Page 7 of Moonlit Desires

He takes the stool directly across from her, placing his hands flat on the counter. The gesture seems deliberate, as if to show he carries no weapon. At least, none he intends to use.

"You kept the token," he says. His voice is deep, formal, each word enunciated with careful precision.

Lyra's hand instinctively moves to her pocket. "How could you possibly know that?"

A smile ghosts across his severe features. "It would be singing to you. Calling you home. Such things are not easily ignored."

She eyes him warily. "I don't know you."

"No," he agrees. "Though I have known of you for longer than you might believe." He extends a hand, the gesture oddly ceremonial. "I am Kael Stoneheart, Warrior Guardian of the Moon Court. And you, Lyra Ashwind, are a long way from where you belong."

The name—her name, but not as she's known it—strikes her like a physical blow. Ashwind. It feels right in a way that defies logic, settling into her bones like it has always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.

"I don't—" she begins, but the mark on her back flares hot, as if in protest of the lie she's about to tell. She grips the edge of the counter. "What do you want?"

Kael withdraws his hand, unperturbed by her refusal to take it. "To bring you home, eventually. But first, to help you understand what you are. What you have always been, though hidden from you."

From the corner booth, one of the remaining patrons—a gray-haired dock worker who's nursed the same whiskey for two hours—leans forward.

"Moon Court, you said?" he calls. "Like the old stories?"

Kael turns slightly, acknowledging the man with a regal nod. "The very same, though I suspect the stories you know are... imprecise."

The dock worker gives a low whistle. "My grandmother used to tell tales of the fae courts. Said they were beautiful and terrible, and if they ever invited you to dance, you'd best refuse unless you wanted to lose a hundred years in a single night."

"Your grandmother was wise," Kael says. "Though time moves differently in the court, it is not quite so dramatic an effect. Perhaps a week for your day, at most."

The dock worker's eyes widen. Two other patrons drift closer, drawn by talk of the supernatural. Even Maya, pretending to polish glasses at the far end of the bar, edges nearer.

"Is it true the Moon Court exists in parallel to our world?" asks a woman in a threadbare coat, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Like a shadow that only appears at certain angles?"

Kael considers her question with the gravity of a scholar. "An apt metaphor. The Court exists in its own realm, but there are places where the boundaries grow thin. Crossroads. Doorways. Moments when the moon is full and the veil between worlds fragile as spun glass."

His words paint pictures in the air, conjuring images of silver palaces and moonlit gardens. The remaining patrons lean in, entranced by his voice, which has taken on a rhythmic cadence like water over stones.

"The Moon Court was once the most powerful of all fae realms," he continues. "Our magic flowed from the lunar cycles, waxing and waning but never disappearing entirely. Our craftsmen created wonders from moonlight and shadow. Our warriors were unmatched in both skill and honor."

"Was?" Lyra asks, catching the past tense.

Something flickers in Kael's eyes—an old grief, quickly suppressed. "Even immortal kingdoms can suffer. Ours has... diminished. A curse, laid upon us by one who should have been our ally, has slowly drained our magic over centuries. We have searched for a way to break it, to restore what was lost."

He looks directly at Lyra, and she feels the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. "That is why we have come for you now. The curse can only be broken by one with the blood of the court who was born and raised beyond its borders. A child of two worlds."

The mark on Lyra's back pulses in time with her accelerated heartbeat. "You've got the wrong person," she says, but the words ring hollow even to her own ears.

Kael's mouth curves into a smile that holds no humor. "The mark between your shoulder blades says otherwise. The crescent of the Moonwoven. It appears only in those of royal blood when they come of age."

A murmur ripples through the small audience. Royal blood. The words hang in the air, impossible and tantalizing.

"If I'm what you say," Lyra says, lowering her voice, "then why was I abandoned here? Why am I learning all this from a stranger instead of my family?"

Pain crosses Kael's features, so raw and genuine that Lyra almost regrets the question. "You were not abandoned," he says quietly. "You were hidden. Protected. There are those who would kill a child of royal blood before allowing the curse to be broken."

He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small leather pouch. From it, he produces an object that catches the dim bar lights—a pendant, silver and delicate, shaped like a crescent moon wrapped around a star.

"This belonged to your mother," he says, offering it to her. "She wore it until the day she sent you away. The day she died ensuring your escape."

Lyra stares at the pendant, afraid to touch it. Images flash through her mind—not memories, exactly, but impressions. Silver light. A woman's face, beautiful and sad. The scent of night-blooming flowers. A lullaby sung in a language she shouldn't understand but somehow does.

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