Page 45 of Moonlit Desires

Chapter seventeen

The Spy

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Silver lanterns hang from delicate chains in the circular council chamber, their light dancing across walls etched with ancient glyphs that pulse with renewed vigor since the Court's awakening.

Lyra sits at the head of the crescent-shaped table, the mark between her shoulder blades a constant presence—no longer painful, but never quite forgotten.

Three days have passed since the battle that nearly drained her life force, yet the Court still buzzes with the tale, each retelling more elaborate than the last.

Her guardians have positioned themselves around her with the unconscious precision that has become their habit since the binding ritual.

Kael stands at her right shoulder, his warrior's posture unwavering despite the hours they've spent in discussion.

Riven lounges in a chair to her left, his apparent nonchalance betrayed by the constant, subtle movement of shadows around his fingers.

Thorne paces the perimeter of the chamber, too restless for sustained sitting, occasionally pausing to stare out narrow windows at the silver forest beyond.

Ashen sits quietly at the far end of the table, his trembling hands occupied with a small notebook where he occasionally sketches symbols that make sense only to him.

Elindra sits three seats down from Lyra, her silver-blue robes marking her as a senior court advisor.

Since Lyra's arrival, Elindra has been her most consistent ally among the Court's established members—explaining traditions, translating archaic terminology, guiding her through the labyrinth of fae politics.

Today, however, something is different. Elindra's fingers tap an irregular rhythm against the polished surface of the table.

Her eyes dart toward the door, then away from Lyra's gaze, then down to her hands.

When she speaks to offer suggestions about grain reserves and civilian protection, her voice lacks its usual measured confidence.

"The southern terraces must be fortified," insists the defense minister, his fist coming down harder than necessary on the map spread across the table. "The Thorn Queen's forces may have retreated, but they'll probe for weaknesses again. That's where they breached last time."

"The southern terraces are a distraction," Kael counters, his voice calm but authoritative. "The true vulnerability lies in the eastern approach, where the forest thins. The terrain there provides less natural defense."

"Our resources aren't unlimited," says another advisor, an elderly fae with skin like bark and eyes that have witnessed centuries of Court politics. "We must prioritize."

Lyra listens, weighing each argument against what she's learned of the Court's geography and the Thorn Queen's tactics. The mark on her back warms slightly when she leans forward to examine the map, as if responding to her focus on the Court's protection.

"The eastern approach needs additional wards," she decides, tracing her finger along the boundary marked in silver ink.

"But we should also position mobile defense units at the southern terraces.

The Thorn Queen will expect us to focus on our previous vulnerability—we can use that expectation against her. "

The council members nod with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Even after the display of power during the battle, some still struggle to accept guidance from one so newly arrived to their world.

Others have embraced her leadership with almost desperate relief, glad to have direction after decades of decline.

Throughout this exchange, Elindra remains unusually quiet, her gaze fixed on a point just above the map. When Lyra asks her opinion directly, she startles like someone waking from a dream.

"I... agree with your assessment," she says, the words coming too quickly, too smoothly, as if rehearsed. "The eastern boundary requires immediate attention."

Kael shifts his weight behind Lyra's chair, a subtle movement most would miss.

But Lyra feels it through their bond—his awareness sharpening, his attention narrowing on Elindra with the focus he usually reserves for battlefield threats.

His hand drifts closer to his sword hilt, not drawing the weapon but prepared for that possibility.

The discussion continues, moving to questions of magical resources and the training of new Court defenders.

Elindra's contributions grow increasingly sparse, her discomfort more pronounced.

Twice she begins a statement only to reconsider and fall silent.

A fine sheen of sweat appears on her forehead despite the council chamber's pleasant temperature.

Lyra catches Riven's eye, a quick exchange that needs no words. He's noticed too. His shadows stretch subtly across the floor, not threatening but watchful, gathering beneath Elindra's chair like a net waiting to be drawn closed.

As the meeting draws to its natural conclusion, Lyra gathers her notes—a blend of the Court's elegant script and her own familiar handwriting.

"Thank you all for your counsel," she says, the formal phrasing becoming more natural with each day she spends among the fae.

"We'll reconvene tomorrow to finalize the distribution of resources. "

The council members rise, gathering their materials with the soft rustling of paper and fabric. Elindra remains seated, her knuckles white where they grip the edge of the table. As the others begin to file toward the door, she suddenly stands, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor.

"Wait," she says, the word emerging with such force that everyone freezes. "I can no longer keep this secret."

The room falls instantly, perfectly silent. Even Thorne's restless movement ceases, his body going still with predatory attention.

Elindra's voice trembles but grows stronger with each word, as if confession provides its own kind of strength. "Lady Lyra is not merely marked by the Court's magic, as you've been told. She is half-fae—born of the Moon Court's royal line."

Murmurs erupt around the table, quickly silenced when Kael steps forward, his presence commanding attention without a word spoken.

"Her mother," Elindra continues, eyes now fixed on Lyra with a mixture of shame and determination, "was a Moon Queen who rebelled against our most sacred traditions.

She fell in love with a mortal man—a human scholar who stumbled into our realm through an ancient portal.

When their union was discovered, she chose exile over separation. "

The mark between Lyra's shoulder blades flares to sudden, painful life, as if responding to the truth in Elindra's words. Silver heat spreads outward from the mark, racing along her spine and branching through her ribs. Her lungs constrict, making each breath a deliberate effort.

"The mark you bear," Elindra says, addressing Lyra directly now, "is both your inheritance and your curse.

It connects you to the Court's power as your birthright, but it was twisted by those who opposed your mother's choice—altered to make you vulnerable to manipulation, to make the Court's magic fight against your human blood. "

Lyra's fingers grip the carved arms of her chair, knuckles turning white with the effort of maintaining composure. The room seems to tilt around her, perspectives shifting as the foundation of her understanding crumbles. Half-fae. Royal blood. Her mother, a queen who abandoned her throne for love.

The silver light emanating from her skin grows bright enough to cast shadows, responding to emotions she cannot yet name—rage, betrayal, grief, wonder—all tangled into a knot too complex to unravel in this moment of revelation.

"Why tell me this now?" she manages, her voice steadier than she feels. "Why the secrecy at all, if I am what you claim?"

Elindra's shoulders slump, the formal posture of a Court advisor giving way to the genuine exhaustion of someone carrying a burden too long.

"Because there are those, both within the Court and beyond, who would destroy you rather than see a half-human ascend to power.

Those who believe your mother's choice weakened our realm and hastened its decline. "

The air in the council chamber grows heavy with unspoken implications.

Lyra feels the guardians' attention on her—Kael's protective rage, Riven's calculating assessment, Thorne's bristling alarm, Ashen's quiet understanding.

Through their shared bonds, their emotions flow into her, reinforcing her own, creating currents of feeling too powerful to contain.

"And you?" Lyra asks, rising slowly from her chair, silver light pulsing visibly beneath her skin with each heartbeat. "Where do your loyalties lie, Elindra? With those who would destroy me, or with the Court you claim to serve?"

Elindra bows her head, accepting the question as her due. "I made a terrible choice," she whispers. "But I choose differently now."

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The council chamber erupts into chaos, voices layering over one another like competing spells, some raised in outrage, others hushed in conspiratorial whispers.

Several council members rise from their seats, faces contorted with expressions ranging from shock to vindication to poorly concealed fear.

Two elder fae exchange meaningful glances, their ancient eyes calculating new political equations in light of Elindra's revelation.

Another backs toward the door, hand reaching for the handle with deliberate casualness that fails to disguise his intent to flee.