Page 10 of Moonlit Desires
Chapter three
The moon court
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Morning is a rumor. In Lyra’s apartment, time has stopped: there is only the hush of static from the battered radiator and the quick, shallow breathing of Maya asleep on her couch.
Lyra stands guard at the window, clutching a chipped mug so hard she imagines it will shatter, as if a single sound might be enough to wake the city’s predators.
The air tastes of salt, old coffee, and the acidic afterburn of adrenaline.
When Maya wakes, it is sudden, gasping, as if returning from underwater. Her eyes dart around the small room before finding Lyra—her face drawn, almost haggard, beneath the lines of fatigue.
“Was it real?” Maya croaks.
Lyra’s mouth is dry. “All of it,” she says, and sits on the edge of the couch, close but not touching.
Maya closes her eyes, like she’s calculating the perimeter of what she remembers: silver fire, the wolf, the moonlit blood that wouldn’t stop. When she opens them, it’s not with fear but a steadiness that makes Lyra’s heart ache.
“I thought I was hallucinating,” Maya says. “But I’m not, am I? You’re… fae.” She doesn’t say it like a question.
Lyra shakes her head. “Not exactly. Or not until recently.” She wants to laugh but her voice cracks instead.
Maya glances down, flexing her hand as if testing whether it’s still hers.
“I dreamed you were a queen, once. That your voice could shatter glass. But I always thought that was just—” She breaks off, staring at Lyra with a weight that is more than friendship, less than confession. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“You wouldn’t have believed it.”
Maya’s smile is humorless, the edge Lyra knows best. “Try me.”
Lyra tells her. She talks until her throat is raw: about the Moon Court, her mother, the curse, the guardians, even the mark that burns and glows beneath her skin.
She tries to explain the storm-eyed hunters, the rescue, the pendant.
She is careful not to mention how it felt to see Maya strung up in a net of blue fire, her heart thrumming with the certainty that she was about to die.
She says nothing about the way the world seemed to narrow, that nothing existed in the lighthouse but the silver threads in her hands and the memory of Maya’s laughter at closing time.
Maya listens. She has always been Lyra’s best audience. When it is over, she leans her head against the back of the couch and closes her eyes again.
“I always knew you were hiding something,” Maya says quietly. “But I thought it was a dead boyfriend. Not a magic lineage.” She smiles, and for a moment, the tension in Lyra’s chest unwinds.
But then Maya opens her eyes, and the world is grave again. “So you’re leaving.”
Lyra nods, unable to meet her gaze. “It’s not safe. Not for you, not for anyone around me.”
“I could come,” Maya says, so soft Lyra nearly misses it. “You don’t know what it’s like here without you. Even the bar feels hollow.”
Lyra’s hands ball into fists. “You can’t. The journey’s not meant for mortals, Maya. You’d die before we even reached the Court.”
The silence is almost cruel. After a while, Maya pushes herself upright, wincing at the stiffness in her ribs.
“Fine. But promise me something.” Her voice is steel now.
“Anything.”
“Don’t forget who you are, Lyra. Even if you turn into one of them. Even if you grow wings or horns or whatever the hell fae queens have. Promise me you’ll remember Lythven, and the people who kept your secret even when they didn’t know what it was.”
Lyra’s vision blurs. She swallows hard, then leans forward and hugs Maya—tight, desperate, as if by sheer force of will she could anchor herself to this moment forever.
Maya hugs back, whispering “idiot” into her shoulder, and Lyra knows it means I love you and I’ll miss you and Don’t you dare die, you bastard, all at once.
After, Maya helps herself to coffee, mugs still stained with last night’s lipstick and blood. “When do you go?” she asks.
“Tonight,” Lyra says. “At the lunar threshold. They say the boundary opens at midnight.”
Maya nods. “You need anything before then?”
Lyra hesitates, then manages a crooked smile. “Just one last night at the Barrel. For old times’ sake?”
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She expects the guardians to protest, to argue that the city is too dangerous, that Storm Court spies will descend on them the moment Lyra shows her face. Instead, Kael simply nods, jaw set in a line of stoic acceptance.
“You may be queen soon, but until then, you are still my charge,” he says, blue eyes flat as lake ice. “We will accompany you.”
Thorne mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “Can’t let her out of our sight for a minute.
” Riven offers a sardonic tilt of her head, the moonlight painting her hair with ghostly blue.
Ashen just gives a small, sad smile, hands trembling imperceptibly as he buttons the cuffs of his shirt.
They walk together through the city, four fae and a girl caught between worlds.
Lythven is changed: the streets are emptier than usual, rumors of the tavern brawl and the “witch” who started it spreading like rot.
In every window, the news flickers: unexplained blackout, mysterious frost, city watch in confusion.
Storm magic leaves scars that are hard to hide.
The Barrel is half full when Lyra enters, and the room goes quiet for a breath.
Then the seamstress collective erupts into applause, the dock workers raise their mugs, and even the city guardsmen in the corner nod in wary respect.
The rumors have already mutated: Lyra the witch, Lyra the banshee, Lyra the demon lover. She lets them talk.
