Page 19 of Moonlit Desires

The word "palace" makes Lyra stumble. All of this—the forest, the magic, the very concept of being royal—still feels like someone else's fever dream. Just days ago, she was pouring drinks and sweeping floors. Now she walks a path of liquid moonlight toward a throne she never asked for.

"What if I can't do it?" The question escapes before she can stop it, revealing the fear that's been coiling in her gut since the moment the mark appeared on her back. "What if I'm not what you think I am?"

Kael stops, turning to face her. In the filtered moonlight, the planes of his face seem carved from something harder than flesh, but his eyes hold an unexpected warmth. "You already are," he says simply. "The moment you walked through that threshold, you proved it. The forest knows its own."

"Besides," Thorne adds, his golden eyes gleaming, "you've got us. Three centuries of waiting tends to build up a certain... protectiveness."

"What he means," Riven translates, "is that anyone who wants to harm you will have to go through four very old, very powerful, and very cranky guardians first."

Something catches Thorne's attention then—a scent or sound imperceptible to Lyra. His body tenses, the golden glow in his eyes intensifying as he scans the trees ahead. "We're not alone," he growls, voice dropping an octave.

Kael's hand moves to the hilt of his sword, and Riven's shadows gather around her fingers like living ink. Even Ashen's dreamy expression sharpens into focus.

"Stay close," Kael tells Lyra, positioning himself between her and whatever has alerted Thorne. "The Silverwood has guardians of its own, not all of them friendly to strangers."

"I'm hardly a stranger if I was born here," Lyra points out, trying to mask her nervousness with bravado.

Riven's smile is knife-sharp. "You've been gone twenty-five years, little queen. In fae terms, that's long enough to become a legend—or a ghost."

The forest has gone quiet, the ambient music of rustling leaves and whispering branches suddenly stilled. Even the luminous flowers have closed, plunging the path into deeper shadow. Lyra feels the mark on her back flare hot, as if responding to some unseen threat.

Then, ahead of them, the darkness between two ancient trees coalesces into a form—tall and slender, with antlers that branch into intricate patterns against the silver canopy. It steps onto the path, blocking their way, its features obscured by a mask of twisted root and bark.

"Boundary warden," Ashen whispers, his voice tight with strain. "It guards the border between the Silverwood and the Court proper."

The creature inclines its antlered head, eyes like twin moons fixed on Lyra. When it speaks, its voice resonates from the trees themselves, a chorus of creaking wood and rustling leaves.

"The lost daughter returns," it intones. "But is she the same as when she left?"

Before any of the guardians can answer, the warden raises a hand of twisted branch and root. The silver path beneath their feet flares with sudden brilliance, illuminating them from below with stark, revealing light. Lyra gasps as the mark on her back ignites with answering fire, visible even through her clothing.

The warden steps closer, towering over them, its mask splitting into what might be a smile or a snarl. "The blood is true," it says. "But the heart..." It reaches toward Lyra with those wooden fingers, stopping just short of touching her chest. "The heart still beats with mortal rhythm."

"She is Lyra Ashwind," Kael declares, voice ringing with formal authority. "Daughter of Ella Moonshadow, rightful heir to the Moon Court. We stand as her guardians, and we claim passage."

The warden's eyes narrow, twin crescents of silver light. "Passage is not denied," it says. "But neither is it granted without price. All who enter the Court must leave something behind."

"What kind of price?" Lyra asks, finding her voice at last.

The warden's mask shifts, revealing glimpses of a face both ancient and childlike beneath. "A memory," it says. "One you hold dear. One that ties you to the mortal world."

Lyra's first instinct is refusal. Her memories—of Maya, of Lythven, of the life she built for herself—are all she has left of her human existence. But as she opens her mouth to protest, the pendant at her throat pulses with warmth, and she understands. This is the first test of many. A queen cannot serve two worlds equally.

She reaches into her pocket and withdraws a small object—the key to her apartment above the Broken Barrel. It's nothing special, just worn brass with a scratch on the bow, but it represents everything she's leaving behind.

"This memory," she says, holding the key out to the warden. "The night Maya taught me to make the perfect whiskey sour. We were closing up, and she said I'd never be a proper bartender until I could mix a drink that made people forget their troubles instead of drowning them."

The key begins to glow as she speaks, the metal softening, reshaping itself into a perfect miniature of the Broken Barrel, complete with the cracked sign and Maya's silhouette in the window.

The warden takes it, cradling the tiny building in its wooden palm. "A good memory," it says, voice gentler now. "Sweet with friendship, bitter with farewell. It will nourish the forest well."

As the warden closes its hand around the miniature bar, Lyra feels something slip from her mind—not the entire memory, but its texture, its emotional resonance. She still knows it happened, but the warmth of it, the perfect clarity, is gone.

The warden steps aside, the path beyond widening to reveal a vista Lyra couldn't see before: a valley bathed in silvery light, and at its center, a palace of impossible architecture, towers spiraling toward a moon that seems close enough to touch.

"The Court awaits," the warden says. "Welcome home, Lyra Ashwind."

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