Page 6 of Moonlit Desires

Maya called after her as she left, concern etched in the furrow between her brows. "Be careful, Lyra. Those Court types—they don't think like us. Don't value life the same way."

Lyra had nodded, clutching the pendant tighter, its silver edge biting into her palm.

Now, as she winds through narrow alleys where the cobblestones buckle from age and neglect, she wonders if Maya was right to worry.

The moon hangs above, unnaturally full and bright, casting shadows that seem to move independently of their owners.

The pendant pulls her forward, its warmth increasing with each turn until she finds herself before a crumbling archway she's passed a hundred times without noticing.

Beyond it lies a courtyard, overgrown and forgotten by the city, where ancient stone benches form a circle around what once might have been a fountain.

The space should be empty, abandoned to weeds and rats.

Instead, four figures wait, gathered around a fire that burns silver rather than gold, casting unearthly light across their features.

Kael stands with his back straight as a blade, the firelight catching the planes of his face.

Beside him is the silver-haired woman—Riven, Lyra remembers—her posture languid yet precise, like a predator at rest. The pale man—Ashen—kneels at the fire's edge, his colorless eyes reflecting flames that shouldn't exist. And the fourth—this must be Thorne—paces the perimeter, restless energy in every step.

His sandy hair shifts in the breeze, catching light one moment and shadow the next.

As Lyra steps through the arch, they turn to her in unison. The mark on her back flares in response, as if greeting kin.

"You followed the pendant's call," Kael says. It isn't a question. "Sooner than I expected."

"I didn't exactly have a choice," Lyra replies, her voice steadier than she feels. "It practically dragged me here."

Riven's lips curl into a smile sharp as broken glass. "Blood recognizes blood," she says, her voice a silken drawl. "Even when the mind forgets."

Thorne halts his pacing, golden-brown eyes focusing on Lyra with unnerving intensity. "She smells of the Court," he says, and there's something animalistic in his tone—a rumble that suggests more than human vocal cords. "But also of this world. Both, and neither."

"As she should," Ashen whispers, his voice barely audible over the fire's strange crackle. "The bridge between realms."

Kael gestures to an empty space on the stone bench. "Join us, Lyra. There are truths you must hear before you decide your path."

She hesitates, standing at the edge of their circle, the silver fire casting her shadow long behind her.

Part of her—the sensible, cynical bartender who has survived in Lythven by trusting no one—screams to run.

But another part, a part waking from long slumber, recognizes something in these strangers. Something like home.

She takes the offered seat. The stone is warm beneath her, as if the silver fire has been burning for hours, heating the ancient rock.

"You spoke of a curse," she says to Kael. "Of enemies who would kill me. I think I deserve the full story before I agree to anything."

Riven laughs, the sound like ice cracking on a winter lake.

"Direct. I like that." She settles more comfortably on her bench, fingers toying with a strand of her impossibly silver hair.

"Who should tell her? You, Kael, with your martial precision?

Ashen, with his prophet's riddles? Or perhaps Thorne, though he's likely to growl through the important parts? "

"You tell it," Thorne says, his voice rough-edged. "You were there. You saw it happen."

A shadow passes over Riven's perfect features.

For a moment, her ageless face shows weight of centuries lived in grief.

"Very well." She leans forward, and the silver flames leap higher, responding to her movement.

"Listen carefully, little royal. This is the story of how your birthright was stolen, and why your blood is the key to reclaiming it. "

The fire shifts, shapes forming in the silver flames—towers and gardens, figures dancing in elaborate patterns. Lyra stares, transfixed, as the smoke sculpts itself into images that match Riven's words.

"The Moon Court was the most powerful of the fae realms," Riven begins, her voice taking on a storyteller's cadence.

"Our magic was woven from moonlight itself, our domain extending from the silver forests to the crystal seas.

For ten thousand years, we ruled in balance with the other Courts—Sun and Star, Storm and Shadow.

Our monarchs were wise, our warriors fierce, our magic unmatched. "

The smoke shows a palace of impossible architecture, towers spiraling toward a moon that seems close enough to touch.

"Your mother, Queen Ella Moonshadow, ascended the throne after her parents were lost in the Void War.

She was young for a ruler—barely three centuries old—but brilliant and beloved.