Tonight, Maya tends bar—her first shift since the lighthouse—and Lyra slides behind the counter as if she never left.
It is almost normal. The four guardians take a corner booth, a study in incongruity: Kael sitting ramrod straight, hands never far from the hilt of a knife; Riven draped sideways, boots up, drinking in the room with eyes half-lidded and hungry; Thorne fidgeting with the coaster, nails already starting to darken at the tips; Ashen scanning every shadow as if expecting them to whisper secrets.
“They’re staring at us,” Thorne mutters, his voice pitched low.
Riven shrugs. “Let them. Fae have always been the best entertainment in town.”
Kael ignores both, gaze fixed on Lyra as she pours, wipes, banters. He is reading her like a threat assessment, measuring for weakness or opportunity. When their eyes meet, he nods once, and Lyra feels the weight of responsibility settle on her chest.
Ashen is the first to break the silence. “You should tell her.”
Kael’s jaw clenches. “It is not the time.”
Riven sighs. “It’s never the time. That’s how we ended up with three centuries of awkward silences and one very pissed-off queen.”
Thorne looks between them, exasperation etched on his face. “Can you all just spit it out already? She’s not going to be any less confused in five minutes.”
Lyra sets down the rag, approaches the booth. “If you have something to say, now’s your chance. I leave tonight.”
Kael hesitates, and in that fraction of a second Lyra sees the uncertainty behind the mask. It makes her want to reach for his hand, or punch him, or both.
Finally, he speaks. “The Court is not what it was, Lyra. The curse broke more than our magic—it shattered the bonds that held us together. Every Court is at war with itself. When you cross over, you will be the most wanted, the most hunted, the most alone. Even with us at your side.”
Lyra nods, letting the words settle. “So what’s new?”
Thorne laughs, sharp and wild. “She’s got us there.”
Riven grins, teeth gleaming. “I like her.”
Ashen reaches out, almost touching Lyra’s sleeve, then thinks better of it. “It’s not just the curse, Lyra. The old ways will come for you. The rituals, the suitors, the binding ceremonies… You will have to choose.”
She doesn’t flinch. “I already did.”
Ashen smiles, eyes flicking to the others. “We’re all so predictable, even after all this time.”
Kael lowers his gaze. “Just know this: if you ask it, I will follow you. Even to the end.”
She wants to say something clever, something to break the mood, but nothing comes. Instead, she just sits with them, four centuries of loneliness colliding with the here and now, and it is enough.
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The night thickens. Someone starts a song, old and off-key, but the crowd joins in anyway. The old bartender rules apply: ignore the secrets you overhear, never intervene in lovers’ quarrels, and always keep the peace.
Lyra moves through the rituals, but her eyes stray to the booth.
To Kael, who stands every so often to scan the windows.
To Riven, who flirts outrageously with the seamstresses and drinks them under the table.
To Thorne, who cannot stop watching the door, waiting for predators.
To Ashen, who at last seems content, his pale eyes glazed with melancholy.
The night ends as all nights do: a last round, an argument over the tab, the scraping of chairs and the slamming of the door behind the final patron.
Maya lingers, polishing a glass. “Are you scared?” she asks.
Lyra thinks of the Moon Court, the mother she never knew, the storm-eyed lord with his taste for violence. She thinks of the mark on her back and the silver in her blood.
“I’m terrified,” she says.
Maya grins, all teeth. “Good. Means you’re still alive.”
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Midnight brings them to the edge of the city, where the old train yard crumbles into weeds and salt marsh.
The guardians flank her in a diamond formation, Kael and Riven at her shoulders, Thorne and Ashen in the rear.
Lyra feels the eyes of the city on her—every face in every window, every hidden hunter waiting for her to trip.
The moon is swollen and heavy, pressing the clouds flat against the horizon. At the exact stroke of midnight, the air thickens, then fractures—a rippling distortion that shivers across Lyra’s skin and makes the hair at the nape of her neck stand on end.
Kael steps forward and slices his palm, letting three drops of blood fall on the tracks. “For the old ways,” he says.
Riven produces a silver knife and scores it down her wrist, then licks the wound and winks at Lyra. “For the new.”
Thorne spits into the grass. “For the ones who can’t come home.”
Ashen simply stands beside Lyra, silent and trembling, and when the world splits open, he does not look away.
Lyra turns. Maya stands at the edge of the yard, arms folded, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. She is alone, but unafraid, watching Lyra as if to memorize her face forever.
Lyra raises a hand, palm open. Maya mirrors it. A thousand promises hang in the air between them, unspoken, but enough.
“Go,” Maya whispers.
Lyra steps forward. The threshold opens like the mouth of a beast—hungry, eager, impossible to refuse.
She enters, flanked by her guardians. Behind her, the city sighs and the moon blinks out, leaving only the echo of her name and the memory of a promise: to return, to remember, to never let the dark swallow her whole.
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In the silver woods beyond the world, Lyra Ashwind is queen, and her nightmares have never felt so much like home.