Page 39 of Moonlit Desires

Lyra ignores Kael's rebuke, her attention drawn to Thorne's bandages where a small stain of silver has begun to seep through the white linen. Without thinking, she crosses to him, concerned overriding protocol.

"Your wounds reopened," she says quietly, eyes dropping to the evidence of blood on the otherwise pristine wrappings.

Before Thorne can respond, a violent surge of darkness erupts from Riven's corner of the courtyard. Shadows lash outward like a physical extension of his rage, coiling and striking with serpentine precision. The weapons rack beside Kael topples with a deafening clatter, swords and practice blades scattering across the stones like abandoned toys.

"Playing favorites already, Marked One?" Riven's voice cuts through the resulting silence, each syllable dripping with venom. He steps forward, silver hair catching the light as his aristocraticfeatures twist with something that looks remarkably like jealousy. "Or perhaps you're simply collecting us like trophies?"

His shadows respond to his emotional state, writhing around him in agitated patterns, occasionally forming shapes that suggest claws or fangs before dissolving back into formless darkness. The scars on his forearms glow with inner light, pulsing in counterpoint to the mark on Lyra's back.

"One guardian in your bed not enough?" he continues, mercury eyes narrowing as they flick between her and Thorne. "Planning to work your way through the full set? How... efficient."

Thorne growls, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest as his eyes flash gold with anger. His transformation flickers at the edges—a ripple of fur appearing then disappearing along his forearms, canines lengthening momentarily before receding again.

Kael steps forward, positioning himself between Lyra and Riven's advancing form. His hand drops to his sword hilt, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. "Enough, shadowmancer. You forget yourself."

But Lyra raises her hand, stopping Kael's protective advance with a gesture that surprises even her with its authority. The silver light from her mark intensifies, bleeding through her training clothes to cast her shadow long across the courtyard stones. She faces Riven directly, green eyes narrowing as she lifts her chin in silent challenge.

"I don't need a defender," she says, her voice steadier than the rapid flutter of her pulse would suggest. "And I don't need your approval, Riven."

The shadows around his feet surge in response to her defiance, tendrils of darkness creeping toward her like tide waters testing a shoreline. His mercury eyes lock with hers, the battle of wills as tangible as the stones beneath their feet.

"Don't you?" he asks, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You think you understand what it means to bear that mark? To command the loyalty of guardians who have waited centuries for your return?" His laugh is sharp as shattered glass. "You know nothing of power or its price, little bartender. Nothing of what you've awakened."

Ashen rises silently from his bench, his colorless eyes fixed on the confrontation with an intensity that suggests he's seeing beyond the moment into branching possibilities. His trembling hands press against his temples as if to contain thoughts too numerous to process. When he opens his mouth as if to speak, no sound emerges—only a soft exhalation that carries the scent of prophecy.

Riven's shadows continue their aggressive advance, slithering across the courtyard toward Lyra like physical manifestations of his resentment. The air grows colder around them, frost forming in delicate patterns where darkness touches stone.

"Tell me, Marked One," Riven says, circling her with predatory grace, "did the beast make you howl? Did he mark you as his own?" His smile is cruel, designed to wound. "And does he know what you felt when your power met mine in the Midnight Court? The way your body responded to my shadows?"

The accusation lands like a physical blow. Thorne's head snaps up, golden eyes widening with confusion before narrowing in hurt. Kael's posture stiffens further, if possible, his jaw clenching with barely contained emotion.

Only Ashen seems unsurprised, his pale eyes reflecting knowledge of connections and events he's witnessed in his visions but never shared aloud.

Lyra stands firm despite the heat rising to her cheeks, refusing to be shamed for either encounter. The mark between her shoulder blades burns hotter, responding to her surge of anger and defiance.

"That's enough," she says, each word precise and edged with newfound authority. "If you have something to say to me, Riven, say it directly. Don't hide behind shadows and insinuation."

Their gazes lock across the narrowing distance, power recognizing power, challenge acknowledging challenge. Around them, the courtyard holds its breath, waiting for the confrontation to either dissolve or ignite.

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Lyra steps forward, directly into the cold tendrils of shadow that curl around her ankles like possessive fingers. The darkness responds to her approach with eager interest, twining higher up her calves in spirals that leave frost-patterns on her skin. She suppresses a shiver, refusing to show weakness as she enters Riven's personal space—that carefully maintained distance he enforces between himself and everyone at Court.

"Is that what this is about? You're jealous?" She challenges, her voice low enough that only he can hear the words, though the others surely read them in her posture, in the tilt of her chin.

Riven's mercury eyes widen fractionally before narrowing to silver slits. The perfect planes of his face—aristocratic cheekbones, the precise line of his jaw—harden into marble coldness, beautiful and untouchable. But something flickers in his gaze, a momentary crack in his facade that suggests her arrow has found its target.

"Jealousy implies I want what another possesses," he says, each word clipped and precise. "An emotion far too... pedestrian for my tastes."

The courtyard darkens as if clouds have suddenly obscured the morning sun, though the sky above remains clear. Shadows deepen in corners, stretch beneath benches, pool in footprints left in the courtyard dust. Riven's power intensifies, drawing darkness toward him like a lodestone pulls iron filings, untilthe air around them feels thick with it—a pressure against skin, against lungs.

The silver scars on his forearms pulse with increasing brilliance, the runes and sigils carved into his flesh glowing against his pale skin. Pain flashes across his features with each pulse, quickly masked but undeniable. His shadows respond to his agitation, rising around them both in a slowly rotating column that separates them from the other guardians.

"You understand nothing of what you've started," he hisses, circling her like a predator assessing weakness. His movements are fluid, deliberate, each step bringing him close enough that she feels his breath against her neck before he withdraws again. "You think you can simply waltz in here, awaken ancient magic, and play with forces beyond your comprehension?"

His finger traces a line in the air beside her cheek, not quite touching but close enough that she feels the cold emanating from his skin. "Do you even know what it means to bear that mark? What responsibilities it carries? What prices must be paid?"

Across the courtyard, Ashen shifts uncomfortably, his colorless eyes reflecting the shadow-column surrounding Lyra and Riven like twin mirrors. His hands move in small, agitated gestures, arranging invisible patterns in the air as if trying to organize chaotic futures only he can see. Beside him, Thorne growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through the courtyard stones. His golden eyes flash with animal light as he takes an instinctive step forward, then forces himself to stop, respecting Lyra's earlier command.

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