Page 36 of Moonlit Desires
Chapter fourteen
Kael’s Redemption
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The makeshift healing tent shivers in the night wind, its canvas walls stained with patterns of blood and shadow.
Lyra grips Kael's waist tighter as he stumbles, his massive frame threatening to collapse despite his rigid determination to remain upright.
The mark between her shoulder blades pulses with uncomfortable heat, responding to the warrior's proximity and pain in equal measure as she guides him toward the nearest empty pallet.
"I can manage," Kael insists, each word bitten off with military precision despite the pain evident in the tight lines around his mouth.
Blood seeps through the hastily applied field bandages across his chest, turning the white linen to a glistening crimson that catches torchlight in sickening patterns.
"Of course you can," Lyra replies, not loosening her grip as his weight shifts dangerously to one side. "And I can fly, given enough motivation."
A sound escapes him—perhaps a laugh, perhaps a groan—as they finally reach the pallet.
He lowers himself with excruciating slowness, each movement calculated to minimize the pull on his wounds.
His formal blue-silver armor, normally immaculate, lies in pieces around them, removed piece by piece during their painful journey from the battlefield's edge to the medical tent.
Outside, the night carries sounds of aftermath—orders being shouted across the encampment, horses whinnying nervously at the lingering scent of blood, wounded soldiers calling out for water or mercy or mothers long dead.
The skirmish with the Thorn Queen's advance forces had been brutal but brief, a testing of defenses rather than a true invasion.
Small consolation to those now bleeding in the hastily erected medical tents.
Lyra retrieves a silver basin from a nearby table, filling it with water from a pitcher that gleams with subtle enchantment—healing spells woven into the liquid by Court mages before they collapsed from the effort of battlefield magic.
Her hands shake slightly as she sets the basin down, the reality of Kael's injuries hitting her anew in the flickering torchlight.
His chest bears three parallel gashes—claw marks from something not quite natural—each deep enough to reveal glimpses of muscle beneath parted flesh.
The worst cut slices diagonally from his right collarbone across his chest, ending just below his left ribs.
His breathing comes in controlled, shallow pulls, each inhale clearly causing pain he refuses to acknowledge.
"The others need attention more urgently," he says, gaze fixed on the tent's ceiling rather than her face. "I've survived worse."
"The others have healers," Lyra counters, gathering clean cloths and jars of salve from supplies stacked on rough wooden shelves.
The scent of healing herbs—silverleaf and moonroot and night-blooming thistle—mixes with the metallic tang of blood, creating an atmosphere both medicinal and primal. "You have me."
Something flickers across Kael's face—too quick to interpret before his features settle back into their customary stoicism. "As you wish, my lady."
The formality stings, but Lyra doesn't challenge it. Instead, she focuses on the task at hand, dipping a cloth into the enchanted water and wringing it out with methodical care. "This will hurt," she warns, moving to sit beside him on the edge of the pallet.
"Pain is merely information," Kael replies, his voice steady as moonstone. "Process it and move forward."
Lyra almost smiles at the quintessentially Kael response—practical, emotionless, utterly detached from the physical reality of his torn flesh and seeping blood. "Hold still, then," she instructs, "while I process your information."
She begins with the smallest wound, cleaning dried blood from the edges with gentle strokes that belie the strength in her hands.
Kael remains perfectly motionless, only the slight acceleration of his pulse at his throat betraying his discomfort.
As she works, Lyra finds herself cataloging details she's never had opportunity to observe before—the faint silver threading through the dark hair at his temples, the network of smaller scars that map his skin like constellations of past battles, the way his jaw clenches rhythmically with each pass of the cloth over raw flesh.
"You fought well today," he says suddenly, breaking the silence between them. "Your command of defensive positions saved lives."
"I followed your training," Lyra responds, not looking up from her work as she moves to the second, deeper wound. The cloth comes away red-black, requiring frequent rinsing in the basin where the enchanted water turns momentarily cloudy before clearing itself again.
