The Alpha's Secret Luna Chapter 613: The Child Who Saw Too Much

Chapter 612: The Child Who Saw Too Much

There are defining monts in life.

Things that turn quietly at first, like a door left half open, and then later beco the hinge on which everything else swings. Things that decide left from right without ever asking permission.

So people only have one such mont.

So have many.

And so are forced to relive the sa mont until it no longer feels like mory—but instruction.

Sophia had never been able to place herself into any of those categories.

Not cleanly.

Maybe she had one.

Maybe she had too many.

Or maybe her life was just a long echo of a single mont repeating itself in different disguises.

She did not know.

But she did know this—this was one of those monts.

And it began far earlier than she thought it did.

---

She was two years old when she first saw it.

Or rather—when she first knew.

At that age, most children were still learning how to properly hold their own nas in their mouths. Still tripping over syllables. Still confusing reality with dream.

But Sophia had always been... different.

Her mother said she was special.

And back then, that word had felt warm.

Safe even.

Like a blanket pulled tighter around her shoulders.

The first vision ca without warning.

She had been sitting on the floor of their small run-down ho, playing with nothing in particular—just dust motes and light and the sound of distant wind brushing through cracks in the wood.

And then it happened.

She saw an unfamiliar face. A man in the fields missed a step while walking, fell, and hit his head, leading to an instant death.

She had turned her head toward the door and said it out loud, as clearly as if she had been repeating sothing already written in the air.

"He will die soon."

Her mother had dropped the bowl she was holding in shock and then laughed at Sophia’s words.

A sharp, disbelieving sound that bent into sothing else entirely by the end of it.

"You have a very active imagination," her mother had said, crouching down beside her. "Very... interesting."

But Sophia had not been imagining it.

She knew that even then.

Still, she was two.

So she said nothing else. She just blinked and waited.

---

Three days later, the man died.

Exactly as she had seen.

It was not dramatic in mory.

It simply... happened.

A report ca.

Then another.

Then quiet conversations behind closed doors.

And finally, her mother looked at her differently.

After that, everything changed.

At first, it was subtle.

Questions asked casually.

"Do you see anything about the baker?"

"What about the man with the limp?"

"Tell what you feel when you look at him."

Sophia did not understand the weight of those questions.

So she answered them the only way she knew how.

Honestly.

Always honestly.

And the answers were always the sa.

Sothing would happen.

A sickness.

A disappearance.

A death.

Sotis within days.

Sotis within hours.

Her mother stopped asking if it was real.

She started asking how far it went.

And then she stopped asking at all.

Because by then, she already believed.

---

The change in their life ca quickly after that.

Food that once needed rationing beca abundant.

Servants appeared where none had been before.

Their cottage was no longer a cottage.

It was a residence.

Then a house.

Then a symbol.

And finally, a castle.

Sophia rembered staring at it the first ti, her small hand gripping her mother’s sleeve so tightly her fingers hurt.

It was too big.

Too bright.

Too many hallways swallowing into each other like endless questions.

She wanted to run through all of it at once.

To open every door.

To know everything inside it.

But her mother had not allowed that. Not even a little.

Instead, she had taken Sophia’s hand and walked her deep beneath the castle.

Past rooms she did not recognize. Past doors that did not open for anyone else. Past silence that felt older than the stone itself.

Until they reached it.

Her room.

---

It was large.

But not large enough to feel free. There was only one window, and it was too high to see much of anything beyond sky and shadow.

The bed was softer than what Sophia was used to.

The walls were decorated in pale stone and heavier locks of silence.

Sophia had stood in the center of it for a long ti.

Just staring.

Then she turned to her mother.

"I don’t like it," she had said simply.

Her mother had smiled. It was not a warm smile, neither was it cruel. It was more a mix of both.

Sothing in between.

"It is for your safety," her mother said.

Sophia frowned. "But I want a different room."

"No."

The answer had co quickly, like her mother had been waiting for Sophia to argue, to push.

Sophia had felt sothing shift in her chest then, but she did not know what it was called.

So she nad it nothing.

Her mother stepped closer and brushed her hair back gently.

"You are special," she said softly. "And special things must be protected."

Sophia nodded.

Because that made sense.

Special things were protected.

That was what protection ant.

So she stayed.

---

Days blurred after that.

Then weeks.

Then months.

Ti did not feel like movent anymore.

It felt like repetition.

But even in repetition, Sophia was still curious.

Curiosity was the one thing her mother could not remove from her entirely.

It slipped through cracks.

Between rules.

Under doors.

Into corners where no one was looking.

The castle was alive. People moved through it. Sophia did not know how many—she only knew they were many.

Servants spoke softly as they passed each other. Guards stationed at angles that suggested secrets.

Sophia learned the rhythm of it all. She learned when footsteps slowed.

When doors opened.

When attention shifted elsewhere.

And most importantly, when no one was watching her.

That was when she began to leave her room. It was not far at first. She started with the hallway, then moved farther to the stairs, with each success she grew bolder.

Then the edge of the corridor where voices echoed faintly from below.

She would press herself against stone walls, small and silent, watching.

Always watching.

She saw people laugh.

She saw them argue.

She saw them bow their heads to her mother with fear disguised as respect.

And slowly, without anyone telling her, she began to understand sothing else.

Her mother was important.