Page 32 of Moonlit Desires

"Riven," Lyra begins, her voice unsteady.

"Don't." The word emerges as a snarl, edges sharp enough to draw blood. His hands tremble visibly, fingers opening and closing as if searching for something to grasp. The shadows mimic his agitation, coiling around his limbs in protective layers that occasionally slip to reveal the tension in his body. "You weren't supposed to see that."

Understanding dawns slowly through the haze of receding power. The visions—his memories, his pain, his sacrifices. He didn't know she would witness them, and didn't intend to reveal himself so completely.

Lyra takes a step toward him, hand outstretched. "I didn't mean to—"

Riven flinches away from her approach, shadows rising between them like a shield. "Don't pretend you understand what you saw," he says, voice dropping to that precise, cutting tone she recognizes from their earliest encounters. The familiarity of it might be comforting if not for the way it cracks on the final word, betraying the rawness beneath. "You've seen a few fragments of centuries and think you know me now? Think you comprehend what I've endured? What have I done?"

"No," she answers honestly. "But I'd like to."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps, or disbelief—before his features harden into defensive lines. "How magnanimous of the heir apparent. Shall I lay my trauma at your feet like tribute? Another guardian baring his throat for your inspection?"

The cruelty of his words doesn't match his eyes, which remain wide and haunted. Lyra recognizes the defense mechanism forwhat it is—a wounded animal lashing out, expecting the next blow.

"That's not what I meant," she says quietly. "What I saw—who bound you to those shadows? The figure with the crown of thorns?"

Riven's laugh is hollow, echoing strangely in the courtyard as his shadows writhe more violently. "Oh, now you want the full story? A bedtime tale of how the broken shadowmancer became your faithful servant?" He shakes his head, silver hair catching moonlight like scattered knives. "Not tonight, princess. Perhaps not ever."

Before she can respond, he takes another step back, and the shadows respond to some unspoken command. They surge around him, no longer chaotic but purposeful, enveloping his form in layers of darkness that seem to consume him from the outside in. His eyes are the last to disappear, mercury irises fixed on hers with an expression she can't decipher—regret, perhaps, or longing, or simply resignation.

Then he is gone, dissolved into darkness, leaving only a whisper of cold air where he stood.

Lyra remains motionless, the abruptness of his departure leaving her unbalanced in more ways than one. The silver light in her palms has dimmed but not disappeared, pulsing gently with each heartbeat like a second, external pulse. The mark between her shoulder blades still radiates warmth, though without the searing intensity of moments before.

Around her, the Midnight Court responds to the ritual's aftermath. The dormant runes along the stone walls, which had flickered briefly during the climax of their power exchange, now glow with steady silver light. They illuminate carvings long hidden by shadow and time—scenes of ancient ceremonies, of royals communing with moon and darkness, of magic flowing freely through the Court in ways long forgotten.

A sound draws her attention—the gentle trickle of water. Across the courtyard, a small fountain set into the wall has begun to flow, liquid silver rather than water emerging from the mouth of a carved lunar wolf. It catches the moonlight and refracts it, sending prismatic patterns dancing across the stones. As Lyra watches, other fountains activate in sequence, creating a symphony of gentle splashing that echoes through the previously silent courtyard.

The ancient trees at the courtyard's edge quiver, their branches reaching toward the moon overhead with newfound vigor. Their gray bark takes on a silvery sheen, dead wood transforming into living tissue that gleams with inner light. Leaves unfurl from branches that have been bare for centuries, translucent silver things that chime softly when they touch one another in the gentle night breeze.

Lyra approaches one of the trees, drawn by its transformation. When she places her palm against its trunk, the bark warms beneath her touch, and the silver light in her hand flows into the wood, spreading upward through branches and outward through roots. She feels the connection like a current between them—her power feeding the tree's awakening, and in return, the tree offering something like gratitude, a gentle pulse of acknowledgment.

She withdraws her hand, staring in wonder as silver sap beads from the point of contact, hardening instantly into a teardrop of something that resembles moonstone. When she catches it before it can fall, it melts against her skin, absorbed back into her body as if returning home.

The ritual has changed her. She can feel it in the newfound awareness that hums beneath her skin—a sensitivity to the magic all around her that was previously hidden. The Court itself seems different through these new senses, no longer simply a collection of ancient buildings and formal gardens, but a livingentity connected by threads of power that have lain dormant but never truly died.

From the direction of the main palace, a chime sounds—deep and resonant, a bell that hasn't rung in living memory. It strikes once, twice, three times, the sound carrying impossible distances in the still night air. Lyra feels each toll as a vibration in her bones, in the mark on her back, in the pendant at her throat.

She stands alone in the Midnight Court, her newly awakened magic humming beneath her skin like a song half-remembered. Riven is gone, but evidence of what they began remains in every illuminated rune, every flowing fountain, every silver leaf that trembles in the moonlight. All around her, the dying Court stirs with the first whispers of renewed life, responding to the power in her blood—the power he helped awaken, whatever his reasons, whatever his regrets.

In the wake of his departure, Lyra realizes an uncomfortable truth: despite the pain of the visions, despite his cutting words and abrupt vanishing, she wants to see him again. Wants to understand the complex, damaged guardian who carries centuries of shadows in his veins. Wants to know if the vulnerability she glimpsed was real or merely another facet of the ritual's magic.

She touches her lips, still sensitive from his kisses, and wonders which would be more dangerous—if he never allows himself to be that exposed again, or if he does.

Above, the moon watches with ancient patience as its light catches in her auburn hair, turning the strands to burnished copper. The shadows in the courtyard's corners seem to pause in their movements, as if listening for a command that hasn't yet been given. And somewhere in the depths of the Moon Court, magic continues to spread outward from this forgottencourtyard—a ripple that will soon become a wave, washing away centuries of dormancy with the force of its return.

Chapter nine

FaePolitics

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The grand hall of the Moon Court drowns in silence, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows that the curse refuses to relinquish. Lyra sits upon the temporary throne—a construction of silver branches and moonstone that catches the weak light filtering through windows tall as memory—and feels every eye boring into her like physical pressure. The formal attire chosen for her chafes at her neck and wrists, layers of silvered silk and ceremonial metals that seem determined to transform her into someone else entirely. But beneath the finery, the mark between her shoulder blades pulses with newfound heat, a constant reminder of the power that now flows through her veins, awakened in the Midnight Court three nights ago.

Three days since Riven disappeared into shadows, leaving her transformed and alone. Three days of avoiding his mercury gaze across crowded rooms, of pretending the ritual was nothing more than necessary magic rather than the intimate violation ofboundaries it became. Three days of learning to breathe around the weight of new power that sits beneath her skin like an eager predator.

The Court stretches before her in neat rows of fae nobility, their faces a gallery of barely concealed hunger and calculation. Their finery cannot hide their diminishment—once-vibrant colors now muted, once-potent magics reduced to parlor tricks. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, designed to capture and amplify moonlight, but the curse has left them dim and listless, casting shadows where there should be brilliance.

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