Page 31 of Moonlit Desires
Chapter twelve
Riven’s Reckoning
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The hidden passage winds deeper into the Moon Court's forgotten heart, its walls growing closer with each step, silver veins in the stone pulsing faintly like frozen lightning trapped in black ice.
Lyra follows Riven's straight-backed figure, his silver hair catching what little light penetrates these ancient corridors, creating a beacon she tracks through darkness that seems to cling to him like a second skin.
The air grows colder as they descend, carrying scents of metal and magic and something older—a primordial darkness that predates the Court itself.
"Few have walked these passages since the curse began," Riven says without turning, his voice echoing strangely in the confined space. "Fewer still have entered my domain willingly."
His words hang between them, weighted with implications Lyra can't fully decipher.
She measures her breaths against the rhythm of their footsteps, refusing to show the apprehension that flutters beneath her ribs like a trapped bird.
After yesterday's confrontation in the training yard—after commanding his shadow against all possibility—she can't afford to retreat now.
The passage ends abruptly at a circular door carved from a single slab of obsidian.
No handle interrupts its perfect surface, no keyhole offers conventional entry.
Riven places his palm against the center, fingers splayed wide, and whispers words in a language that slithers rather than flows.
The shadows around his hand deepen, pooling against the stone until the door absorbs them like thirsty earth drinks rain.
It swings inward without sound, revealing darkness so complete it appears solid.
"After you," Riven says, the ghost of a smile touching his lips without reaching his mercury eyes.
Lyra steps through the threshold into a space that defies ordinary perception.
The chamber is perfectly circular, its black stone walls rising to a domed ceiling that seems to capture and concentrate darkness rather than dispel it.
Silver glyphs are carved into every surface—ancient symbols that pulse with inner light, their patterns complex and disorienting, suggesting meanings that shift when viewed directly.
They provide the only illumination, casting the room in a metallic glow that creates more shadows than it banishes.
And those shadows move.
Not with the predictable dance of light-cast silhouettes, but with deliberate, sentient purpose—stretching, contracting, flowing across surfaces with the liquid grace of predators stalking prey.
They avoid the silver glyphs, respecting boundaries established in some ancient pact between darkness and light, but their movement remains unsettlingly independent.
At the center of the chamber stands a raised circular platform, its surface etched with concentric rings of more elaborate glyphs that form a pattern reminiscent of the phases of the moon.
The entire room feels alive, breathing with slow, patient rhythm—a heart of darkness beating beneath the Court's silver skin.
Riven stands tall and composed near a stone pedestal, his aristocratic profile sharp against the glimmering wall behind him.
But as Lyra watches, his fingers twitch slightly—a minute betrayal of emotion quickly suppressed.
He catches her noticing and his expression hardens, mercury eyes cooling to silver-plated steel.
"Curious about my scars, Marked One?" he asks, deliberately pulling back his sleeves to expose the network of silver lines etched into his forearms. In the chamber's strange light, they appear almost molten, shifting subtly with each pulse of the glyphs around them.
"These are the price of binding shadows to one's will.
A price I paid willingly, though perhaps not fully informed. "
He moves to the pedestal where various implements wait—a silver blade with a handle of twisted black wood, vials of quicksilver that catch the glyph-light and amplify it in liquid reflections, a bowl of what appears to be black salt that absorbs light rather than reflects it.
"I brought you here for a purpose," he continues, arranging the items with meticulous precision, each placement calculated to the width of a hair.
"The connection you made with my shadow yesterday was unprecedented.
Impossible, by all established rules of shadow-binding.
" His eyes flick to hers, sharp with assessment.
"But magic responds to power dynamics far more than it does to rules. "
The sardonic smile that curves his lips doesn't reach his eyes.
"To awaken your shadow affinity properly requires a ritual.
One involving blood, dominance, and complete surrender.
" He lifts the silver blade, examining its edge with clinical detachment.
