Page 20 of Moonlit Desires

At the heart of the clearing, a woman waited. She stood in a fluted gown of midnight and frost, her skin the color of cold cream, her hair a mass of optical white that pulsed softly with every breath she took. Her eyes, when they fixed on Lyra, were neither kind nor cruel—merely assessing, like a jeweler appraising a stone of uncertain value. The air aroundher shimmered with an authority so palpable that even the moonlight seemed to bend in deference, pooling at her feet in liquid silver.

The clearing itself was a perfect circle, ringed by silver trees that leans inward as if listening. At its center stood a stone dais, ancient and worn smooth by countless moons. Runes spiraled across its surface, glowing faintly with the same silvery light that seemed to emanate from everything in this realm.

Kael stiffens beside Lyra, his posture shifting from protective to formal. He drops to one knee, head bowed, though his eyes never leave the woman's face. "Lady Serilda," he says, voice carefully neutral. "You honor us with your presence."

Riven makes no move to kneel, her mercury eyes narrowing with undisguised suspicion. "The Keeper of Records," she says, the title carrying a weight Lyra doesn't yet understand. "How unexpected. I wouldn't have thought Court gossip traveled quite so fast."

The woman—Serilda—ignores Riven's barb, her attention fixed solely on Lyra. "So," she says, her voice like glass chimes in winter, "Ella's daughter returns at last. A child of two worlds, neither fully fae nor fully human." She circles Lyra slowly, examining her from every angle. "The resemblance is there, in the chin and the brow. But the eyes..." She pauses, leaning closer. "The eyes are pure Moonshadow. Your mother's legacy, written in silver and green."

Thorne growls low in his throat, a sound of warning rather than threat. "We didn't expect a welcoming committee, Serilda. Especially not you."

"Few expect me," Serilda replies with the faintest suggestion of a smile. "That's rather the point." She returns her attention to Lyra. "I am the Keeper of Records for the Moon Court. All histories, all bloodlines, all prophecies pass through myhands. And you, Lyra Ashwind, have been the subject of more prophecies than most."

Lyra meets the woman's gaze, refusing to be intimidated despite the tremor in her legs. "I'm not interested in prophecies. I'm here to break the curse and help my people."

"Your people?" Serilda's eyebrows rise a fraction. "How quickly you claim them, despite knowing nothing of our ways." She extends a hand, palm up. "May I see the royal sigil? The mark that proves your lineage?"

Kael stands, moving between them. "That's not necessary. We have verified her identity. The forest itself recognized her blood."

"The forest is ancient and sentimental," Serilda dismisses. "The Court requires more concrete proof." Her eyes remain locked on Lyra. "Unless the supposed heir is afraid to submit to an examination?"

Lyra feels her guardians tense around her, ready to intervene. But something in Serilda's challenge strikes a chord—the same defiance that helped her survive as a bartender in a rough border town. Without a word, she turns and pulls down the collar of her shirt, exposing the silver crescent that shines between her shoulder blades.

Serilda's breath catches, a tiny slip in her composed facade. She reaches out, fingers hovering just above the mark without touching it. "The royal sigil indeed," she murmurs. "And already so bright. Your mother took years to develop such clarity."

Lyra turns back to face her. "Satisfied?"

Serilda withdraws her hand, expression unreadable. "The mark confirms your blood, but blood alone doesn't make a queen. The Court has changed in your absence, Lyra Ashwind. Factions have formed. Alliances have shifted. Even now, word of your return races through the palace, and those who wouldsee the curse remain are preparing their arguments—or their assassins."

Ashen steps forward, his pale eyes unusually focused. "You've seen something," he says to Serilda. "A convergence in the timelines."

Serilda inclines her head, acknowledging him as a fellow seer. "Many paths, branching from this moment. Some lead to restoration, others to ruin. All depend on choices not yet made." She turns back to Lyra. "The Court awaits you, but not all with welcome. Before you proceed, you must understand what you face."

"Then tell me," Lyra says. "No riddles, no prophecies. Just the truth."

A ghost of respect flickers across Serilda's features. "Very well. The truth, then. In your absence, the Moon Court has split into three factions. The Traditionalists believe only your return can break the curse—they will support you, but they will expect you to rule exactly as your mother did. The Reformists believe the curse is an opportunity for change—they will accept you only if you embrace new ways. And the Denialists..." She pauses. "They believe the curse is a myth, that our diminished magic is natural evolution. They will see you as a threat to the new order they've created."

Riven snorts. "What she's not telling you is that she leads the Reformists. And her twin brother leads the Denialists. Court politics at its finest—family feuds played out over centuries."

Serilda's eyes flash dangerously. "My relationship with Caelum has nothing to do with this."

"Caelum?" Lyra's head snaps up. "Caelum Stormborn? Your brother is the one who cursed the Court?"

A tense silence falls. Serilda's composure cracks further, genuine emotion bleeding through. "Half-brother," she corrects, voice tight. "And yes. The same who hunts you now. The samewho sent his agents to your mortal home." Her gaze softens fractionally. "I am not my brother, Lyra Ashwind. Whatever Riven may imply."

Kael clears his throat. "Lady Serilda has her own agenda, as do we all. But she has never acted against the throne directly."

"Faint praise," Serilda observes dryly. She returns her attention to Lyra. "Before I take you to the Court, I must know your intentions. Do you come to claim your mother's throne? To break the curse? Or merely to satisfy your curiosity about your origins?"

The question hangs in the air, weighty with implication. Lyra feels the pendant at her throat grow warm, the mark on her back pulsing in time with her accelerated heartbeat. The forest around them has gone utterly still, as if holding its breath.

"I came because I had no choice," Lyra answers honestly. "Because staying in the mortal world meant putting everyone I cared about in danger. But now that I'm here..." She looks at each of her guardians in turn, drawing strength from their presence. "I intend to break the curse. Whether that means claiming a throne or not, I don't know yet. But I won't let politics or prophecies dictate my path."

Serilda studies her for a long moment, then nods once. "An interesting answer. Neither what the Traditionalists would hope for, nor what the Reformists would demand." She steps back, gesturing toward a path that opens beyond the clearing, leading deeper into the forest. "The Court awaits your judgment, Lyra Ashwind. As does your mother's unfinished work."

As they prepare to continue their journey, Serilda places a hand on Lyra's arm, her touch cool but not unpleasant. "One last thing," she says, voice lowered for Lyra alone. "Trust your guardians, but remember they have their own histories, their own wounds. Three centuries of waiting changes even the most loyal heart."

Before Lyra can ask what she means, Serilda steps onto the stone dais. "I will announce your arrival," she says, louder now. "By sunset tomorrow, every member of the Court will know that Ella Moonshadow's daughter has returned." She fixes Lyra with a final, penetrating gaze. "What they make of that knowledge is beyond even my ability to predict."

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