Page 13 of Moonlit Desires

With one last look at the chaos she's brought to the place she called home, Lyra turns and follows Ashen into the shadows, the pendant guiding her toward a destiny she never wanted but can no longer avoid.

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The abandoned lighthouse stands like a broken tooth against the churning sky, its stone base eaten away by decades of relentless tides. Lyra crouches behind a tumble of rocks with her four guardians, the pendant pulsing against her skin in warning or anticipation—she can no longer tell the difference. Waves crash against the narrow causeway that connects the lighthouse to shore, gradually disappearing beneath the rising tide. Soon the path will be submerged, cutting off both escape and reinforcement. Kael's face is grim in the fading light, hishand resting on a sword that wasn't visible until he needed it to be.

"Three guards," Thorne murmurs, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. His body vibrates with barely contained energy, caught between human form and something wilder. "Two on the ground floor, one with the hostage at the top."

Riven's mercury eyes gleam as shadows curl around her fingers like affectionate pets. "No sign of Caelum himself?"

"He wouldn't dirty his hands," Kael says, voice tight with controlled fury. "Not yet. These will be his lesser servants—expendable, but dangerous."

Ashen kneels at the water's edge, pale fingers trailing through the surf. Ripples spread from his touch, carrying moonlight deeper than they should. "I see multiple paths," he whispers. "In most, there is blood. In all, there is change."

Lyra's throat tightens. The pendant feels like ice against her skin, the mark on her back a brand of fire. She thinks of Maya—practical, loyal Maya who never asked for any of this—and guilt threatens to choke her.

"I should go alone," she says. "This is my fault. Maya's in danger because of me."

Kael's hand finds her shoulder, his touch unexpectedly gentle for a warrior. "That is exactly what Caelum wants. You, alone and vulnerable. We go together, or not at all."

"Besides," Riven adds with a predatory smile, "we've been waiting centuries for a proper fight. Don't spoil our fun."

Thorne growls agreement, teeth already sharpening in anticipation. Only Ashen remains silent, his colorless eyes focused on something beyond the physical world.

"What's the plan?" Lyra asks, surprised by the steadiness in her voice.

Kael draws her closer to the group, his voice dropping to ensure only they can hear. "Thorne and I will create a diversionat the main entrance. Riven will use the shadows to get you and Ashen inside through the upper window. Find your friend while we keep Caelum's servants occupied."

"And if more come?" Lyra asks.

"Then we adapt," Kael says simply. "We are your guardians, Lyra Ashwind. We have prepared for this moment since before you were born."

The tide pulls back, revealing slick stones leading to the lighthouse door. Kael nods to Thorne, who rolls his shoulders with a series of unsettling cracks. His transformation is both beautiful and horrifying—muscle and bone flowing like liquid, hair spreading across skin that darkens and toughens. Where a man stood moments before, a massive wolf now crouches, golden eyes the only recognizable feature.

"Now," Kael whispers.

Thorne bounds toward the lighthouse, a streak of shadow and fury. Kael follows, sword drawn, its blade catching impossible light. They reach the door just as it bursts open, Caelum's servants responding to Thorne's howl of challenge.

Riven's hand closes around Lyra's wrist. "Our turn," she says, and the world dissolves into liquid darkness.

Moving through shadow is like drowning in ink. Lyra gasps, but there's no air, only the sensation of falling upward. Riven's grip anchors her to reality as they slip between the spaces where light doesn't reach. When they emerge, Lyra's lungs burn as if she's been underwater. Ashen appears beside them, looking no more affected than if he'd walked through a doorway.

They stand in what was once the lighthouse keeper's quarters. Dust covers abandoned furniture, and the windows are filmed with salt. From below come the sounds of battle—Thorne's snarls, Kael's battle commands, the crack of storm magic against stone.

"Up," Ashen whispers, pointing to a spiral staircase that leads to the light chamber.

Lyra moves first, drawn by something beyond conscious thought. The pendant pulls her forward, and the mark on her back throbs in time with her racing heart. She ascends the narrow stairs, instinctively placing her feet to avoid the spots that might creak. Behind her, Riven and Ashen follow like wraiths.

The top chamber is flooded with pale light—not from the defunct lighthouse mechanism, but from a web of glowing blue energy that crisscrosses the circular room. At its center, suspended a foot above the floor, Maya hangs unconscious, her body caged in a lattice of crackling storm magic.

Guarding her is a figure in a silver cloak, back turned as they stare out at the churning sea. At Lyra's entrance, they turn slowly, hood falling back to reveal features of inhuman beauty—sharp cheekbones, skin like polished marble, eyes that shift from slate to silver with each blink.

"The lost princess returns," the figure says, voice like distant thunder. "Lysander Foxglove, at your service." He bows with exaggerated courtesy. "Lord Stormborn sends his regards."

Lyra's eyes remain fixed on Maya. "Let her go. She has nothing to do with this."

"On the contrary," Lysander says, circling the suspended form. "She has everything to do with it. Humans make such excellent leverage. They break so easily, yet cling so desperately to life."

Riven steps forward, shadows gathering at her fingertips. "You're outnumbered, Foxglove."

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