Page 30 of Moonlit Desires

Lyra's hand instinctively rises to touch the pendant at her throat. "My magic?"

"Your birthright," Riven corrects. "The power in your blood that's been sleeping for twenty-five years while you poured drinks for mortals." There's no judgment in his tone, merely a statement of fact. "I can help you awaken it fully."

She studies him, this silver-haired guardian with his cutting words and elegant cruelty. Of all her guardians, Riven remains the most enigmatic—his motivations obscured behind layers of sarcasm and carefully maintained distance.

"Why would you help me?" she asks.

Something flickers in his mercury eyes—amusement, perhaps, or appreciation of her directness. "Because a half-awakened queen is dangerous to herself and others. Because the Court needs your power at full strength to break the curse." He pauses,then adds with uncharacteristic honesty, "Because I've waited three centuries to fulfill my oath, and patience has never been my virtue."

Lyra considers his offer. Kael teaches her combat, Thorne showed her the forest's power, Ashen guides her through Court politics—but none have offered to help with the magic that pulses beneath her skin, growing stronger yet still beyond her control.

"What would this involve?" she asks finally.

Riven's smile returns, sharper now. "Trust. Temporarily. And privacy." He extends his hand, palm up. "Come with me."

When she hesitates, he adds, "Unless you'd prefer to wait for Kael to finish his nightly patrol? I'm sure he'd be delighted to assist with intimate magical rituals."

Heat rises to Lyra's cheeks at the memory of Kael's lips on hers, his body pressing her against the training yard column. Riven's knowing smirk suggests he's well aware of what transpired between them.

"Fine," she says, placing her hand in his. "But no tricks."

His fingers close around hers, cool and dry. "Oh, plenty of tricks. But none that will harm you." Before she can retort, shadows envelop them both.

Moving through Riven's shadows differs entirely from walking the Silverwood's paths. This darkness feels intelligent, purposeful, wrapping around her like silk ribbons that guide rather than bind. The sensation of falling upward returns, but Riven's grip anchors her, his presence a constant amid the disorientation.

They emerge in a courtyard she's never seen before, tucked away in some forgotten corner of the palace. Ancient stone walls rise on three sides, carved with runes so old they've almost worn smooth. The fourth side opens to a view of the Silverwood far below, the trees gleaming like polished bone in the moonlight.Shadows pool unnaturally in the courtyard's corners, behaving more like liquid than absence of light, occasionally rippling as if disturbed by unseen movement.

"The Midnight Court," Riven explains, releasing her hand. "Where royals once came to commune with shadow and moon." He moves to the center of the courtyard, where a circular pattern is inlaid in silver upon the stone. "No one has used this place in centuries. Not since your mother disappeared."

Lyra follows him onto the circle, feeling the same subtle vibration through her feet that she experienced in the training yard. "Why here?"

"Because the boundary between magic and matter is thinner here." Riven raises his hands, fingers tracing patterns in the air between them. Where his fingertips pass, silver light lingers, forming complex sigils that hang suspended in the night air. "Because the moon remembers what the Court has forgotten."

His movements are precise, calculated, each gesture creating another glowing symbol until a web of silver light surrounds them both. The designs remind Lyra of the mark on her back—curves and angles that seem to hold meaning beyond their shape, a language written in pure power.

Their fingers brush accidentally as Riven reaches past her to complete a sigil. He freezes at the contact, mercury eyes widening in surprise. For a fraction of a second, his sardonic mask slips, revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath—a longing so intense it makes Lyra's breath catch. Then his composure returns, eyes shuttering, face smoothing into practiced neutrality.

"This will hurt," he says, voice dropping to a lower register. His characteristic bluntness carries a strange gentleness now. "Magic always does. Especially the first awakening."

Lyra nods, throat suddenly dry. "I understand."

"No, you don't," Riven says, but there's no mockery in it. He steps closer, raising his hands to frame her face. The sleeves of his shirt fall back, revealing forearms mapped with intricate silver scars—evidence of shadow-binding rituals performed over centuries. "But you will."

His palms are cool against her cheeks, thumbs resting at the corners of her mouth with unexpected tenderness. The mark between her shoulder blades begins to pulse in response to his touch, a rhythmic warmth that grows with each heartbeat until it glows through the fabric of her night shift, casting her shadow sharp against the ancient stone.

"The ritual begins with blood and breath," Riven murmurs, his face inches from hers. "With the meeting of shadow and light." His mercury eyes reflect the silver glow of her mark, turning them luminous in the darkness. "With surrender."

He leans forward, closing the distance between them. His lips meet hers in what begins as a ceremonial touch—light, formal, ritualistic. But the contact sparks something unexpected in them both. The mark on her back flares hot, and Riven makes a sound deep in his throat, his fingers sliding from her face to tangle in her hair.

The kiss deepens, ceremonial formality giving way to hunger. Riven's mouth moves against hers with increasing urgency, and Lyra responds in kind, hands rising to grip his shoulders as power begins to build between them—tangible, electric, dangerous.

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The kiss transforms from ceremony to conflagration. Riven's mouth claims hers with centuries of hunger behind it, and Lyra responds with equal fervor, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as if to anchor herself against the tide of sensation. Shadows rise from the corners of the courtyard, drawn to them like moths to flame, coiling around their ankles in sinuous,possessive tendrils. The moonlight intensifies, pouring down with unnatural focus until it drips across their skin like liquid silver, catching in the hollows of their throats and the curves of their cheekbones.

Power surges between them—a current that begins where their lips meet and travels through Lyra's body like wildfire in her veins. It's not pain, exactly, though it borders on it—a tingling heat that makes her nerves sing and her skin feel too tight to contain what's building inside her. The sensation reminds her of the mark's first appearance, but multiplied a hundredfold, refined from discomfort to something almost ecstatic in its intensity.

Riven makes a sound against her mouth—something between a groan and a sigh—as his shadows respond to the rising power. They climb higher, wrapping around her wrists like cool bracelets, then circling her waist in a grip both gentle and unyielding. The contact of shadow on skin creates another circuit of sensation, a counterpoint to the heat of the kiss—cool darkness meeting liquid fire.

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