Page 55 of Moonlit Desires

Chapter twenty

The Choice

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Lyra stands alone in the High Council chamber, a place both familiar and wrong.

The silver moonlight streaming through the tall windows strikes the floor at impossible angles, creating shadows that shouldn't exist. Her connection to the guardians—that warm, steady presence in her mind—has vanished, replaced by a hollow emptiness that echoes in her chest. The mark between her shoulder blades pulses erratically, sending waves of alternating heat and cold down her spine as if trying to warn her of something she already knows this is not the true Moon Court, but a perfect, poisoned facsimile created to trap her.

The chamber extends around her in perfect circular symmetry; its dimensions stretched just beyond natural proportions.

Ancient glyphs etched into the stone walls glow with faint silver luminescence, their patterns familiar yet subtly altered—promises rewritten into threats, protections twisted into bindings.

The massive round table that normally dominates the center stands conspicuously absent, leaving her exposed in an empty expanse of polished floor that reflects the triple moonlight pouring through windows too tall, too narrow to belong in the waking world.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The voice slides into the chamber like honey poured over broken glass, sweet at first impression but carrying jagged edges that scrape against her senses. "How malleable reality becomes when one understands its true nature."

Darkness pools in the corner farthest from the windows, thickening until it resembles black ink dropped into clear water. It blooms outward, stretching and twisting until it takes humanoid form—first a silhouette, then gradually gaining definition as it steps into the silvered light.

The emissary of the Queen of Thorns materializes fully, each movement deliberate and precise.

Tall and elegant, they possess a beauty that transcends gender, their features sharp enough to cut—high cheekbones tapering to a pointed chin, lips curved in a perpetual half-smile that never reaches their eyes.

Those eyes gleam obsidian black, reflecting the moonlight in pinpricks that seem to trap it rather than return it.

Most disturbing are the thorns—not accessories or adornments but organic extensions emerging from the emissary's body.

They protrude from each joint, spiraling outward from elbows, knees, and knuckles in delicate whorls that belie their lethal sharpness.

As they move closer, Lyra notices smaller thorns tracing the emissary's jawline like a macabre crown, their tips glistening with something that might be dew or might be poison.

"Your Mark recognizes opportunity," the emissary observes, circling Lyra with predatory grace. Their robes—black as their eyes but shot through with veins of virulent green—whisper against the stone floor, leaving momentary imprints that fade like breath on cold glass. "See how it quickens?"

Lyra resists the urge to touch the mark, though she feels its rhythm changing—pulsing faster, then slower, its temperature fluctuating wildly beneath her thin Court attire.

Each erratic beat sends silver light bleeding through the fabric in stuttering patterns that illuminate the emissary's face from below, casting shadows that emphasize their inhuman aspects.

"The Queen of Thorns sends her regards," they continue, stopping directly before Lyra, close enough that the scent of crushed roses and copper fills her nostrils. "And an offer."

"I have nothing to discuss with your Queen," Lyra responds, her voice steadier than she feels. The mark flares painfully at her defiance, as if punishing her for refusing even to listen.

The emissary's laugh emerges like wind through dead leaves.

"Oh, but you do. My Queen offers you what these guardians of yours never could—true power, true autonomy.

" They resume their circling, each revolution bringing them closer.

"You've tasted only the diluted dregs of your potential, filtered through their expectations, their limitations. "

Lyra's mouth goes dry, her tongue suddenly too large. The words strike uncomfortably close to doubts she's harbored since learning of her heritage—questions about whether the guardians serve her or merely what she represents, whether their loyalty belongs to her or to the Court she's meant to save.

"The Moon Court is dying," the emissary continues, their voice dropping to an intimate whisper despite the distance between them.

"Its magic calcifying into rigid forms, its people clinging to traditions that lost their meaning centuries ago.

But you—you could rule alongside my Queen, commanding armies that bow to your will alone, wielding magic beyond the imagination of these faded fae who claim to guide you. "

Lyra's hands tremble, fingers curling into fists to hide their unsteadiness.

