Page 62 of Moonlit Desires
She tears at his ruined clothing, pulling the fabric away to better assess the damage.
The exposed wounds appear even worse—the edges turning an unnatural black, the flesh around them already beginning to desiccate like the unfortunate fae they'd seen earlier.
His shadows, normally so responsive to his will, flicker and dissipate around the injuries, unable to maintain cohesion where the poison flows.
"Not good," Riven manages, his voice barely above a whisper.
Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth, threads of black visible within the crimson.
His mercury eyes, normally so sharp and calculating, struggle to focus on her face.
"Her poison... designed specifically for me. Old grudges... die hard."
Lyra places her hand on his cheek, turning his face toward her when his gaze begins to drift. His skin feels cold, the usual warmth that belies his sardonic demeanor rapidly fading. The poison has nearly reached his throat, black lines creeping upward with every labored beat of his heart.
"Stay with me," she commands, surprised by the fierceness in her own voice. Her mark burns between her shoulder blades, no longer the cold fire of proximity to the Queen's power but something different—an urgent heat that speaks of potential, of necessity, of choice.
Riven's lips curve in a ghost of his usual sardonic smile, the expression making him appear momentarily more himself despite the deathly pallor overtaking his features.
"Not how I planned to die," he whispers, each word clearly costing him precious energy.
"Always thought it would be more... dramatic.
" A wet cough interrupts him, more black-threaded blood spattering his lips.
Something shifts within Lyra, instinctive knowledge rising from depths she hadn't known existed.
The mark between her shoulder blades pulses with increasing intensity, silver light bleeding through her clothing in rhythmic waves that match her accelerating heartbeat.
The light doesn't just emanate outward as before but circulates through her body, gathering strength and purpose with each circuit.
She places her hands directly over the worst of his wounds, ignoring the slick heat of his blood, the sickening texture of the poison-corrupted flesh beneath her palms. Silver light flows from her fingers into his chest, seeking the darkness, pushing against it momentarily before being repelled.
Not enough. Not like this.
The knowledge crystallizes with perfect clarity. His shadows and her light—they must connect at a more fundamental level. His life is tied to his shadows as surely as hers is bound to her silver mark. Surface contact isn't sufficient to bridge the gap between them.
"You're not dying today," she says with fierce determination, her voice steadier than her racing heart would suggest. She leans down, one hand still pressed to his chest, the other cradling the back of his head, lifting him slightly.
Their eyes meet, mercury and green, and something passes between them—understanding, permission, necessity blurring into desire. Riven's gaze clears momentarily, recognition of her intent bringing a final burst of clarity before the poison claims more territory within him.
Their lips meet, the contact electric despite the copper taste of blood.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens beyond the simple, human connection of mouth against mouth.
Then Lyra's mark flares with blinding intensity, silver light no longer merely bleeding through her clothing but tearing through it in radiant streams that illuminate the chamber.
The light flows from her body into his through every point of contact—lips, hands, knees pressed against his side.
It enters his system not as invasion but invitation, seeking the poison not to destroy it but to transform it.
Where their lips connect, silver luminescence passes from her to him in visible pulses, like heartbeats made manifest.
Riven's body arches beneath her touch, a gasp breaking their kiss momentarily before she recaptures his mouth with greater urgency.
His shadows respond to her light, no longer retreating but reaching toward it, twining around the silver streams in an intimate dance that mirrors their physical connection.
Darkness and light interweave, neither consuming the other but creating something new where they merge—a twilight magic that spreads through his body with healing intent.
The poison resists, black tendrils contracting and expanding as if possessed of individual will.
It retreats from the light only to surge forward again, seeking vulnerable pathways through Riven's system.
Lyra deepens the kiss, one hand moving from his chest to his shoulder, pulling him closer as she pours more of herself into him.
Silver threads manifest in the air around them, connecting their bodies in an intricate web of light that pulses with shared heartbeats.
Each thread anchors into Riven's wounds, displacing the poison as it weaves through his flesh.
His shadows gain strength from the connection, their natural fluidity returning as they work in concert with her light to push back the corruption.
The chamber responds to their magic, the ever-present thorns retreating from the immediate vicinity as if burned by the intensity of their exchange.
The ambient light shifts from sickly green to silver-tinged clarity, momentarily strengthening the magical fabric of the realm itself as Lyra's power flows outward beyond Riven's body.
His hand rises weakly to tangle in her hair, fingers threading through copper strands with surprising gentleness for one so near death moments before. His touch anchors her as surely as her magic anchors him, keeping her from losing herself entirely in the flow of power between them.
Time loses meaning in the exchange. It might be moments or minutes before the poison finally surrenders, the black tendrils dissolving into Riven's natural shadow rather than foreign corruption.
The jagged wounds on his chest remain, angry and raw, but no longer spread their deathly influence through his body.
Lyra pulls back slightly, their lips parting with reluctance on both sides. She's breathing heavily, the transfer of energy having taken more from her than she'd anticipated. Riven's eyes open slowly, mercury irises now shot through with flecks of silver that catch the light when he blinks.
The web of silver threads connecting them remains visible for several heartbeats before gradually fading, leaving behind a sensation of connection that transcends the physical.
Where their magic merged—light and shadow, silver and mercury—something new remains, a bond forged in desperation but tempered with something neither is quite ready to name.
Riven stares up at her, wondering, breaking through his carefully maintained indifference like sunrise through storm clouds.
His shadows have regained their vitality, flowing around both their bodies now in protective currents that occasionally spark with flecks of silver light.
The poison is gone, but something of Lyra remains within him, just as something of his essence now resides within her.
____________
The kiss deepens of its own accord, no longer merely a channel for magic but something hungrier, more human.
Riven's hand tightens in Lyra's hair, gentle desperation in the way his fingers press against her scalp.
The chamber around them continues to brighten, the ambient magic responding to their exchange like a slumbering beast stirring at the scent of power.
Thorns along the distant walls curl inward as if recoiling from the silver light still pulsing between their bodies in diminishing waves.
When they finally part, the separation feels like emerging from deep water—disorienting, breath-stealing, the world suddenly too sharp and too immediate.
Riven's eyes remain fixed on hers, mercury irises now threaded with silver filaments that catch the light when he blinks.
The wall he's maintained since their first meeting—that careful distance of sardonic remarks and calculated gestures—lies in ruins between them, as thoroughly destroyed as his elegant clothing.
He sits up with her help, wincing as the movement pulls at his wounds.
Though no longer poisoned, the injuries themselves remain—a jagged constellation across his chest that will undoubtedly leave scars to match those already mapping his forearms. His breathing comes easier now, no longer the shallow gasps of a dying man but the measured intake of someone cataloging new sensations.
"Why?" he asks simply, the single word containing multitudes. Why save him? Why risk herself? Why choose connection when distance has always been safer?
Lyra steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, her own breathing still uneven from the intensity of their exchange.
The mark between her shoulder blades pulses with residual warmth, no longer the urgent heat of necessity but something deeper, more permanent.
Where their magics merged—her silver light and his mercury shadows—neither remains quite the same.
"Because I choose to," she answers, deliberately echoing his own words from earlier in their journey when he'd knelt before her in unexpected fealty.
The symmetry isn't lost on him; she sees recognition flicker across his face, followed by something more vulnerable than she's ever witnessed in his carefully composed features.