The October heat had reached its breaking point. In Lusaka, the days before the first rain are called "suicide month"—a time when the humidity sits on your chest like a physical weight and tempers fray until they snap.
Leya was in the Music Block, the only place on campus where the air didn't feel like it was being inhaled through a thick blanket. She wasn't playing the cello; she was cleaning it. She ran a soft cloth over the polished wood, her movements rhythmic and obsessive.
Outside, the sky had turned a terrifying shade of bruised purple. The sun was gone, swallowed by a wall of clouds that looked like solid granite.
"You're going to rub the varnish off if you don't stop," a voice said from the doorway.
Leya didn't look up. She knew the cadence of his step now. "It's better than sitting in the dark, waiting for the sky to fall."
Zazu walked into the room. He had ditched his school blazer, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He looked restless, his eyes darting to the window. "It's coming. The first rain. It's going to be a big one."
"In London, rain is just a nuisance," Leya murmured, finally setting the cloth down. "Here, it feels like an event."
"It's a clearing," Zazu said, stepping closer. "Everything that's been building up—the heat, the dust, the tension—it all breaks at once."
The first crack of thunder didn't just rumble; it tore through the atmosphere, a jagged sound that made the floorboards vibrate. A second later, the power failed. The air conditioner's hum died instantly, replaced by a silence so sudden it was deafening.
Then, the rain hit.
It wasn't a drizzle. It was an assault. The sound on the corrugated iron roof was a roar, a million silver bullets fired at the earth. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees in seconds.
Leya stood up, her breath hitching. In the sudden gloom, the practice room felt like a sanctuary. Or a trap.
"I should go," she said, her accent sharpening with nerves. "My aunt will be worried about the flooding near the flats."
"You can't," Zazu said. He was standing between her and the door. "The courtyard will be a river by now. You'll be soaked to the bone before you reach the gate."
A flash of lightning illuminated the room, turning everything stark white for a heartbeat. In that flash, Leya saw the way Zazu was looking at her—no longer the "Prince" looking at a project, but a boy looking at the girl who had ruined his peace of mind.
"We're stuck," Zazu whispered, his voice barely audible over the thunder.
"We're always stuck, Zazu," Leya replied, her voice trembling. "Between our mothers. Between 2012 and now. Between what everyone expects of us and what we actually are."
Zazu moved. It was a slow, deliberate closing of the distance. He stopped when he was inches away, the heat from his body a sharp contrast to the damp air.
"I don't care about 2012 right now," he said. He reached out, his hand hovering near her face before his fingers finally grazed her jawline. His skin was cool, but his touch felt like a brand.
Leya didn't pull away. She leaned into his palm, her eyes closing. "You're going to regret this when the lights come back on."
"Then let's stay in the dark," Zazu breathed.
He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. They stood there for a long time, the only two people in a world of water and shadow. He didn't kiss her—not yet. The tension was a string tuned so high it was screaming. Instead, he reached down and laced his fingers through hers, his grip tight, as if he were afraid she'd dissolve into the rain.
"The Heritage Society meeting is on Friday," he whispered against her skin. "But tonight... tonight we aren't Chairpersons or Tembos or Kapiris."
Leya opened her eyes, finding his in the dark. "Then who are we?"
Zazu didn't answer with words. He adjusted his grip on her hand, pulling her slightly closer until their heartbeats were the only rhythm left in the room.
"We're the storm," he said.
Outside, the rain intensified, washing away the dust of a decade, but inside the Music Block, a different kind of flood was just beginning to rise.