Page 67 of Moonlit Desires

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A sudden jolt of energy courses through the protective wards, a warning that rattles the guardians in their quiet moments. Kael’s blue eyes snap open, instinct honed by centuries of vigilance flaring to life. He senses it first—the fracture in the delicate balance that should protect the Moon Court, a rippling thread of danger drawing the breath from his lungs.

He rises instantly from his chair, muscles coiling into action, his hand finding the hilt of his sword without conscious thought. The protective barrier—once a bastion of safety—now quakes beneath the weight of an unseen force, an ominous herald of invasion. Heart pounding, he races toward Lyra's chambers, the cool stone floor feeling unstable beneath his feet.

Behind him, Riven stirs, shadows flickering at his feet like restless spirits sensing the threat. "What is it?" he asks, voice sharp, eyes narrowing as the growing unease settles in hisgut. A flick of his fingers causes shadows to twist, searching the perimeter for the source of disturbance. "Something feels amiss."

"Lyra," Kael growls, urgency coursing through his veins like wildfire. "I fear the wards are failing." The words bring a tremor to his steady voice, an admission that alarms even him.

A pulse of magic surrounds the hall as Thorne’s beastly instincts sharpen, alert to the corrupted energy invading the sanctum of the Court. He bursts into the chamber behind them, golden eyes keen and piercing, scanning for signs of threat. "What’s happening?" he growls, shifting in preparation for the fight. The scents of corrupted magic claw at his senses like an invasive chill that settles deep in his bones, instinctively alerting him to a danger encroaching on those he holds dear.

“It’s Lyra’s spirit,” Ashen states, joining the others, his ethereal presence underscored by a quiet urgency that runs counter to his usually measured demeanor. “She’s being drawn away.” His starlit eyes narrow, probing the shifting shadows that hover at the edges of their vision. “We cannot linger here. The Queen has taken her.”

Riven’s expression darkens with realization, shadows swirling in reflection of his intense emotions. “We cannot let her be claimed by the Queen,” he hisses, voice smooth yet laced with a deadly seriousness that sends shivers through the air.

In an instant, the three guardians converge, focus sharpening to a singular point: Lyra, and the darkness threatening to swallow her whole. Kael clenches his fists, gathering the energies pulsing through the ward’s fracture, and his resolve strengthens in unity with the others. They all feel it—Lyra, suspended in limbo between two worlds, her spirit stolen away.

“Let’s go,” Kael commands, leading the way. His boots pound down the corridor with determined fervor, his heart steadydespite the danger that looms. "We need to follow her before it's too late."

As they reach Lyra’s chamber, the sight before them pulls all breath from their lungs. She lies still, her breathing shallow, draped against a sea of cushions yet disconnected from their warmth. The silver glow of her mark dims beneath the shimmering veil of protective wards now strained and flickering.

“Every moment we delay puts her at greater risk,” Kael murmurs, his voice nearly cracking with urgency. “The Queen will not hesitate to exploit the distance between realms.”

The guardians exchange glances—Thorne’s fierce determination, Ashen’s ethereal insight, Riven’s enigmatic confidence, and Kael’s fierce resolve. Together, they form an unbroken circle around her, a bulwark against the encroaching dark.

“We must begin the ritual,” Ashen insists, his eyes widening as he sees the flickering wards begin to pulse erratically. “We can anchor her spirit, follow her through the threshold.”

Kael nods, already shifting into position. “Then we prepare together. Riven, focus your shadows on the edges of the wards—bring them back to the light. Thorne, harness your instincts and connect with her spirit. Ashen, you must guide us through her dreams. Let us not falter in this.”

With determined purpose, they begin, the guardians standing shoulder to shoulder as the air thickens with potent magic. Each contributes their essence—the clarity of Ashen's foresight intertwining with the shadows summoned by Riven, Thorne’s primal energy merging with Kael's unwavering strength. The symbols they draw in the air pulse with glowing radiance, sparkling with potential and determination.

The ritual grows, energy rippling outward as they entwine their spirits, fabricating a bridge to follow Lyra into the depths of her dreamscape. As they prepare to breach the veil, Lyra’s nameechoes through their hearts, a binding chant that harmonizes with the pulse of magic, igniting the very foundation of their bond.

“The Queen of Thorns will meet her match,” Kael vows, raising his voice above the crackle of energy forming around them. “We will fight for her now, and we will not lose her again.”

With resolute faces set against the encroaching darkness, the guardians close their eyes and delve into the ritual, stepping toward the threshold where dreams and shadows intertwine, their hearts aflame with determination to rescue Lyra from the depths of the Queen's cruel domain.

Chapter twenty

TheChoice

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Lyra stands alone in the High Council chamber, a place both familiar and wrong. The silver moonlight streaming through the tall windows strikes the floor at impossible angles, creating shadows that shouldn't exist. Her connection to the guardians—that warm, steady presence in her mind—has vanished, replaced by a hollow emptiness that echoes in her chest. The mark between her shoulder blades pulses erratically, sending waves of alternating heat and cold down her spine as if trying to warn her of something she already knows this is not the true Moon Court, but a perfect, poisoned facsimile created to trap her.

The chamber extends around her in perfect circular symmetry; its dimensions stretched just beyond natural proportions. Ancient glyphs etched into the stone walls glow with faint silver luminescence, their patterns familiar yet subtly altered—promises rewritten into threats, protections twisted into bindings. The massive round table that normally dominatesthe center stands conspicuously absent, leaving her exposed in an empty expanse of polished floor that reflects the triple moonlight pouring through windows too tall, too narrow to belong in the waking world.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The voice slides into the chamber like honey poured over broken glass, sweet at first impression but carrying jagged edges that scrape against her senses. "How malleable reality becomes when one understands its true nature."

Darkness pools in the corner farthest from the windows, thickening until it resembles black ink dropped into clear water. It blooms outward, stretching and twisting until it takes humanoid form—first a silhouette, then gradually gaining definition as it steps into the silvered light.

The emissary of the Queen of Thorns materializes fully, each movement deliberate and precise. Tall and elegant, they possess a beauty that transcends gender, their features sharp enough to cut—high cheekbones tapering to a pointed chin, lips curved in a perpetual half-smile that never reaches their eyes. Those eyes gleam obsidian black, reflecting the moonlight in pinpricks that seem to trap it rather than return it.

Most disturbing are the thorns—not accessories or adornments but organic extensions emerging from the emissary's body. They protrude from each joint, spiraling outward from elbows, knees, and knuckles in delicate whorls that belie their lethal sharpness. As they move closer, Lyra notices smaller thorns tracing the emissary's jawline like a macabre crown, their tips glistening with something that might be dew or might be poison.

"Your Mark recognizes opportunity," the emissary observes, circling Lyra with predatory grace. Their robes—black as their eyes but shot through with veins of virulent green—whisperagainst the stone floor, leaving momentary imprints that fade like breath on cold glass. "See how it quickens?"

Lyra resists the urge to touch the mark, though she feels its rhythm changing—pulsing faster, then slower, its temperature fluctuating wildly beneath her thin Court attire. Each erratic beat sends silver light bleeding through the fabric in stuttering patterns that illuminate the emissary's face from below, casting shadows that emphasize their inhuman aspects.

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