the floor. The Moonstone demanded acknowledgment from both girls.
Their fear became cumulative.
Emma staggered through the streets, heart hammering, lungs burning. The city had become a labyrinth of punishment, and every wrong turn, every slip, every faltering breath was recorded by the Moonstone.
Sophia, trapped at home, felt each flare like a spike through her chest. Pain was no longer hers or Emma's alone. It was shared, multiplied, mirrored. The ledger of suffering was exact, and it was merciless.
Alájọbí—the trickster spirit Sophia's grandmother had whispered about—appeared in the periphery. Not fully manifest, not yet. A flicker of movement in the corner of the eye. A shadow that seemed to smile, then vanish. It was watching, waiting, noting. Its presence made the pulse of the Moonstone sharper, more urgent, more dangerous.
The girls did not see it directly, but both felt the scrutiny. The air thickened. The city seemed to shiver with anticipation. Even the lagoon reflected a warped, jagged moonlight, as if warning them that their actions were not theirs alone to control.
One night, Emma nearly drowned.
She had run along the waterfront, fleeing from her own thoughts, fleeing from the punishment, fleeing from the fear. The water rose unexpectedly, higher than she expected, waves clawing at her ankles, pulling at her. The Moonstone flared violently. Panic consumed her. Her body refused to cooperate, her limbs tangled, her chest heaving. She gasped for breath, water tasting like iron in her mouth.
It was Sophia's panic—her fear of Emma's suffering—that allowed her to reach the shore in time, barely, both of them trembling, hearts hammering in sync, bodies trembling as if in shared agony.
The Moonstone pulsed.
Approval, punishment, observation—sometimes, all at once.
Their love became impossible.
They could not touch without consequence. They could not speak without consequence. They could not even think without consequence. Yet neither could stay apart. Desire had mutated into a trap. Every move, every breath, every flicker of attention was measured, recorded, punished, and demanded in return.
Sophia screamed once into the night: "Why—why does this exist? Why must it be so cruel?"
Emma whispered from miles away, in agony, "Because we exist. Because we think. Because we love."
The Moonstone pulsed again. And the ledger of fear and desire expanded.
Weeks became months.
Their bodies changed under the pressure.
Sophia's hands were raw from clenching the Moonstone. Her skin was pale. Her eyes were dark-rimmed. She began to tremble constantly. Panic rose at the slightest thought of Emma. Every decision was weighted with consequences she could not calculate.
Emma's arms bore the marks that spread relentlessly. Her chest ached constantly. Her body was weak from lack of sleep, lack of proper food, lack of control over the Moonstone's flares. Every breath, every heartbeat, every glance reminded her that she was the cause of Sophia's suffering and the vehicle of punishment for herself.
And the Moonstone demanded more.
It demanded that they endure. That they suffer. That they remain in love while hating what they must do to preserve it.
It demanded perfection in suffering.
It demanded obedience in desire.
And it would not forgive.
On the night of a full moon, both girls finally collapsed in exhaustion.
Sophia's hands clutched the Moonstone, body shaking, head spinning. Her vision blurred. She could hear Emma in her mind, screaming, gasping, weeping—and she could feel every pulse of the mark racing through her chest as if it were a second heartbeat.
Emma lay across her own floor, drenched in sweat, eyes wide, skin prickling with electricity from the Moonstone. Every nerve screamed. Every thought of Sophia brought agony. Every flicker of desire became punishment.
The Moonstone glowed brightly, white-hot.
And in that glow, the ledger of fear, love, guilt, obsession, and suffering was complete for the moment.
The girls had survived. Not unharmed. Not unbroken. Not untouched.
But alive.
The Moonstone's pulse slowed. Not mercy. Not kindness. Observation. Approval. The ledger was balanced—temporarily.
The Moon rose full over the lagoon, silver slicing across water and city alike.
And two girls, tethered by fear, bound by love twisted into weapon and punishment, trembled in the glow.
The Moonstone had not yet claimed its final toll.
It would.
It always did.