Page 73 of Moonlit Desires

They make a final desperate push toward the boundary, moving as a single unit despite their exhaustion. Thorne's arms tremble with the effort of carrying Lyra through the increasingly resistant atmosphere. Kael's sword strokes become less precise, more powered by determination than skill. Ashen's protective barrier flickers dangerously, holes appearing momentarily before being patched with visible effort. Riven's shadows grow thin, stretched beyond their natural limits.

Just as the dream realm makes its final attempt to trap them—walls slamming together like massive jaws, floor dropping away entirely—they reach the boundary. The transition happens in a disorienting rush of sensation: cold then hot, pressure then weightlessness, darkness then blinding light. Their consciousness snap back into their physical bodies with painful abruptness, leaving them gasping on the floor of Lyra's chamber in the Moon Court.

Thorne cradles Lyra against his chest, his breathing ragged but steadying as reality solidifies around them. Her eyes flutter open, exhaustion evident in every line of her face but triumph shining through nonetheless. The mark between her shoulder blades pulses with steady silver light, visible even through the fabric of her torn clothing, no longer erratic but harmonized with her heartbeat.

"You came for me," she whispers, voice barely audible even in the sudden quiet of the physical world.

"Always," Thorne answers, the single word containing promise beyond its simple syllables. His arms tighten fractionally around her, protective yet gentle with her woundedform. His golden eyes meet hers, communication passing between them that transcends the need for further speech.

Around them, the other guardians arrange themselves in unconscious geometry—Kael standing watch at the door, sword still drawn though his posture speaks of bone-deep weariness; Riven slumped against a wall, shadows pooled at his feet like exhausted animals; Ashen kneeling nearby, trembling hands already sketching what he's seen, what might come next.

Beyond the windows of the Moon Court, dawn approaches with silver certainty, unaware of battles fought in realms where time moves differently. But within the chamber, something has fundamentally changed—bonds tested and proven, connections deepened beyond formal ritual, a queen and her guardians united not by duty or destiny but by choice made and remade in the face of darkness.

Chapter twenty-two

Riven’sSacrifice

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The walls of the Thorn Queen's stronghold breathe with malevolent life, expanding and contracting in rhythmic pulses that send tremors through the stone beneath Lyra's feet. Thorns protrude from every surface, their tips glistening with something too viscous to be dew, too luminescent to be poison alone. The mark between her shoulder blades throbs in response, a cold fire that spreads outward with each step deeper into this nightmare labyrinth.

"We should have stayed together," she whispers, the words hanging visible in the chill air before dissipating into mist. The corridor narrows ahead, thorns reaching farther inward like grasping fingers.

Riven moves beside her with predatory grace, his formal Court attire incongruously elegant against the grotesque backdrop of living thorns. His shadows extend before them like liquid night,flowing along the ground and walls, probing for dangers hidden beyond ordinary sight.

"Four paths, four guardians," he replies, mercury eyes scanning the darkness ahead. "Besides, I'm better company than Kael's insufferable nobility or Thorne's barely contained aggression, wouldn't you agree?" His voice carries its usual sardonic edge, but something softer lurks beneath—concern, perhaps, or fear carefully masked as indifference.

The decision to split up had come after reaching a junction where the stronghold divided into four distinct paths. Ashen's trembling hands had sketched what his prophetic sight revealed: separate routes eventually converging at the heart of the Queen's power. Time was their enemy more than the thorns themselves.

"I still don't like it," Lyra admits, stepping carefully over a cluster of barbs erupting from the floor. The air grows thicker with each breath, carrying the metallic tang of blood mixed with the sickly-sweet scent of rot. "It feels like exactly what she wants."

Riven's shadows return to him, curling around his ankles like affectionate serpents before stretching outward again. "The Queen of Thorns always gets what she wants," he says, the scars on his forearms glowing faintly beneath his sleeves. "That's rather the problem we're here to address."

His attempt at levity falls flat in the oppressive atmosphere. Lyra's mark pulses sharply in response to his words, sending a jolt of silver pain down her spine. She gasps, one hand flying to the wall for support before she remembers the thorns. Riven catches her arm before she makes contact, his grip firm but gentle.

"She knows we're here," Lyra says unnecessarily, the statement obvious in the way the corridor seems to contract around them, in how the thorns angle inward like sentinels tracking their movement.

"She's always known," Riven confirms, his shadows growing darker, more substantial as they approach what must be the heart of the fortress. "The question is whether she knows what you've become."

What she's become. The words echo in Lyra's mind as they continue forward. Since escaping the dream-trap, her power has evolved, the silver light beneath her skin no longer merely responsive but active, seeking. The mark that once caused only pain now serves as conduit for energy that feels increasingly her own rather than merely channeled from elsewhere.

The corridor widens suddenly, the ceiling soaring upward until it vanishes in darkness too absolute to penetrate. Even Riven's shadows cannot reach its heights, returning to him with no information. The walls here pulsate more vigorously, thorns growing and retracting in patterns that seem almost deliberate, as if spelling messages in a language of pain and puncture.

"It's feeding," Riven observes, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "The entire structure—it consumes energy from those it captures." His mercury eyes dart to a recess where something that might once have been fae lies desiccated, thorns penetrating what remains of its body at precise intervals. "We should move faster."

Lyra nods, unable to speak as her mark responds to the grisly sight with renewed intensity. The silver light now bleeds visibly through her clothing, illuminating their path with inconsistent pulses that match her accelerated heartbeat. Riven's shadows dance in the silver glow, stretching and contracting as if tasting its quality.

They walk in tense silence, the only sounds their measured breathing and the soft whisper of thorns shifting position as they pass. Riven's shoulders tighten incrementally with each step, the casual grace of his movements giving way to combat readiness. His shadows extend farther ahead, becoming more substantial,forming shapes with teeth and claws that dissipate almost immediately upon creation.

"You're afraid," Lyra realizes, the observation slipping out before she can reconsider it.

Riven doesn't look at her, his profile sharp against the gloom. "I'm cautious," he corrects, but the slight tremor in his left hand betrays him. "There's a difference."

Before she can press further, they arrive at an archway formed from interlaced thorns, their surfaces coated with a substance that drips slowly onto the threshold. Beyond lies a vast chamber, its dimensions impossible to determine in the inconsistent light. The ceiling, if one exists, remains hidden in shadow, while the floor stretches out in concentric circles of alternating stone and living growth.

"This is it," Riven murmurs, his shadows pooling at his feet as if reluctant to proceed. "The heart of her power."

Lyra's mark burns with cold fire, the sensation no longer merely between her shoulder blades but spreading through her entire body. Silver light traces her veins from within, momentarily visible through her skin before subsiding again. "She's here," she whispers, certainty flowing through her alongside the strange power. "Not physically, but her essence."

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