Page 18 of Moonlit Desires

Midnight brings them to the edge of the city, where the old train yard crumbles into weeds and salt marsh. The guardians flank her in a diamond formation, Kael and Riven at her shoulders, Thorne and Ashen in the rear. Lyra feels the eyes of the city on her—every face in every window, every hidden hunter waiting for her to trip.

The moon is swollen and heavy, pressing the clouds flat against the horizon. At the exact stroke of midnight, the air thickens, then fractures—a rippling distortion that shivers across Lyra’s skin and makes the hair at the nape of her neck stand on end.

Kael steps forward and slices his palm, letting three drops of blood fall on the tracks. “For the old ways,” he says.

Riven produces a silver knife and scores it down her wrist, then licks the wound and winks at Lyra. “For the new.”

Thorne spits into the grass. “For the ones who can’t come home.”

Ashen simply stands beside Lyra, silent and trembling, and when the world splits open, he does not look away.

Lyra turns. Maya stands at the edge of the yard, arms folded, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. She is alone, but unafraid, watching Lyra as if to memorize her face forever.

Lyra raises a hand, palm open. Maya mirrors it. A thousand promises hang in the air between them, unspoken, but enough.

“Go,” Maya whispers.

Lyra steps forward. The threshold opens like the mouth of a beast—hungry, eager, impossible to refuse.

She enters, flanked by her guardians. Behind her, the city sighs and the moon blinks out, leaving only the echo of her name and the memory of a promise: to return, to remember, to never let the dark swallow her whole.

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In the silver woods beyond the world, Lyra Ashwind is queen, and her nightmares have never felt so much like home.

Chapter four

TheProphecy

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The forest drew her like a secret, and Lyra stepped through its silvered archway with a sense that she was crossing not only into a new world, but into a story already written—one in which she had somehow agreed to play the lead. The path underfoot shimmered, not with dew but with the residue of old moonlight, and the air sang to her bones in a note lower and sweeter than any lullaby she'd ever heard. Kael's presence loomed at her right shoulder: silent, cathedral-still, his jaw tight with anticipation. Riven and Thorne walked abreast behind her, a matched set of danger and desire—Riven's silver eyes flicking over every shadow, Thorne's golden gaze hungry and unblinking.

Behind them, the threshold seals shut with a sound like glass breaking in reverse. The last glimpse of Lythven—Maya's silhouette, the rusting train tracks, the city's perpetual fog—disappears, replaced by an endless expanse of silver-barkedtrees. The finality of it strikes Lyra like a physical blow. There is no going back now.

"Welcome home, little queen," Riven murmurs, her voice carrying in the strange acoustics of the forest. "Though I suspect it doesn't feel much like home yet."

It doesn't. And yet, something in Lyra responds to this place—the mark between her shoulder blades pulses with warmth, and the pendant at her throat hums a frequency that matches the forest's own song. The air here tastes different, sharper and sweeter all at once, like the first breath after a lifetime underwater.

The trees rise impossibly tall, their trunks smooth as polished bone. Their branches interlock overhead, creating a canopy that filters the moonlight into dappled patterns across the forest floor. Where the light touches, small flowers unfurl—luminous blooms that close again as shadows pass over them. The path itself seems semi-sentient, widening before them and narrowing behind, as if to prevent retreat.

"Is it always like this?" Lyra asks, voice hushed despite herself. "So... alive?"

Kael's expression softens, though his posture remains vigilant. "The Silverwood remembers you," he says. "Even if you don't remember it. You were born here, beneath these very trees."

"It's showing off," Thorne adds, sniffing the air with undisguised pleasure. "Been too long since royal blood walked these paths. The forest is practically preening."

As if in response, a branch lowers itself to brush against Lyra's cheek with unexpected gentleness. She flinches at first, then allows the contact, surprised by the silk-smooth texture of the bark.

Ashen walks a few paces behind, his colorless eyes distant, fingers tracing patterns in the air that leave faint trails of light."The paths are converging," he says softly. "The Court knows you're coming."

"Is that good or bad?" Lyra asks, trying to keep the apprehension from her voice.

"Both," all four guardians answer in unison, then exchange glances of varying amusement and irritation at their synchronicity.

Riven laughs, the sound like ice breaking on a winter lake. "What they mean to say, darling, is that politics at Court are... complicated. Some will welcome the return of Queen Ella's heir. Others will see you as a threat to the status quo. And a few—" She trails off, silver eyes narrowing.

"A few will try to kill you before you can break the curse," Kael finishes bluntly. "Which is why we stay close until we reach the palace."

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