Page 29 of Moonlit Desires

"This isn't how this is supposed to work," Thorne mutters, though he accepts her support. "I'm meant to protect you, not the other way around."

"Consider it a temporary reversal of roles," Lyra replies. "Besides, you've already fulfilled your protective duties quite thoroughly for one day."

They begin the slow journey back toward the Court, Thorne's weight heavy against her smaller frame. Despite his injury, he remains alert, golden eyes scanning the forest for further threats. The silver trees, which had seemed so menacing before, now appear to bend away from their path, creating a clearer route through the dense woodland.

"The forest is helping us," Lyra observes, noticing how the path ahead becomes more distinct with each painful step they take.

Thorne nods, his breath warm against her hair. "It recognizes blood freely given in defense of the royal line. Ancient pact." His words come in short bursts, evidence of the pain he's fighting. "Your mark... also helping. Calling to the old magic."

She glances down, noticing for the first time that the silver light from her royal sigil has spread, extending tendrils of illumination that reach through the fabric of her clothing to touch the forest floor. Where the light meets earth, the phosphorescent moss brightens in response, creating a glowing pathway that stretches ahead of them toward the distant Court.

"I'm sorry," Thorne says suddenly, his voice dropping lower. "That you had to see me like that. Not everyone can accept... both sides."

Lyra adjusts her grip around his waist, careful to avoid the wound. "Maybe that's because I know what it's like to be caught between worlds. Not quite human enough for one, not quite fae enough for the other."

A smile touches his lips, sharp canines still more prominent than they should be. "You might be the first person at Court who actually understands."

The silver trees bend further away from their path, branches lifting to allow shafts of late afternoon sunlight to penetrate the canopy. The beams fall across the forest floor like spotlights, illuminating their way home with golden clarity that hadn't been present before. It's as if Silverwood, having tested them both, now offers its blessing in the form of safe passage.

"Will you be alright?" Lyra asks, noticing how Thorne's breathing grows more labored despite his attempts to hide it.

"I heal quickly," he assures her, though the silver blood seeping through the makeshift bandages suggests the wounds are far from trivial. "Advantage of the beast."

They continue in silence broken only by their footsteps and Thorne's occasional sharp intake of breath when the path jostles his injury. The forest around them grows less dense, the trees spacing themselves more naturally, the underbrush less tangled and threatening. Even the fog has retreated, leaving the air clear and sweetened with the scent of night-blooming flowers that open prematurely in their presence.

As the first spires of the Court become visible through the thinning trees, Thorne pauses, turning to face Lyra despite the pain the movement clearly causes him.

"Thank you," he says simply. "Not for the help, but for seeing me. Really seeing me."

Lyra nods, understanding the distinction. "I'm beginning to think that's what I'm here for. To see what others have overlooked. To recognize what's been forgotten."

Thorne's golden eyes hold hers for a moment longer, something unspoken passing between them—a recognition of kindred spirits caught between identities, belonging fully to neither yet somehow stronger for the division.

Then he straightens, taking more of his own weight despite the fresh blood this releases from his wound. As they approach the Court's silver gates, he assumes as much dignity as his injury allows, unwilling to appear weak before those who already question his place among them.

Behind them, the Silverwood rustles with a sound almost like approval, the silver trees bending one last time to touch branches in an arch over the path they've traveled—marking the way for when they might return, this time as welcome guests rather than intruders to be tested.

Chapter eight

ATasteofMagic

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The moon hangs full and impossibly close outside Lyra's chamber window, its silver light pouring through the gossamer curtains like liquid mercury. She traces the fading scratch on her palm—a souvenir from yesterday's forest encounter—and thinks of Thorne, now recovering in the eastern wing under Ashen's watchful care. The Court whispers of the incident, their tones equal parts impressed and concerned that their newly-returned heir ventured into the Silverwood unescorted and returned with a half-transformed guardian bleeding silver onto ancient floors.

Shadows stir in the corner of her chamber, gathering and thickening until they part like curtains. Riven steps through, his silver hair catching the moonlight in a way that makes it appear to be made of the same substance. His mercury eyes find her immediately, narrowing slightly as he notes her unbound hair and the simple night shift she wears.

"Most people knock," Lyra says, though the sharpness she intends is dulled by fatigue.

Riven's mouth curves into that familiar sardonic smile. "Most people can't step through shadows." He moves further into the room, each step deliberately soundless. "I heard about your adventure with our resident wolf. Quite the dramatic entrance you made. The Court loves nothing more than a spectacle."

"He was injured protecting me," Lyra replies, defensive of Thorne despite Riven's deliberately casual tone.

"Yes, he's terribly heroic that way." Riven examines the items on her dressing table with idle curiosity, fingers hovering over bottles without touching them. "But that's not why I'm here."

"Why are you here, then?"

Riven turns to face her fully, all pretense of nonchalance dropping away. "Because while you were in the Silverwood, something woke in you. I felt it. The Court felt it. But it's still..." He searches for the right word, fingers flexing at his sides. "Dormant. Incomplete."

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