Under her guidance, the Court flourished.

She mastered the art of Moonweaving, binding our people together with silver threads of loyalty and love. "

The smoke shapes itself into a woman's face—delicate features, eyes large and luminous, a crown of silver upon her brow. Lyra feels a pang of recognition so sharp it steals her breath.

"But there were those who envied our prosperity," Riven continues, her voice hardening. "Chief among them, Caelum Stormborn of the Storm Court. He came to us as an ally, offering friendship and trade. For years, he played the part well—a charming courtier, a valued advisor, a trusted friend."

The smoke darkens, showing a man with flowing silver hair and eyes like thunderclouds.

"Then came the night of the Lunar Eclipse—a rare convergence when our magic is at its most potent, but also its most vulnerable. The night your mother performed the Great Moonweaving, a ritual to renew the Court's bonds for the coming century."

Ashen makes a soft sound, like a whimper. His hands tremble as he stares into the flames. "I saw it," he whispers. "I saw it coming, but too late. Always too late."

Riven's gaze flickers to him, sympathy breaking through her mask of detachment.

"No one blames you, Ashen." She turns back to Lyra.

"Caelum struck during the ritual. He had spent years placing his people in key positions throughout the Court.

At his signal, they disrupted the Moon Weaving, turning the magic back upon itself. "

The fire shows figures falling, a throne room in chaos, silver threads tangling and breaking.

"The backlash killed dozens instantly. Those who survived found their connection to the moon—the source of our power—corrupted. Our magic began to fade, like moonlight giving way to dawn, but with no promise of return."

Thorne growls, low in his throat. "He meant to destroy us completely. To absorb what remained of our power into his Storm Court."

"What he didn't anticipate," Kael interjects, his formal tone undercut by barely restrained fury, "was your mother's final act of defiance.

As the curse took hold, she used the last of her untainted magic to hide you—her only child, barely a year old—in the mortal realm.

She knew that one of royal blood, raised beyond the corruption, might someday return to break the curse. "

Riven nods, her mercury eyes reflecting the silver flames. "The queen died to save you. And to save us all. Her sacrifice bought us time—time for the curse to weaken, time for you to grow, time for us to find you again."

The fire shows a woman cradling an infant, whispering words over its sleeping form. Then a tear in reality, a doorway opening to a world of gray skies and stone buildings. The woman placing the child through the doorway, then turning to face shadows that converge upon her with terrible swiftness.

Lyra feels tears on her cheeks, though she doesn't remember beginning to cry. "If she was so powerful, why couldn't she save herself?"

"Because she poured every drop of her power into your protection," Kael says softly. "Into the enchantment that hid you from Caelum's sight all these years. Into the mark that would reveal itself only when you were ready to return."

"The crescent," Lyra murmurs, one hand reaching instinctively to touch the spot between her shoulder blades.

"The royal sigil," Riven corrects. "It appears in all the royal lines when they come of age. Yours was suppressed by your mother's magic until now."

"Why now?" Lyra asks. "Why not years ago? Or years from now?"

Ashen looks up, his pale eyes suddenly focused.

"The curse weakens with the cycles of the moon.

Twenty-five years. The same as your age in mortal time.

It creates... a window. A possibility." His voice grows stronger as he speaks, as if the words come from somewhere beyond him.

"If you do not return to break the curse before the next lunar eclipse, the Court will fade entirely. And you with it."

Thorne stalks closer, firelight catching the wild gold of his eyes. "We've spent decades searching for you. Caelum's spies were everywhere, hunting any trace of royal blood. We had to wait until the mark appeared—until your power began to wake—before we could risk approaching you."

"And now Caelum knows you've been found," Riven adds, her beautiful face grim. "His agents will come for you. They cannot allow you to break the curse and restore the Moon Court's power."

Lyra stares into the silver fire, watching as it shows figures moving through Lythven's fog-shrouded streets, searching with unnatural senses. "How am I supposed to break a curse I don't even understand? I'm a bartender, not a... whatever you all are."

"You are the daughter of Ella Moonshadow," Kael says, his voice filled with quiet certainty. "The last of the royal line. The curse was created with the royal blood of your mother; it can only be undone by the royal blood of her child."