Page 56 of Moonlit Desires
"The warrior, Kael." The emissary gestures to the first vision-sphere, where Kael stands rigid in his formal armor, eyes haunted by memories visible only to him.
"So honorable, so devoted to duty. But his devotion is not to you—it's to his own redemption.
" The image shifts, showing Kael kneeling before a silver throne, his head bowed not in respect but in penance.
"He failed the previous queen, you see. Her blood stains his hands as surely as if he'd wielded the blade himself.
In you, he seeks absolution, a chance to rewrite his greatest failure.
It's not Lyra he serves, but the ghost of Queen Selene and his own crushing guilt. "
The words strike with precision, finding purchase in doubts Lyra has harbored during quiet moments when Kael's protective stance seemed more about the position she represents than the person she is. Her fingers curl inward, nails biting into palms as the mark pulses colder against her spine.
"And Riven, the shadowmancer." The second sphere darkens, shadows swirling within to reveal Riven's mercury eyes and sardonic smile.
"So clever, so controlled—except when he isn't." The vision shows Riven among thorned vines, his body writhing in pain as shadows pour from his mouth and eyes.
"The Thorn Queen broke him so thoroughly that pieces of him still reside in her gardens.
He doesn't serve you; he uses you as a shield against her reaching him again.
Your Court is merely the fortress behind which he hides from his former mistress. "
Lyra's throat tightens, remembering Riven's unexpected gesture of fealty, wondering now if it had been genuine or merely another calculated move in his personal game of survival. The chamber grows noticeably colder, her breath forming small clouds that hang suspended in the increasingly thick air.
"Thorne—now there's honesty, at least." The third sphere pulses with golden light, revealing Thorne in his half-transformed state, caught between beast and man.
"The beast makes no pretense about his hunger.
" The vision shows Thorne watching her with predatory intensity, his golden eyes tracking her movements across the Court.
"He wants your flesh, your heat, the vitality that pulses beneath your skin.
He would consume you entirely given the chance, not out of malice but nature.
A beast cannot change its essential hunger, no matter what form it wears. "
The reminder of Thorne's primal nature sends a different kind of shiver through Lyra.
She remembers his careful tenderness, his control that seemed all the more meaningful for the effort it required.
But doubt creeps in nonetheless—was that care genuine, or merely the restraint a predator shows before the final lunge?
"And Ashen, the seer." The fourth sphere appears misty, indistinct, much like Ashen himself.
"The most honest deceiver of them all." The vision reveals Ashen watching her from shadows, his mirror eyes reflecting her image thousands of times without ever showing his own thoughts.
"He sees every path you might take, every choice you might make, yet offers nothing but cryptic warnings.
He observes your pain with clinical detachment, collecting your suffering like specimens in a jar.
He never truly connects because connection would require choice, commitment to a single future rather than the infinite possibilities he so jealously catalogs. "
Each accusation lands with the precision of arrows finding joints in armor.
Lyra's mark flickers, its silver light dimming further as doubt clouds her mind.
She thinks of Ashen's trembling hands, his careful drawings, his moments of unexpected clarity—were they genuine insights or calculated manipulations designed to guide her down paths he'd already foreseen?
The chamber temperature plummets further, frost forming along the edges of the windows, creeping across the stone floor in delicate patterns that reach toward her feet like supplicants.
Shadows lengthen despite the unchanging moonlight, stretching across walls in shapes that resemble thorned vines more than natural darkness.
The Queen's influence seeps into this dream-reality, reshaping it breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Lyra steps closer to the central vision, where her potential self still reigns from a throne of silver branches.
The alternate Lyra extends a hand now, mirroring her movements, fingers reaching across the boundary between possibility and present.
Her mark pulses once, sharply, then settles into a dull ache that spreads across her back like ice forming on a pond—a slow surrender to inevitability.
"They claim to serve you, to protect you," the emissary whispers, now standing so close their breath brushes her ear. "But each takes something vital in return. Your autonomy. Your trust. Your warmth. Your future. What do they give that equals what they take?"
Lyra's breath forms small, distinct clouds now, hanging in the frigid air like unspoken questions.
Her fingers extend toward the vision, trembling not just with cold but with the weight of decision.
The alternate Lyra—powerful, confident, unburdened—reaches back, their fingertips separated by nothing more substantial than intention.
"And what," Lyra asks, her voice hoarse as if unused for hours rather than minutes, "does your Queen want from me?
" The question emerges unbidden, born of caution that persists despite the emissary's seductive words.
"If the guardians each take something in return for their service, what price does the Queen of Thorns demand? "
A smile spreads across the emissary's face, too wide for their features, revealing teeth like polished silver needles that gleam wetly in the moonlight.
The thorns at their joints extend once more, longer and sharper than before, their tips glistening with clear fluid that steams slightly in the cold air.
"Only what was always meant to be yours," they reply, voice dropping an octave, harmonics sliding beneath the words like ice beneath still water.
"Power without constraint. Freedom without obligation.
A throne earned rather than inherited." Their eyes, no longer merely black but bottomless, reflect nothing of the chamber around them.
"The Queen recognizes your unique nature—half fae, half human, belonging fully to neither world.
She offers you a third option, a realm shaped by your will rather than by traditions that never accounted for what you are. "
The words resonate with longings Lyra has harbored since discovering her dual nature—the desire to be defined by choice rather than blood, to belong somewhere without qualification or exception.
Her fingers hover a breath away from the vision, from the self who embodies everything she might become if freed from the expectations of others.
One touch, and possibility becomes path.
____________
Lyra's fingers hover a breath away from the vision, from acceptance, from transformation.
The chamber holds its breath, frost patterns halting their spread across the stone floor as if time itself pauses to witness her choice.
The mark between her shoulder blades grows numb, a cold absence where sensation should exist. Just as her fingertips begin to bridge that final gap, unbidden images flood her mind—not the abstract thoughts the emissary's words evoked, but visceral moments seared into her memory with the precision of experience that cannot be counterfeited.
Kael's calloused hand rests steady on her shoulder, its weight grounding her during her first attempt at Court swordplay.
The memory carries the scent of metal and mountain herbs, the particular quality of afternoon light filtered through practice yard windows.
"Balance comes from within," he tells her, voice pitched for her ears alone, lacking its usual formal resonance.
His fingers adjust her stance with respectful precision, never presuming, always asking with subtle pressure before guiding.
When she finally executes the movement correctly, the pride in his eyes isn't for duty fulfilled but for her achievement, personal and specific.
"Well done, Lyra," he says—not "my queen" or "my lady" but her name, spoken with warmth that has nothing to do with obligation.
The memory shifts, flowing into another with dream-logic immediacy.
Thorne sits beside her on a balcony overlooking silver gardens, the night air cool against their skin.
His amber eyes reflect moonlight as she confesses fears she's spoken to no one else—her terror that she isn't enough, will never be enough, that the Court's restoration demands more than she can possibly give.
He doesn't offer platitudes or dismissals.
Instead, his eyes hold hers with steady acceptance, seeing her limitations without judgment.
"Being afraid doesn't make you weak," he tells her, voice rough with emotion rarely displayed.
"It makes you real." His hand finds hers, fingers intertwining without demand or expectation, offering connection without consumption.