Page 16 of Moonlit Desires

Chapter seven

Into the Woods

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The Silverwood beckons Lyra with whispers only royal blood can hear.

She steps between ancient trunks of impossible silver, seeking solitude after the morning's training session left her with more questions than answers.

The forest floor gives beneath her feet like flesh rather than earth, and she feels a flutter of unease in her chest—an uncomfortable awareness that she is a stranger here, despite the mark on her back claiming otherwise.

The trees rise around her, sentinels of polished bone reaching toward a sky she can no longer see.

Afternoon light filters through the canopy in narrow shafts, dappling the ground with puddles of gold that shift and retreat as she approaches.

She had slipped away from the palace while the Court prepared for evening festivities, needing space to breathe, to think, to escape the weight of Kael's rejection and the hunger that still lingers in her veins.

At first, the Silverwood welcomes her, paths widening invitingly beneath her steps.

The beauty of it steals her breath—trees so tall they seem to puncture the heavens, their bark smooth as satin beneath her curious fingers.

Flowers unfurl as she passes, luminous blooms that track her movement like attentive eyes.

But beauty slides into strangeness as she ventures deeper.

The path that had seemed so clear begins to waver, edges blurring like watercolor left in rain.

Lyra turns back, only to find the way she came has vanished, replaced by an identical corridor of silver trunks that she's certain wasn't there before.

"Hello?" she calls, her voice swallowed by the unnatural stillness of the air. No birds answer. No insects hum. Only the soft sigh of leaves responding to a wind she cannot feel.

The forest floor transforms with each step.

What was once packed earth becomes a carpet of phosphorescent moss that pulses with inner light, casting her shadow in sickly greens and blues that distort her silhouette into something feral and unrecognizable.

The moss squelches beneath her boots, releasing spores that drift upward like ghostly fingerprints reaching for her face.

Above, vines hang from branches like forgotten nooses, twisted and gnarled, occasionally swaying despite the absence of breeze.

They seem to reach for her as she passes, withdrawing only when she turns to look directly at them.

The scent of decay mingles with something sweeter, more insidious—a perfume that makes her thoughts drift and scatter, forcing her to bite the inside of her cheek to maintain focus.

"I need to go back," she murmurs, trying to orient herself. But which way is back? The forest has become a labyrinth of identical trees, each path indistinguishable from the last.

Fog gathers between the trunks, not rolling in from some distant source but materializing from nothing, patches of milky white that thicken with alarming speed.

It curls around her ankles like affectionate cats, then rises to her knees, her waist, until she can barely see her own hands extended before her.

The mark between her shoulder blades thrums suddenly, a vibration that travels through bone and tissue to settle at the base of her skull. It pulses in rhythmic waves, neither painful nor pleasant, but insistent—like a language she almost understands.

A rustling sound comes from her left—leaves disturbed by something large enough to move branches.

Lyra freezes, straining to see through the fog.

The sound moves, circling behind her, then ahead.

Whatever makes it is not traveling in a straight line but seems to be testing the perimeter, searching for weakness.

"Who's there?" she demands, trying to force authority into her voice. The words emerge smaller than intended, absorbed by the mist.

A growl answers—low, resonant, vibrating through the forest floor and into the soles of her feet.

Not close, but not far enough. The mark on her back flares in response, its warmth spreading across her skin like wildfire, visible even through her clothing as a silver glow that illuminates the fog around her in pulsing waves.

Panic rises in her throat. She moves faster, no longer caring which direction leads to safety, only that she must keep moving.

The trees seem to close ranks around her, silver trunks sliding into new positions when she isn't looking directly at them.

What was once a forest becomes a maze becomes a prison, walls of living silver contracting with each ragged breath she takes.

Fragments of moonlight—impossible, as the moon shouldn't be visible in daylight—glint from the forest floor, reflecting off dew-slick leaves and the carapaces of insects that skitter away from her hurried steps.

The light catches in her peripheral vision, flashing like warning signals that disappear when she turns toward them.

