I AM THE LUNA QUEEN

Hazel’s Pov

I went to sleep in my dorm room.

That much I’m sure of.

My last memory is the soft hum of the radiator, the faint glow of my laptop screen casting blue across the walls, and the quiet chaos of half-finished notes scattered on my desk. I remember setting my alarm, curling under my blanket, and letting exhaustion finally drag me under.

But when I woke up…

It wasn’t my ceiling I stared at.

The air was heavy, thick with the scent of smoke and herbs, something cloying and strange. A chill pressed into my skin, though the surface beneath me was warm—too warm, like I was lying on silk sheets pulled from a fever dream. My eyes fluttered, my chest heaved, and the sound hit me first.

Crying.

Dozens of soft, choked sobs echoing around me, broken only by frantic whispers.

“My Queen—please, please open your eyes—”

“She’s breathing—oh, Moon Goddess, she’s breathing!”

“Call the doctor, now! Hurry!”

My eyes shot open, a gasp tearing through my throat.

The noise stopped instantly.

A cluster of women knelt around me, dressed in maids uniform. Faces blotched with tears, hands pressed together in prayer or desperation. Their eyes, wide and gleaming, fixed on me as if I were some miracle risen from the dead.

“Your Majesty,” one whispered, her voice breaking. “You’re awake.”

I sat up too fast, my head swimming. “What the hell—”

But the voice that came out of my mouth sounded strange.

It was higher. Softer. Wrong.

My hands trembled as I lifted them, staring at pale, delicate fingers tipped with perfectly manicured nails painted blood-red. My gaze slid lower—to the silken dress draped across my body, the neckline dipping scandalously low.

“What the fuck…” The whisper scraped past my lips.

The women surrounding me exchanged alarmed glances, but none corrected me. Instead, they shuffled closer, like moths drawn to a flame.

“Do you need water, my Queen?” one asked, her trembling hands already reaching for a crystal glass from the bedside table.

“My Queen.”

“Your Majesty.”

“Our Queen.”

The words stabbed at me again and again, their reverence so absolute it terrified me.

Queen?

I wasn’t a queen. I was a twenty two year-old college student who had fallen asleep during a Netflix binge and was supposed to have a quiz in English Lit tomorrow morning.

This was insane.

“Okay,” I said, holding up a shaky hand to stop them. “You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not—whatever you think I am. I’m not your queen.”

The room stilled.

For a heartbeat, nobody breathed. Then, as if choreographed, they all dropped their gazes to the floor, pressing their foreheads down toward the polished hardwood like I’d just blasphemed.

One of them whispered, “The mistress will hear…”

My stomach twisted. Mistress?

Before I could ask, the doors at the far end of the room opened—softly, like someone pushing through velvet.

The women flinched. Their bodies shrank toward me instinctively, shielding me as if they knew danger had