The mark between her shoulder blades alternates between burning heat and freezing cold, its silver light pulsing visibly through her clothing now.

She wants to deny the emissary's words, but uncertainty roots her in place, a seedling of temptation taking hold in fertile soil.

"You need not be defined by their prophecies, their expectations." The emissary raises long-fingered hands, thorns at each knuckle gleaming dangerously. "You need not be bound by duty to a Court that branded you without consent, that manipulated your very essence to serve their purpose."

With an elegant gesture, they draw patterns in the air between them.

The moonlight bends and follows their fingers, condensing into a shimmering vision that hovers at eye level.

Within this silver window, Lyra sees herself transformed—seated upon a throne crafted from silver branches that curl protectively around her, power visibly radiating from her fingertips in waves that alter reality with each casual gesture.

This vision-self wears no Court attire but a gown of her own creation, its fabric seemingly woven from moonlight and shadow.

Her mark is fully visible, not hidden in shame but displayed proudly, its pattern altered to incorporate elements of both Moon Court sigils and the Thorn Queen's emblems.

Most striking is the expression on her doppelganger's face—confidence without arrogance, power without cruelty, freedom without isolation. She rules not from obligation but from choice, her every movement unconstrained by prophecy or duty or the expectations of others.

"This is who you could be," the emissary murmurs, voice hypnotic in its intensity. "Not the last hope of a dying Court, not a vessel for others' magic, not a tool fashioned by ancient rituals—but yourself, fully realized, fully empowered."

The vision shifts, showing Lyra striding through massive gardens where silver trees and thorn bushes grow side by side in impossible harmony.

Creatures of both Courts bow as she passes, offering not fearful obeisance but genuine respect.

The guardians appear briefly—not as her protectors but as her equals, their powers complementing hers rather than directing or containing it.

"All this," the emissary promises, extending one thorn-adorned hand toward her, "for the simple price of recognizing where your true potential lies.

The Queen of Thorns understands you as these guardians never could.

She too knows what it means to be shaped by others' expectations, to be defined by powers not entirely her own. "

Lyra stares at the vision, transfixed by possibilities she'd never allowed herself to consider. The mark pulses in rhythm with her accelerating heartbeat, its silver light tinged now with faint threads of green where it shows through her clothing.

"Choose freedom," the emissary urges, their voice barely above a whisper yet somehow filling the entire chamber. "Choose power on your terms, not theirs."

The vision expands, encompassing more of the space between them, its edges blurring into the reality of the dream-chamber until Lyra can no longer tell where illusion ends and the world begins. And still her mark pulses, questioning, waiting for her response.

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The vision pulses with hypnotic allure, its silver light casting Lyra's shadow in multiple directions across the chamber floor.

She sways forward involuntarily, drawn by possibilities never before considered—freedom from duty, power without limitation, a destiny chosen rather than imposed.

The mark between her shoulder blades dims slightly, its erratic rhythm steadying as if recognizing a path that might ease its centuries- old burden.

One trembling step, then another brings her closer to the shimmering mirage of her potential self, that confident queen who commands without being commanded.

"Yes," the emissary breathes, voice softer now, almost tender in its encouragement.

The thorns adorning their joints retract slightly, making them appear more approachable, more like her and less like the otherworldly creature they truly are.

"You feel the truth of it, don't you? How they've constrained you without you even realizing. "

Lyra's breath quickens, silver-tinged in the moonlight that grows ever colder. The emissary circles closer, their movements liquid and precise, each step bringing them near enough that she can feel the unnatural heat radiating from their form—a stark contrast to the chill pervading the chamber.

"Consider your guardians," they continue, voice dripping false sympathy.

"Have you ever wondered why they bind themselves to you?

What do they truly seek in your presence?

" The emissary's fingers trace patterns in the air, conjuring smaller visions that orbit the primary one like moons around a planet.

In each, a guardian appears, their image subtly altered to emphasize less flattering aspects.