Page 33 of Moonlit Desires

"The emissaries approach," announces the Court herald, his voice cracking on the final syllable. Even ceremony has grown frail under the curse's weight.

The great doors at the far end of the hall swing open, moved by unseen servants. A chill enters before the visitors do—a cold that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with intent. It slithers across the floor, coiling around ankles and wrists, testing for weakness.

Three figures enter in perfect unison, their steps a synchronized percussion against the stone floor. They are tall—taller than any in the Moon Court—with limbs that seem slightly too long for their bodies. Their garments flow like liquid darkness, embroidered with thorn patterns that seem to shift and move when viewed from the corner of the eye. Each wears a mask of polished silver, curved to follow the contours of faces no one has seen, reflecting the Court back upon itself in distorted miniature.

The mark on Lyra's back flares hot, responding to their presence with a warning pulse that sends silver light bleeding through the layers of her formal attire. She grips the arms of the throne, fighting to keep her expression neutral as the three figures approach. Their movements are too smooth, as if their joints bend in ways no bone should allow.

The Court falls silent, the rustle of fabric and whispers dying as the emissaries reach the foot of the dais where Lyra's throne sits elevated above the assembly. The lead figure bows with exaggerated formality, the motion fluid yet somehow wrong, like watching an artist's rendering of deference rather than the real thing.

"The Queen of Thorns extends her greetings to the one who sits upon the vacant throne of the Moon Court," the emissary says, voice like honey poured over broken glass. The silver mask catches light at impossible angles, giving no hint of the features behind it.

Kael stands at Lyra's right, his posture rigid with barely contained aggression. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, knuckles white with restraint. On her left, Thorne's breathing has grown audible, the subtle rumble in his chest warning of the beast that strains against human confines. Behind her, she feels rather than sees Riven's presence, shadows gathering beneath the throne and along the dais steps, coiling like serpents ready to strike.

Only Ashen, standing slightly apart from the others, remains perfectly still—his colorless eyes reflecting the emissaries like twin mirrors, his hands trembling almost imperceptibly at his sides.

The lead emissary produces a scroll from within voluminous sleeves, the parchment yellowed and foxed with age. When it unfurls, the smell of ancient magic fills the air—musk and metal and something darker beneath.

"We come bearing the words of our Queen, she who tends the Garden of Night, she who weaves between worlds, she whose thorns pierce deeper than bone." The emissary's voice rises and falls in ritual cadence. "She who has watched and waited as the Moon Court withered beneath its curse."

Murmurs ripple through the assembled Court like wind through dying leaves. Kael takes half a step forward, but Lyra stops him with a slight gesture, her eyes never leaving the silver mask of the speaker.

"The Queen of Thorns recognizes what others have forgotten," continues the emissary, finger tracing lines on the ancient scroll. "The Marked One's power was never meant for the Moon Court. It flows from older sources, deeper wells. Our Queen extends her... protection to the one who bears the royal sigil."

The words land like stones in still water, their implications rippling outward. Lyra feels the Court's attention sharpen, feels the weight of centuries of politics and betrayal pressing against her awareness.

"The Queen of Thorns demands the surrender of Lyra Ashwind, daughter of Ella Moonshadow, bearer of the royal sigil, to her Court within three days' time." The emissary's voice drops lower, intimate as a lover's whisper. "Refusal will be considered an act of aggression against the Thorn Court, to be answered in kind."

Kael breaks protocol with a single stride that places him between Lyra and the emissaries. His hand draws his sword halfway from its scabbard, the blade catching weak light and transforming it to deadly purpose.

"You dare threaten the heir to the Moon Court in her own hall?" His voice carries the weight of centuries of battle, each word precise as a blade stroke. "Your Queen forgets herself and the ancient boundaries between our realms."

The emissaries remain unmoved by his display, their silver masks reflecting Kael's anger back at him in warped miniature. Behind Lyra, Riven's shadows darken and thicken, climbing the back of the throne to curl possessively around its edges. The temperature in the hall drops several degrees as his power flexes invisibly.

Thorne moves with predatory grace to position himself at the bottom of the dais steps, directly in the emissaries' path. His transformation has begun—subtle but unmistakable to those who know the signs. His fingers have lengthened slightly, nails darkening to points. The gold of his eyes has expanded, leaving only thin rings of white visible. The growl emanating from his throat carries through the hall, a sound no human could produce.

"The wolf bares his teeth," observes the second emissary, speaking for the first time. Its voice is identical to the first—the same honey-venom tone, the same unnatural cadence. "How predictable."

Only Ashen remains where he stands, his stillness more unsettling than the others' movement. His pale eyes reflect the scene with perfect clarity, twin pools of colorless light that seem to see beyond the moment into branching possibilities. The tremor in his hands has increased slightly, the only outward sign of his distress.

Lyra rises from the throne in a single fluid motion, the mark on her back flaring bright enough that silver light spills from beneath her formal attire, casting her shadow long across the dais. The pendant at her throat pulses in harmony with the sigil, both responding to her surge of emotion.

"I am Lyra Ashwind," she states, her voice steadier than she feels. "Daughter of Ella Moonshadow, heir to the Moon Court. I sit upon this throne not by ancient right alone, but by choice and sacrifice." She descends one step of the dais, silver light trailing from her fingertips in echo of the ritual that awakened her power. "I will consider your Queen's... invitation. And I will provide my answer within the time allotted."

The lead emissary bows again, the gesture too deep to be sincere. "The Queen of Thorns awaits your wisdom. Three days,Marked One. Not a moment more." The scroll rolls itself closed with a snap that echoes through the hall like breaking bone.

As they back away, moving in that too-perfect unison, the third emissary speaks for the first time: "Consider carefully which Court truly deserves your gifts. The curse that weakens these halls could be lifted by hands other than yours."

The doors close behind them with finality, and the Court erupts into chaos of whispers and movement. But Lyra hears nothing beyond the rush of blood in her ears and the silent communication passing between her four guardians as they form a protective circle around her—each prepared to defend her in their own way, each burning with questions no one dares ask in public.

The mark on her back pulses once, twice, three times, as if counting down to something only it can foresee.

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Lyra's private chamber burns with unspoken words. The circular table at its center—ancient wood carved with phases of the moon and constellations long forgotten—reflects the pale blue orbs of light that hover near the ceiling like captive stars. Four guardians orbit the room's perimeter, their bodies arranged in unconscious echo of their temperaments: Kael rigid by the door, hand never straying far from his sword; Riven slouched against the far wall, mercury eyes half-lidded but missing nothing; Thorne prowling the space between window and hearth, muscles bunched beneath clothing that seems suddenly too constrictive; Ashen perched on a stool in the corner, pale fingers arranging and rearranging sheets of parchment with methodical precision.

"Three days," Kael says, breaking the silence that has stretched since the doors closed behind them. "Three days before they expect an answer." His voice carries the weight of strategy, of battles planned and fought across centuries. "Weshould use that time to strengthen our borders and prepare for conflict. The emissaries' threat was clear."

He begins to pace, each step measured and precise, armor components clinking softly with his movement. The sound is oddly comforting in its martial certainty. "The Queen of Thorns has coveted the Moon Court's territory for millennia. This is merely her latest attempt to claim what was never hers."

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