"You exceeded it," Kael corrects, his tone formal but with an undercurrent of something warmer. "The shield-wall formation was... innovative."
Lyra recognizes the compliment for the rarity it is—Kael Stoneheart, legendary commander of the Moon Court's forces for centuries, acknowledging merit in a tactical decision he hadn't authorized. "The Court needed protection," she says simply. "I did what was necessary."
"As did we all." His gaze shifts to the tent's entrance where shadows move in constant procession—healers rushing between pallets, guards changing positions, messengers delivering updates from the battlefield. "The price will be calculated in time."
Lyra reaches for a jar of salve, its contents glimmering with suspended particles of crushed moonstone. "Some prices are worth paying," she says, fingers dipping into the cool mixture that smells of night-blooming flowers and bitter herbs.
Kael's eyes return to her face, studying her with an intensity that makes her skin warm beneath his scrutiny. "Is that what they taught you in the human world? That sacrifice is noble?" His voice holds no mockery, only genuine curiosity edged with something like concern.
"They taught me that some things matter more than personal comfort," Lyra answers, moving to the deepest wound that splits his chest in a vicious diagonal. "That protecting what you value sometimes hurts."
As her fingers apply the salve to this most severe injury, Kael's composure finally breaks. A hiss escapes through clenched teeth, his body going rigid as his back arches slightly off the pallet. His hand shoots up, fingers circling her wrist in a grip just short of painful, halting her movement.
Their eyes meet in the stuttering torchlight—his blue gaze clouded with pain but intent on her face, searching for something beyond the moment's discomfort.
Lyra feels the mark on her back pulse in answer to his touch, a surge of heat that has nothing to do with healing magic and everything to do with the connection forming between them.
"You shouldn't have risked yourself," Kael says, his formal speech pattern momentarily fracturing. "Not for me."
The admission hangs between them, weighted with implications beyond its simple phrasing.
Lyra becomes acutely aware of the warmth of his hand around her wrist, the rhythm of his breathing now synchronized with her own, the subtle shift in the air between them that makes the tent's confined space seem suddenly, dangerously intimate.
"I make my own choices, Commander," she replies softly, not pulling away from his grip. "As do you."
Something changes in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight release of the perpetual tension in his jaw. His fingers loosen around her wrist but don't withdraw completely, instead sliding down to rest lightly against her palm where salve and his blood mingle on her skin.
"So we do," he agrees, voice dropped to a register she's never heard from him before—lower, less controlled, more human than warrior. For a breath, they remain connected in that tenuous touch, the sounds of the medical tent fading to background noise against the louder drumming of her pulse.
Then duty reasserts itself in the form of a young guard rushing into the tent, breathless with urgent news.
Kael's hand withdraws from hers with reluctant precision, his features resetting to their customary stoic lines as he prepares to receive the report.
But something has irrevocably shifted between them—a barrier breached, a possibility acknowledged.
Lyra returns to dressing his wounds, her touch perhaps lingering longer than strictly necessary, his compliance perhaps more complete than duty alone would demand.
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The chamber door creaks shut behind them, sealing away the murmurs of the Court and its uncomfortable questions.
Moonlight spills through tattered curtains, painting silvered rectangles across the stone floor and illuminating dust motes that dance in their passing.
Lyra guides Kael toward the bed—ancient and sturdy as the warrior himself—her arm still supporting his waist despite his halfhearted protestations that he can manage alone.
"This wing hasn't been used in decades," Kael observes, his voice steady despite the pallor that has settled beneath his skin after the long journey from battlefield to Court.
The transportation spell had taken much from the already depleted mages, but the wounded couldn't remain in the field with reports of Thorn Queen reinforcements on the horizon.
"That's why I chose it," Lyra replies, easing him down to sit on the edge of the bed. "No well-meaning courtiers interrupting every five minutes to see if the legendary Commander Stoneheart has finally met his match."
A ghost of a smile touches Kael's lips before disappearing beneath his customary gravity. "Their concern would be for you, not me. The heir consorting with a wounded guardian raises questions about priorities."