Page 34 of Moonlit Desires

"How delightfully straightforward," Riven drawls from his position against the wall, shadows curling around his fingers like affectionate pets. "Prepare for war and hope we aren't overwhelmingly outnumbered? The curse has weakened our defenses for centuries while the Thorn Court has only grown stronger." His mercury eyes deliberately avoid meeting Lyra's directly—the first acknowledgment, however subtle, of the tension that has existed between them since the ritual in the Midnight Court.

"I have a more elegant solution," Riven continues, pushing himself away from the wall with liquid grace. "Let me infiltrate their court. My shadows can move between realms undetected. I can discover their true intentions, perhaps find leverage to use against this Queen." A smile curves his lips, sharp with promise. "Not all battles are won with swords, Stoneheart."

Kael's jaw tightens at the use of his surname. "Your shadows brought back faulty intelligence before. Or have you forgotten the ambush that cost twenty Moon Court guards their lives?"

Something flickers across Riven's face—a brief crack in his sardonic mask—before his expression smooths back into practiced indifference. "Ancient history. But then, you've always excelled at living in the past."

Before Kael can respond, Thorne slams his fist onto the table, the impact sending tremors through the ancient wood. "You both talk too much while saying nothing." His voice has dropped an octave, roughened by the partial transformation alreadyclaiming his features. Golden eyes have brightened to amber, canines lengthened to points that indent his lower lip when he speaks. "We should hunt them before they hunt us."

He stalks the perimeter of the table, movements more wolf than man despite his mostly human appearance. "Track the emissaries, find their camp, strike first. The forest would hide our approach. They wouldn't expect aggression from a Court they believe weakened."

"And risk open war when our power is at its lowest?" Kael challenges, stopping his pacing to face Thorne directly. "We cannot match the Thorn Court in direct confrontation, not with the curse still binding our strongest magics."

"Better to die fighting than cowering behind crumbling walls," Thorne snarls, muscles rippling beneath his shirt as the beast pushes closer to the surface.

From his corner, Ashen's quill scratches against parchment, the sound delicate yet somehow cutting through the argument. His colorless eyes remain fixed on the page, his ash-gray hair floating slightly around his face as if stirred by winds no one else can feel. His hands tremble as he writes, but the letters form with perfect precision despite the tremors.

He slides the completed message across the table. The parchment rotates of its own accord, stopping before Lyra with a gentle whisper of movement.

*The Queen of Thorns seeks not territory but power. Your power. The mark on your back connects to something older than either Court. Dividing our efforts will ensure our failure.*

Lyra touches the parchment, feeling residual magic tingle against her fingertips. Ashen's visions, transmitted through ink and paper when his voice cannot form the words. Since her arrival at Court, his communications have grown more frequent, more urgent, though he speaks aloud less than ever.

"What do you suggest, then?" she asks him directly.

Ashen lifts his gaze to meet hers, the effort visible in the tightening around his eyes. His mouth opens, closes, opens again, but no sound emerges. Instead, his trembling fingers return to the parchment, quill moving with increasing urgency.

*United protection. No separation. The paths where guardians divide all end in darkness.*

"Convenient," Riven remarks, leaning over to read the message, "that our silent prophet's vision aligns so perfectly with Kael's strategy

Chapter ten

Thorne’sTemptation

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The corridor leading to Thorne's quarters smells of cedar and something wild—musk and forest floor and the metallic tang of barely dried blood. Lyra's fingers tighten around the basket of healing herbs and clean bandages as she approaches the heavy wooden door, its surface carved with running wolves that seem to shift positions when viewed from different angles. No guards stand watch here in this secluded wing of the palace; this is territory that belongs solely to the beast-guardian, a space where few are welcome and fewer still would dare to enter uninvited.

She hesitates, then knocks—a soft, uncertain sound against the solid oak. When no answer comes, she pushes the door open, wincing at the low groan of hinges that clearly prefer solitude to visitors.

"Thorne?" she calls softly, stepping into the chamber.

His quarters are not what she expected from a palace dwelling. Instead of the ornate silver furnishings and delicate moonstoneaccents that dominate the rest of the Court, Thorne has created a den—primal, comfortable, unapologetically wild. Animal pelts cover the stone floor, overlapping in rich layers of gray, black, and tawny gold. The furniture is crafted of twisted silver wood, its branches curved into natural shapes rather than forced into artificial elegance. Weapons hang on the walls alongside more pelts, each blade meticulously maintained despite the otherwise untamed atmosphere.

The ceiling rises to a rough dome, open at its apex to reveal a circular patch of night sky. Moonlight pours through this opening, creating a natural spotlight that illuminates the center of the room where a wide platform sits low to the ground, piled high with more furs. Upon this makeshift bed lies Thorne, one arm flung across his eyes, the other resting at his side, fingers half-curled into a loose fist.

His chest is wrapped in bandages that might have been white originally but now bloom with dark stains—evidence that his wounds from the forest creature have reopened. Each breath he takes comes with a slight hitch, a barely perceptible catch that speaks of pain carefully controlled. The moonlight emphasizes the pallor of his skin where it isn't covered by bandages, throwing the scattered scars across his shoulders and arms into sharp relief.

Lyra approaches cautiously, her footsteps muffled by the thick pelts. At her movement, Thorne's arm shifts from his eyes, and his gaze locks onto her—golden-brown irises reflecting the moonlight with animal luminescence. For a moment, he doesn't seem to recognize her, his expression pure predator assessing potential threat.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, voice rough as bark stripped from a tree. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, wincing as the movement pulls at his wounds. Fresh blood seeps throughthe bandages, spreading like spilled wine across the white fabric. "Ashen said he'd tend to me tonight."

"Ashen is busy with the Court's defense plans." Lyra sets her basket on a low table made from a slice of silver tree trunk, its polished surface revealing hundreds of growth rings. "I volunteered to check your wounds."

Thorne watches her movements with unnerving intensity, his eyes tracking each small gesture as she unpacks her supplies—a clay pot of salve made from moonflowers and silver fern, clean linen strips for fresh bandages, a flask of spring water infused with healing herbs. His nostrils flare slightly, scenting the air between them.

"Did he send you?" Thorne asks, voice dropping lower. "Or did you come on your own?"

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