Page 11 of Moonlit Desires

Chapter four

The Prophecy

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The forest drew her like a secret, and Lyra stepped through its silvered archway with a sense that she was crossing not only into a new world, but into a story already written—one in which she had somehow agreed to play the lead.

The path underfoot shimmered, not with dew but with the residue of old moonlight, and the air sang to her bones in a note lower and sweeter than any lullaby she'd ever heard.

Kael's presence loomed at her right shoulder: silent, cathedral-still, his jaw tight with anticipation.

Riven and Thorne walked abreast behind her, a matched set of danger and desire—Riven's silver eyes flicking over every shadow, Thorne's golden gaze hungry and unblinking.

Behind them, the threshold seals shut with a sound like glass breaking in reverse.

The last glimpse of Lythven—Maya's silhouette, the rusting train tracks, the city's perpetual fog—disappears, replaced by an endless expanse of silver-barked trees.

The finality of it strikes Lyra like a physical blow. There is no going back now.

"Welcome home, little queen," Riven murmurs, her voice carrying in the strange acoustics of the forest. "Though I suspect it doesn't feel much like home yet."

It doesn't. And yet, something in Lyra responds to this place—the mark between her shoulder blades pulses with warmth, and the pendant at her throat hums a frequency that matches the forest's own song.

The air here tastes different, sharper and sweeter all at once, like the first breath after a lifetime underwater.

The trees rise impossibly tall, their trunks smooth as polished bone.

Their branches interlock overhead, creating a canopy that filters the moonlight into dappled patterns across the forest floor.

Where the light touches, small flowers unfurl—luminous blooms that close again as shadows pass over them.

The path itself seems semi-sentient, widening before them and narrowing behind, as if to prevent retreat.

"Is it always like this?" Lyra asks, voice hushed despite herself. "So... alive?"

Kael's expression softens, though his posture remains vigilant. "The Silverwood remembers you," he says. "Even if you don't remember it. You were born here, beneath these very trees."

"It's showing off," Thorne adds, sniffing the air with undisguised pleasure. "Been too long since royal blood walked these paths. The forest is practically preening."

As if in response, a branch lowers itself to brush against Lyra's cheek with unexpected gentleness. She flinches at first, then allows the contact, surprised by the silk-smooth texture of the bark.

Ashen walks a few paces behind, his colorless eyes distant, fingers tracing patterns in the air that leave faint trails of light. "The paths are converging," he says softly. "The Court knows you're coming."

"Is that good or bad?" Lyra asks, trying to keep the apprehension from her voice.

"Both," all four guardians answer in unison, then exchange glances of varying amusement and irritation at their synchronicity.

Riven laughs, the sound like ice breaking on a winter lake. "What they mean to say, darling, is that politics at Court are... complicated. Some will welcome the return of Queen Ella's heir. Others will see you as a threat to the status quo. And a few—" She trails off, silver eyes narrowing.

"A few will try to kill you before you can break the curse," Kael finishes bluntly. "Which is why we stay close until we reach the palace."

The word "palace" makes Lyra stumble. All of this—the forest, the magic, the very concept of being royal—still feels like someone else's fever dream. Just days ago, she was pouring drinks and sweeping floors. Now she walks a path of liquid moonlight toward a throne she never asked for.

"What if I can't do it?" The question escapes before she can stop it, revealing the fear that's been coiling in her gut since the moment the mark appeared on her back. "What if I'm not what you think I am?"

Kael stops, turning to face her. In the filtered moonlight, the planes of his face seem carved from something harder than flesh, but his eyes hold an unexpected warmth. "You already are," he says simply. "The moment you walked through that threshold, you proved it. The forest knows its own."

"Besides," Thorne adds, his golden eyes gleaming, "you've got us. Three centuries of waiting tends to build up a certain... protectiveness."

"What he means," Riven translates, "is that anyone who wants to harm you will have to go through four very old, very powerful, and very cranky guardians first."

Something catches Thorne's attention then—a scent or sound imperceptible to Lyra. His body tenses, the golden glow in his eyes intensifying as he scans the trees ahead. "We're not alone," he growls, voice dropping an octave.

Kael's hand moves to the hilt of his sword, and Riven's shadows gather around her fingers like living ink. Even Ashen's dreamy expression sharpens into focus.