Shadows move wrong here. They lengthen not toward the sun's position but toward her, reaching with fingers that taper to points too sharp for comfort.

They slide across tree trunks and forest floor with deliberate purpose, converging on her position from all directions, independent of the objects that should cast them.

"I am Lyra Ashwind," she whispers, the words a talisman against fear. "Daughter of Ella Moonshadow. This forest knows my blood."

But does it? The doubt creeps in like the fog, insidious and choking. Perhaps the forest recognizes her blood not as kin but as intruder—half-human, diluted, impure. Perhaps the silver trees close in not to protect but to eliminate.

Her pulse hammers against her ribs, each beat echoing the thrum of the mark on her back.

The fog thickens until visibility shrinks to arm's length, the world beyond reduced to vague silhouettes and shifting darkness.

The phosphorescent moss grows brighter in response, its unnatural light catching in the mist to create a sphere of sickly illumination with Lyra at its center—spotlight on prey.

Another growl, closer now. The sound of heavy paws on damp earth. The creak of wood as something large pushes between tightly packed trunks.

Lyra spins, trying to track the source, but sound plays tricks in the fog, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. The mark on her back burns brighter, her panic feeding its power until silver light spills from beneath her clothing, casting stark shadows across the fog.

She backs against one of the silver trees, pressing her spine to its smooth trunk as if it might offer protection. The bark is warm against her mark, vibrating with the same frequency, resonating with something inside her that she doesn't understand but instinctively fears.

The forest holds its breath. Even the fog seems to pause in its swirling dance, suspended in perfect stillness.

In that moment of unnatural quiet, Lyra hears her own heartbeat, the rush of blood in her ears, and beneath it all, a deeper rhythm—the pulse of the forest itself, beating in time with the mark on her back.

She is lost, utterly and completely. Lost in a place that may recognize her blood but does not know her face. Lost in a forest that lives and breathes and hunts with patient malice. Lost between worlds, belonging to neither.

And something is coming for her.

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A twig snaps, the sound like a bone breaking in the smothering silence.

Lyra whirls toward it, her back pressed harder against the silver bark, heart hammering against her ribs.

The fog parts, not from any natural movement of air, but as if something wills it to separate.

A figure materializes from the mist—tall, lithe, moving with the careful precision of a predator entering unfamiliar territory.

Golden eyes catch what little light filters through the canopy, reflecting it back with an animal glow that no human eyes could possess.

"Thorne," she breathes, relief washing through her in a wave that leaves her knees weak.

He pauses at the sound of his name, head tilting slightly, nostrils flaring as he scents the air.

The gesture is entirely animal, a wolf assessing a situation, not a man greeting his charge.

His sandy hair is wild, unkempt, falling across his brow in a way that partially obscures his features but does nothing to hide the intensity of his gaze.

"You shouldn't be here alone," he says, voice rough-edged, lower than she remembers from their previous encounters. Each word seems to cost him effort, as if human speech is a language half-forgotten.

Relief curdles into wariness as Thorne begins to circle her, moving in a wide arc that brings him neither closer nor farther away.

His movements are fluid yet tense, muscles coiled beneath the simple shirt and trousers he wears, ready to spring in any direction.

He never takes his eyes from her, not even to check his footing on the treacherous forest floor.

"I needed to think," Lyra explains, turning to keep him in view as he circles. "The Court is... suffocating."

Thorne makes a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a growl.

"So you traded one cage for another?" He gestures at the silver trees surrounding them, their trunks now packed so tightly together they form an almost continuous wall.

"The Silverwood doesn't welcome visitors, especially not those with blood like yours. "

"Blood like mine?"

"Royal," he says, the word almost a snarl. "Powerful. It... excites the forest." His circling stops, and he stands perfectly still, head cocked as if listening to something beyond human perception. "It's been hunting you since you crossed the outer boundary."

Lyra's hand rises instinctively to her throat, where the pendant pulses warm against her skin. "The forest is alive?"