Page 6 of Moonlit Desires

A hush falls over the nearest tables. The newcomers are too polished, too elegant for this part of town. They look like characters from a storybook accidentally dropped into a newspaper.

The whispers start almost immediately.

"Those are Court folk if I've ever seen them," mutters a dock worker to his companion. "What're they doing this far from the border?"

"Hunting, probably," his friend replies. "Always hunting for something, that lot."

"Dangerous business, dealing with their kind," a third man chimes in. "My cousin went to work for one of the Courts. Came back with half his memories missing and a taste for raw meat."

The seamstresses exchange significant glances. The oldest among them makes a warding gesture beneath the table.

Lyra pretends to be absorbed in mixing a drink, but her attention is fixed on the strangers. There's something about them—something in the way they hold themselves, in the careful precision of their movements—that reminds her of the hooded figure from the train yard. Her mark throbs in response, as if recognizing its own kind.

The woman with silver hair catches Lyra staring and holds her gaze with an intensity that makes Lyra's breath hitch. There is knowledge in that look, and curiosity, and something that might be hunger. Lyra forces herself to turn away, hands trembling as she pours whiskey for a regular who doesn't notice her distress.

From the corner of her eye, she observes the strangers. They speak little, and when they do, their lips barely move. The pale man's fingers trace patterns on the tabletop—symbols that Lyra can't decipher but which seem achingly familiar. The dark-haired man's posture never relaxes, his attention constantly sweeping the room before returning, inevitably, to Lyra.

"I don't like them," Maya murmurs, appearing at Lyra's elbow. "They're watching you."

Lyra forces a laugh. "Everyone watches the bartender. It's how you get drinks."

Maya shakes her head. "Not like that. Like they're... I don't know. Waiting for something."

Before Lyra can respond, the silver-haired woman rises from her seat and approaches the bar. She moves with liquid grace, her steps silent despite the uneven floorboards. Up close, Lyra can see that her eyes are not quite human—the irises too large, the color shifting like mercury in sunlight.

"A drink, if you please," the woman says, her voice musical and precise. "Something that burns."

Lyra reaches for the top-shelf whiskey, but the woman stops her with a raised finger.

"Not that kind of burn," she says, and smiles. Her teeth are very white and very straight. "I mean the kind that reminds you what you are, beneath the skin."

Lyra's hand freezes on the bottle. The mark between her shoulder blades flares hot enough to make her gasp. The woman's smile widens, satisfaction evident in the curve of her lips.

"I thought so," she murmurs. "You've felt the call, haven't you? The silver in your blood singing back to the moon?"

Lyra sets the bottle down carefully, aware that Maya is watching them with undisguised suspicion. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The woman laughs, a sound like glass breaking in the distance. "You will," she promises. "Soon enough. We've come to make sure of that."

She slides a silver coin across the counter—not currency that Lyra recognizes, but a token stamped with a crescent moon. The exact shape of the mark on Lyra's back.

"When you're ready," the woman says, "follow the path this shows you. We'll be waiting."

Before Lyra can protest, the woman glides back to her companions. They rise in unison, nodding to her with what looks almost like deference. As they exit, the dark-haired man casts one final glance at Lyra—a look of such mingled yearning and regret that it steals her breath.

The door closes behind them, and the room exhales, conversation surging back to fill the vacuum they've left. But Lyra remains frozen, the silver coin burning against her palm like a promise.

Or a threat.

____________

The silver coin burns a hole in Lyra's pocket for the remainder of her shift, its weight disproportionate to its size. She serves drinks with mechanical precision, her mind elsewhere—in silver woods, in abandoned train yards, in the mercury eyes of a woman who knew her secret before she did. The tavern empties gradually as night deepens, until only a handful of patrons remain, nursing their drinks in the corners like survivors of some invisible storm. It's then that the door opens again, admitting a gust of night air and the dark-haired stranger, alone this time, his blue eyes finding her immediately across the room.

Maya tenses beside her. "Want me to call the bouncer?"

Lyra shakes her head, though her pulse quickens. "No. I think... I think I need to hear what he has to say."

The man approaches the bar with the measured stride of someone accustomed to having others watch his movements. He wears the same fine clothes as before, but now Lyra notices details she missed—a long scar peeking from his collar,extending toward his shoulder; the way his hands, though elegant, bear the calluses of someone familiar with weapons; the slight silver at his temples, contrasting with the raven black of his hair.

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