"Stay close," Kael tells Lyra, positioning himself between her and whatever has alerted Thorne. "The Silverwood has guardians of its own, not all of them friendly to strangers."

"I'm hardly a stranger if I was born here," Lyra points out, trying to mask her nervousness with bravado.

Riven's smile is knife-sharp. "You've been gone twenty-five years, little queen. In fae terms, that's long enough to become a legend—or a ghost."

The forest has gone quiet, the ambient music of rustling leaves and whispering branches suddenly stilled. Even the luminous flowers have closed, plunging the path into deeper shadow. Lyra feels the mark on her back flare hot, as if responding to some unseen threat.

Then, ahead of them, the darkness between two ancient trees coalesces into a form—tall and slender, with antlers that branch into intricate patterns against the silver canopy. It steps onto the path, blocking their way, its features obscured by a mask of twisted root and bark.

"Boundary warden," Ashen whispers, his voice tight with strain. "It guards the border between the Silverwood and the Court proper."

The creature inclines its antlered head, eyes like twin moons fixed on Lyra. When it speaks, its voice resonates from the trees themselves, a chorus of creaking wood and rustling leaves.

"The lost daughter returns," it intones. "But is she the same as when she left?"

Before any of the guardians can answer, the warden raises a hand of twisted branch and root.

The silver path beneath their feet flares with sudden brilliance, illuminating them from below with stark, revealing light.

Lyra gasps as the mark on her back ignites with answering fire, visible even through her clothing.

The warden steps closer, towering over them, its mask splitting into what might be a smile or a snarl. "The blood is true," it says. "But the heart..." It reaches toward Lyra with those wooden fingers, stopping just short of touching her chest. "The heart still beats with mortal rhythm."

"She is Lyra Ashwind," Kael declares, voice ringing with formal authority. "Daughter of Ella Moonshadow, rightful heir to the Moon Court. We stand as her guardians, and we claim passage."

The warden's eyes narrow, twin crescents of silver light. "Passage is not denied," it says. "But neither is it granted without price. All who enter the Court must leave something behind."

"What kind of price?" Lyra asks, finding her voice at last.

The warden's mask shifts, revealing glimpses of a face both ancient and childlike beneath. "A memory," it says. "One you hold dear. One that ties you to the mortal world."

Lyra's first instinct is refusal. Her memories—of Maya, of Lythven, of the life she built for herself—are all she has left of her human existence.

But as she opens her mouth to protest, the pendant at her throat pulses with warmth, and she understands.

This is the first test of many. A queen cannot serve two worlds equally.

She reaches into her pocket and withdraws a small object—the key to her apartment above the Broken Barrel. It's nothing special, just worn brass with a scratch on the bow, but it represents everything she's leaving behind.

"This memory," she says, holding the key out to the warden. "The night Maya taught me to make the perfect whiskey sour. We were closing up, and she said I'd never be a proper bartender until I could mix a drink that made people forget their troubles instead of drowning them."

The key begins to glow as she speaks, the metal softening, reshaping itself into a perfect miniature of the Broken Barrel, complete with the cracked sign and Maya's silhouette in the window.

The warden takes it, cradling the tiny building in its wooden palm. "A good memory," it says, voice gentler now. "Sweet with friendship, bitter with farewell. It will nourish the forest well."

As the warden closes its hand around the miniature bar, Lyra feels something slip from her mind—not the entire memory, but its texture, its emotional resonance. She still knows it happened, but the warmth of it, the perfect clarity, is gone.

The warden steps aside, the path beyond widening to reveal a vista Lyra couldn't see before: a valley bathed in silvery light, and at its center, a palace of impossible architecture, towers spiraling toward a moon that seems close enough to touch.

"The Court awaits," the warden says. "Welcome home, Lyra Ashwind."

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At the heart of the clearing, a woman waited.

She stood in a fluted gown of midnight and frost, her skin the color of cold cream, her hair a mass of optical white that pulsed softly with every breath she took.

Her eyes, when they fixed on Lyra, were neither kind nor cruel—merely assessing, like a jeweler appraising a stone of uncertain value.

The air around her shimmered with an authority so palpable that even the moonlight seemed to bend in deference, pooling at her feet in liquid silver.