Page 28 of Moonlit Desires
Chapter eleven
Aftermath
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Morning light spills across the training courtyard in pale silver ribbons, catching on blade edges and polished stone with uncomfortable brightness.
Lyra pauses at the arched entrance, one hand pressed against ancient stonework as if to draw strength from its permanence.
The mark between her shoulder blades pulses with residual heat, a constant reminder of the night she's just left behind in Thorne's fur-lined den.
She smooths down her fresh training clothes with damp palms, wondering if the others will see the evidence of her choices written across her face as clearly as she feels them burned into her skin.
The courtyard stretches before her like a battlefield already drawn—four quadrants of tension waiting for her arrival to ignite.
Kael stands rigid by the weapons rack, his broad back turned to the entrance as he methodically inspects each practice blade with unnecessary focus.
The set of his shoulders communicates volumes in their stiffness, a soldier's body processing betrayal through perfect posture.
Thorne paces near the far wall, moving in tight circles like a caged predator.
His bandages are fresh and white against his skin, but Lyra knows the wounds beneath still weep silver.
Their eyes meet briefly across the distance, and something electric passes between them—recognition, memory, promise—before he drops his gaze, a flush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with exertion.
Ashen occupies the shadows beneath an ancient silver arch, his colorless eyes reflecting the morning light like twin moons.
His ash-gray hair floats slightly around his face, stirred by winds only he can feel.
His trembling hands arrange small stones in patterns on the bench beside him, each placement deliberate despite the tremors that plague his fingers.
When he glances up at Lyra, his expression remains unchanged, yet she feels the weight of knowledge in his gaze—as if he's witnessed not just what happened, but all possible outcomes of her night with Thorne.
And then there's Riven, positioned as far from the others as the courtyard allows.
His mercury eyes fix on some middle distance, refusing to acknowledge her arrival directly.
The shadows around him seem alive, thickening into inky pools at his feet before stretching toward the center of the courtyard like probing fingers, only to retreat again when they extend too far from their master.
The silver scars tracking his forearms twitch visibly, the pain of their movement evident in the tight line of his jaw.
Lyra steps fully into the courtyard, her footfalls echoing against stone with damning finality.
Four pairs of eyes snap to her like compass needles finding north—Kael's blue gaze sharp with disapproval, Thorne's gold irises warm with intimate memory, Ashen's colorless stare knowing but neutral, and Riven's mercury pools cold with something darker than anger.
"You're late," Kael says, his formal tone doing nothing to disguise the accusation beneath.
"I had matters to attend to," Lyra replies, the half-truth bitter on her tongue.
She advances toward the center of the training circle where silver inlay traces phases of the moon against dark stone.
The mark on her back warms further with each step, responding to the ancient magic embedded in the courtyard's design.
Kael turns his attention back to the weapons, his movements precise and controlled. "We have limited time before the Court convenes to discuss the emissaries' demands. Training cannot wait for... personal distractions."
The emphasis on the final words hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Thorne's pacing falters, his shoulders tensing as if preparing to defend himself—or her—from accusation.
Lyra ignores Kael's rebuke, her attention drawn to Thorne's bandages where a small stain of silver has begun to seep through the white linen. Without thinking, she crosses to him, concerned overriding protocol.
"Your wounds reopened," she says quietly, eyes dropping to the evidence of blood on the otherwise pristine wrappings.
Before Thorne can respond, a violent surge of darkness erupts from Riven's corner of the courtyard.
Shadows lash outward like a physical extension of his rage, coiling and striking with serpentine precision.
The weapons rack beside Kael topples with a deafening clatter, swords and practice blades scattering across the stones like abandoned toys.
"Playing favorites already, Marked One?" Riven's voice cuts through the resulting silence, each syllable dripping with venom.
He steps forward, silver hair catching the light as his aristocratic features twist with something that looks remarkably like jealousy.
