Page 9 of Moonlit Desires

Thorne halts his pacing, golden-brown eyes focusing on Lyra with unnerving intensity. "She smells of the Court," he says, and there's something animalistic in his tone—a rumble that suggests more than human vocal cords. "But also of this world. Both, and neither."

"As she should," Ashen whispers, his voice barely audible over the fire's strange crackle. "The bridge between realms."

Kael gestures to an empty space on the stone bench. "Join us, Lyra. There are truths you must hear before you decide your path."

She hesitates, standing at the edge of their circle, the silver fire casting her shadow long behind her. Part of her—the sensible, cynical bartender who has survived in Lythven by trusting noone—screams to run. But another part, a part waking from long slumber, recognizes something in these strangers. Something like home.

She takes the offered seat. The stone is warm beneath her, as if the silver fire has been burning for hours, heating the ancient rock.

"You spoke of a curse," she says to Kael. "Of enemies who would kill me. I think I deserve the full story before I agree to anything."

Riven laughs, the sound like ice cracking on a winter lake. "Direct. I like that." She settles more comfortably on her bench, fingers toying with a strand of her impossibly silver hair. "Who should tell her? You, Kael, with your martial precision? Ashen, with his prophet's riddles? Or perhaps Thorne, though he's likely to growl through the important parts?"

"You tell it," Thorne says, his voice rough-edged. "You were there. You saw it happen."

A shadow passes over Riven's perfect features. For a moment, her ageless face shows weight of centuries lived in grief. "Very well." She leans forward, and the silver flames leap higher, responding to her movement. "Listen carefully, little royal. This is the story of how your birthright was stolen, and why your blood is the key to reclaiming it."

The fire shifts, shapes forming in the silver flames—towers and gardens, figures dancing in elaborate patterns. Lyra stares, transfixed, as the smoke sculpts itself into images that match Riven's words.

"The Moon Court was the most powerful of the fae realms," Riven begins, her voice taking on a storyteller's cadence. "Our magic was woven from moonlight itself, our domain extending from the silver forests to the crystal seas. For ten thousand years, we ruled in balance with the other Courts—Sun and Star, Stormand Shadow. Our monarchs were wise, our warriors fierce, our magic unmatched."

The smoke shows a palace of impossible architecture, towers spiraling toward a moon that seems close enough to touch.

"Your mother, Queen Ella Moonshadow, ascended the throne after her parents were lost in the Void War. She was young for a ruler—barely three centuries old—but brilliant and beloved. Under her guidance, the Court flourished. She mastered the art of Moonweaving, binding our people together with silver threads of loyalty and love."

The smoke shapes itself into a woman's face—delicate features, eyes large and luminous, a crown of silver upon her brow. Lyra feels a pang of recognition so sharp it steals her breath.

"But there were those who envied our prosperity," Riven continues, her voice hardening. "Chief among them, Caelum Stormborn of the Storm Court. He came to us as an ally, offering friendship and trade. For years, he played the part well—a charming courtier, a valued advisor, a trusted friend."

The smoke darkens, showing a man with flowing silver hair and eyes like thunderclouds.

"Then came the night of the Lunar Eclipse—a rare convergence when our magic is at its most potent, but also its most vulnerable. The night your mother performed the Great Moonweaving, a ritual to renew the Court's bonds for the coming century."

Ashen makes a soft sound, like a whimper. His hands tremble as he stares into the flames. "I saw it," he whispers. "I saw it coming, but too late. Always too late."

Riven's gaze flickers to him, sympathy breaking through her mask of detachment. "No one blames you, Ashen." She turns back to Lyra. "Caelum struck during the ritual. He had spent years placing his people in key positions throughout the Court.At his signal, they disrupted the Moon Weaving, turning the magic back upon itself."

The fire shows figures falling, a throne room in chaos, silver threads tangling and breaking.

"The backlash killed dozens instantly. Those who survived found their connection to the moon—the source of our power—corrupted. Our magic began to fade, like moonlight giving way to dawn, but with no promise of return."

Thorne growls, low in his throat. "He meant to destroy us completely. To absorb what remained of our power into his Storm Court."

"What he didn't anticipate," Kael interjects, his formal tone undercut by barely restrained fury, "was your mother's final act of defiance. As the curse took hold, she used the last of her untainted magic to hide you—her only child, barely a year old—in the mortal realm. She knew that one of royal blood, raised beyond the corruption, might someday return to break the curse."

Riven nods, her mercury eyes reflecting the silver flames. "The queen died to save you. And to save us all. Her sacrifice bought us time—time for the curse to weaken, time for you to grow, time for us to find you again."

The fire shows a woman cradling an infant, whispering words over its sleeping form. Then a tear in reality, a doorway opening to a world of gray skies and stone buildings. The woman placing the child through the doorway, then turning to face shadows that converge upon her with terrible swiftness.

Lyra feels tears on her cheeks, though she doesn't remember beginning to cry. "If she was so powerful, why couldn't she save herself?"

"Because she poured every drop of her power into your protection," Kael says softly. "Into the enchantment that hid youfrom Caelum's sight all these years. Into the mark that would reveal itself only when you were ready to return."

"The crescent," Lyra murmurs, one hand reaching instinctively to touch the spot between her shoulder blades.

"The royal sigil," Riven corrects. "It appears in all the royal lines when they come of age. Yours was suppressed by your mother's magic until now."

"Why now?" Lyra asks. "Why not years ago? Or years from now?"

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