"Tell me, are you afraid of the dark, little mortal? "
The diminutive strikes like a slap, designed to remind her of her half-human heritage, her perceived weakness in a Court of full-blooded fae.
Instead of retreating, Lyra steps closer until barely an arm's length separates them.
The shadows on the floor between them pulse in response to her proximity, stretching toward her ankles before shrinking back as if uncertain.
"I've lived half my life in darkness, Riven," she says, meeting his gaze without flinching. "It holds no terror for me."
Something flickers across his features—surprise, perhaps, or reluctant approval.
The mark between her shoulder blades warms in response to her defiance, silver light beginning to seep through the fabric of her clothing, casting her shadow long and sharp against the chamber floor.
The shadows nearby react instantly, coiling toward the faint illumination like moths drawn to flame.
Riven's eyes darken as he circles her, each step measured with dancer's precision.
His voice drops to a lower register, intimate and laced with power.
"The ritual will require your complete submission.
Not just of body, but of will. You must surrender control entirely—to me, to the shadows, to the magic itself.
" He completes his circuit, stopping before her with unnerving stillness.
"Can you do that, Lyra Ashwind? Can you surrender the control you've guarded so desperately since arriving at Court? "
Without waiting for her answer, he returns to the ritual preparations.
His movements are hypnotic in their precision—measuring black salt into his palm, then allowing it to sift through his fingers onto the platform in perfect spirals; uncorking vials of quicksilver and pouring their contents into specific glyphs carved into the stone, where the liquid metal pools before flowing along channels invisible to the casual eye; positioning the silver blade at the exact center of the platform, its edge aligned with particular markings that seem to shift when Lyra tries to focus on them directly.
Each action is performed with the controlled grace of a predator—economic, precise, and laden with restrained power.
His hands move through shadows as if they're tangible substances, occasionally pausing to press fingers against specific glyphs, leaving smudges of darkness that remain for several heartbeats before being absorbed into the stone.
"This ritual dates back to the first shadow-binders," he explains, voice steady despite the intensity of his focus.
"Before the Courts divided, before the curse, before the Queen of Thorns began her campaign to claim what was never hers.
" A muscle tightens in his jaw at the mention of the Thorn Queen, quickly released.
"Its purpose is to forge a connection between practitioner and shadow—a binding that allows command but demands price. "
He straightens, ritual preparations complete, and turns to face Lyra fully. The chamber's silver light casts harsh shadows across his aristocratic features, emphasizing the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the tightness around his eyes that speaks of contained strain.
"Last chance to retreat," he says softly, extending one hand toward her, palm up. The silver scars across his forearm gleam like freshly opened wounds in the glyphs' pulsing light. "What happens next will change you irrevocably."
Lyra steps forward without hesitation, placing her hand in his. The shadows around them surge in response, circling their feet in agitated patterns, reaching tendrils upward as if trying to touch the connection formed by their clasped hands.
"I'm ready," she says, voice steadier than the rapid flutter of her pulse would suggest. "Show me your darkness, Riven Nightshade."
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The silver blade catches light as Riven lifts it, edge gleaming with cold promise against the chamber's darkness.
His mercury eyes hold Lyra's gaze as he draws the blade across his own palm first—a precise, shallow cut that opens his skin with surgical precision.
Silver-tinged blood wells immediately, catching the glyph-light and reflecting it in metallic shimmers.
Without hesitation, he takes her hand and repeats the motion, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the sharp sting that follows.
"Blood carries intention," he murmurs, voice dropping to that hypnotic cadence that seems to bypass her ears and resonate directly in her bones. "It speaks truths the mind would deny."
He presses their wounded palms together, fingers interlacing with deliberate pressure.
The sensation is electric—his blood cooler than her own, the mingling creating a tingling warmth where their wounds meet.
The shadows respond instantly, leaping from the walls like eager hounds answering a master's call.
They wrap around their joined hands in spiraling bands, not the cold tendrils Lyra expected but warm, almost liquid bonds that pulse with shared heartbeats.