"Or perhaps you're simply collecting us like trophies? "
His shadows respond to his emotional state, writhing around him in agitated patterns, occasionally forming shapes that suggest claws or fangs before dissolving back into formless darkness. The scars on his forearms glow with inner light, pulsing in counterpoint to the mark on Lyra's back.
"One guardian in your bed not enough?" he continues, mercury eyes narrowing as they flick between her and Thorne. "Planning to work your way through the full set? How... efficient."
Thorne growls, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest as his eyes flash gold with anger. His transformation flickers at the edges—a ripple of fur appearing then disappearing along his forearms, canines lengthening momentarily before receding again.
Kael steps forward, positioning himself between Lyra and Riven's advancing form. His hand drops to his sword hilt, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. "Enough, shadowmancer. You forget yourself."
But Lyra raises her hand, stopping Kael's protective advance with a gesture that surprises even her with its authority.
The silver light from her mark intensifies, bleeding through her training clothes to cast her shadow long across the courtyard stones.
She faces Riven directly, green eyes narrowing as she lifts her chin in silent challenge.
"I don't need a defender," she says, her voice steadier than the rapid flutter of her pulse would suggest. "And I don't need your approval, Riven."
The shadows around his feet surge in response to her defiance, tendrils of darkness creeping toward her like tide waters testing a shoreline. His mercury eyes lock with hers, the battle of wills as tangible as the stones beneath their feet.
"Don't you?" he asks, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"You think you understand what it means to bear that mark?
To command the loyalty of guardians who have waited centuries for your return?
" His laugh is sharp as shattered glass.
"You know nothing of power or its price, little bartender. Nothing of what you've awakened."
Ashen rises silently from his bench, his colorless eyes fixed on the confrontation with an intensity that suggests he's seeing beyond the moment into branching possibilities.
His trembling hands press against his temples as if to contain thoughts too numerous to process.
When he opens his mouth as if to speak, no sound emerges—only a soft exhalation that carries the scent of prophecy.
Riven's shadows continue their aggressive advance, slithering across the courtyard toward Lyra like physical manifestations of his resentment. The air grows colder around them, frost forming in delicate patterns where darkness touches stone.
"Tell me, Marked One," Riven says, circling her with predatory grace, "did the beast make you howl? Did he mark you as his own?" His smile is cruel, designed to wound. "And does he know what you felt when your power met mine in the Midnight Court? The way your body responded to my shadows?"
The accusation lands like a physical blow. Thorne's head snaps up, golden eyes widening with confusion before narrowing in hurt. Kael's posture stiffens further, if possible, his jaw clenching with barely contained emotion.
Only Ashen seems unsurprised, his pale eyes reflecting knowledge of connections and events he's witnessed in his visions but never shared aloud.
Lyra stands firm despite the heat rising to her cheeks, refusing to be shamed for either encounter. The mark between her shoulder blades burns hotter, responding to her surge of anger and defiance.
"That's enough," she says, each word precise and edged with newfound authority. "If you have something to say to me, Riven, say it directly. Don't hide behind shadows and insinuation."
Their gazes lock across the narrowing distance, power recognizing power, challenge acknowledging challenge. Around them, the courtyard holds its breath, waiting for the confrontation to either dissolve or ignite.
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Lyra steps forward, directly into the cold tendrils of shadow that curl around her ankles like possessive fingers.
The darkness responds to her approach with eager interest, twining higher up her calves in spirals that leave frost-patterns on her skin.
She suppresses a shiver, refusing to show weakness as she enters Riven's personal space—that carefully maintained distance he enforces between himself and everyone at Court.
"Is that what this is about? You're jealous?" She challenges, her voice low enough that only he can hear the words, though the others surely read them in her posture, in the tilt of her chin.
Riven's mercury eyes widen fractionally before narrowing to silver slits.
The perfect planes of his face—aristocratic cheekbones, the precise line of his jaw—harden into marble coldness, beautiful and untouchable.
But something flickers in his gaze, a momentary crack in his facade that suggests her arrow has found its target.