Page 17 of Moonlit Desires

They walk together through the city, four fae and a girl caught between worlds. Lythven is changed: the streets are emptier than usual, rumors of the tavern brawl and the “witch” who started it spreading like rot. In every window, the news flickers: unexplained blackout, mysterious frost, city watch in confusion. Storm magic leaves scars that are hard to hide.

The Barrel is half full when Lyra enters, and the room goes quiet for a breath. Then the seamstress collective erupts into applause, the dock workers raise their mugs, and even the city guardsmen in the corner nod in wary respect. The rumors have already mutated: Lyra the witch, Lyra the banshee, Lyra the demon lover. She lets them talk.

Tonight, Maya tends bar—her first shift since the lighthouse—and Lyra slides behind the counter as if she never left. It is almost normal. The four guardians take a corner booth, a study in incongruity: Kael sitting ramrod straight, hands never far from the hilt of a knife; Riven draped sideways, boots up,drinking in the room with eyes half-lidded and hungry; Thorne fidgeting with the coaster, nails already starting to darken at the tips; Ashen scanning every shadow as if expecting them to whisper secrets.

“They’re staring at us,” Thorne mutters, his voice pitched low.

Riven shrugs. “Let them. Fae have always been the best entertainment in town.”

Kael ignores both, gaze fixed on Lyra as she pours, wipes, banters. He is reading her like a threat assessment, measuring for weakness or opportunity. When their eyes meet, he nods once, and Lyra feels the weight of responsibility settle on her chest.

Ashen is the first to break the silence. “You should tell her.”

Kael’s jaw clenches. “It is not the time.”

Riven sighs. “It’s never the time. That’s how we ended up with three centuries of awkward silences and one very pissed-off queen.”

Thorne looks between them, exasperation etched on his face. “Can you all just spit it out already? She’s not going to be any less confused in five minutes.”

Lyra sets down the rag, approaches the booth. “If you have something to say, now’s your chance. I leave tonight.”

Kael hesitates, and in that fraction of a second Lyra sees the uncertainty behind the mask. It makes her want to reach for his hand, or punch him, or both.

Finally, he speaks. “The Court is not what it was, Lyra. The curse broke more than our magic—it shattered the bonds that held us together. Every Court is at war with itself. When you cross over, you will be the most wanted, the most hunted, the most alone. Even with us at your side.”

Lyra nods, letting the words settle. “So what’s new?”

Thorne laughs, sharp and wild. “She’s got us there.”

Riven grins, teeth gleaming. “I like her.”

Ashen reaches out, almost touching Lyra’s sleeve, then thinks better of it. “It’s not just the curse, Lyra. The old ways will come for you. The rituals, the suitors, the binding ceremonies… You will have to choose.”

She doesn’t flinch. “I already did.”

Ashen smiles, eyes flicking to the others. “We’re all so predictable, even after all this time.”

Kael lowers his gaze. “Just know this: if you ask it, I will follow you. Even to the end.”

She wants to say something clever, something to break the mood, but nothing comes. Instead, she just sits with them, four centuries of loneliness colliding with the here and now, and it is enough.

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The night thickens. Someone starts a song, old and off-key, but the crowd joins in anyway. The old bartender rules apply: ignore the secrets you overhear, never intervene in lovers’ quarrels, and always keep the peace.

Lyra moves through the rituals, but her eyes stray to the booth. To Kael, who stands every so often to scan the windows. To Riven, who flirts outrageously with the seamstresses and drinks them under the table. To Thorne, who cannot stop watching the door, waiting for predators. To Ashen, who at last seems content, his pale eyes glazed with melancholy.

The night ends as all nights do: a last round, an argument over the tab, the scraping of chairs and the slamming of the door behind the final patron.

Maya lingers, polishing a glass. “Are you scared?” she asks.

Lyra thinks of the Moon Court, the mother she never knew, the storm-eyed lord with his taste for violence. She thinks of the mark on her back and the silver in her blood.

“I’m terrified,” she says.

Maya grins, all teeth. “Good. Means you’re still alive.”

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