Page 7 of Moonlit Desires

"Your blood remembers what your mind has forgotten," Riven says. "The dreams, the mark—these are your heritage asserting itself. The magic of the Moon Court flows in your veins, waiting to be awakened."

The fire flares higher, and in its depths, Lyra sees herself—but transformed. Her ordinary features sharpened to fae beauty, her eyes glowing with silver light, power flowing from her hands like liquid moonlight. The vision both terrifies and exhilarates her.

"I don't know if I can be what you need me to be," she whispers.

"You already are," Ashen says, with unexpected gentleness. "You need only remember it."

As the fire begins to die, Lyra looks at each of her guardians in turn—Kael with his warrior's bearing, Riven with her dangerous beauty, Thorne with his barely contained wildness, Ashen with his prophet's burden. Strangers who know her better than she knows herself.

"Three days," she says finally. "You promised me three days to decide."

Kael nods. "And you shall have them. But be wary, Lyra Ashwind. The enemy now knows your face. Your scent. Your power. The hunt has already begun."

As if in answer, a distant howl rises from the city streets—not a dog, not a wolf, but something between and beyond both. Thorne's head snaps up, nostrils flaring.

"Storm hounds," he growls. "Caelum's trackers."

The silver fire extinguishes itself in an instant, plunging the courtyard into darkness broken only by the too-bright moon overhead.

"Go home," Riven whispers in Lyra's ear, suddenly close enough to touch. "Keep the pendant close. We will watch over you."

Before Lyra can respond, the four guardians melt into the shadows as if they were never there, leaving her alone in an abandoned courtyard with only the echo of a story that rewrites everything she thought she knew about herself.

____________

Dawn crawls reluctantly over Lythven, the sun a pale disc struggling through layers of fog and cloud.

Lyra hasn't slept. How could she, with her mother's pendant burning against her skin and the howls of impossible hounds echoing through her dreams?

She arrives at the Broken Barrel early, hoping routine might anchor her to reality.

The mark on her back pulses with each heartbeat, more insistent now, as if impatient with her hesitation.

She moves through opening procedures mechanically—chairs down, glasses ready, register counted—all while her mind replays silver flames and stories of a curse that only her blood can break.

Maya should have arrived by now. It's unusual—Maya is punctual to a fault, a product of her military upbringing.

Lyra checks the clock again, frowning. Twenty minutes late.

She tries Maya's number from the bar phone, but it rings emptily, each unanswered tone increasing the knot of dread in her stomach.

The first customers trickle in—morning regulars seeking coffee with a splash of something stronger.

Lyra serves them alone, watching the door for Maya's familiar silhouette.

By noon, the absence has become impossible to ignore.

Maya has never missed a shift without calling, not once in the three years they've worked together.

The tavern grows busier as the lunch crowd arrives, their conversations hushed and eyes darting. Something has changed in Lythven overnight. Fear clings to the patrons like the perpetual fog, manifesting in nervous glances and half-finished sentences.

"Heard anything about the disappearances?" a dock worker asks his companion, voice low but carrying in the sudden lull of conversation.

"Three so far," comes the muttered reply. "Tannery foreman found his night watchman's post empty this morning. Nothing left but a scorched patch of ground and some weird tracks. Not human, they're saying."

Lyra's hands shake as she pours a beer, foam spilling over the glass's edge. The pendant seems to grow heavier against her skin, a constant reminder that she brings danger simply by existing.

The tavern door bangs open, admitting a young woman Lyra recognizes as Maya's neighbor. Her eyes are wild, hair disheveled from running.

"Has anyone seen Maya?" she asks, breathless. "She never came home last night. Her door was open this morning—place torn apart like there was a struggle."

The room falls silent. All eyes turn to Lyra, whose face has drained of color. The glass in her hand slips, shattering on the floor with a crash that makes several patrons jump.

"I'm sure she's fine," Lyra says, but the words ring hollow even to her own ears. "She probably just... stayed with someone."

Maya's neighbor shakes her head. "There was blood, Lyra. Not much, but enough. And something else—like frost, but it was silver. Covering the walls in patches. The city watch is there now."

A murmur runs through the crowd, growing louder as information and speculation pass from table to table.

Lyra feels the weight of suspicious glances, the unspoken accusations.

They remember the strangers from yesterday—their unnatural grace, their interest in her.

It doesn't take much to connect the dots.

"Those Court folk were asking about you," says the gray-haired dock worker who'd spoken to Kael. "Right before everything started going strange."

A woman from the seamstress collective rises from her booth. "My sister's boy saw lights in the abandoned train yard last night. Silver lights, moving too fast to be human. Said they were hunting something."

"Or someone," another patron adds, eyes fixed on Lyra.

She grips the edge of the bar to steady herself. "I don't know anything about disappearances. Maya is my friend—I would never—"

The door opens again, this time admitting two members of the city watch. Their uniforms are crisp, their expressions grim as they survey the room. The taller one steps forward, hand resting casually on his nightstick.

"Lyra Ashwind?" he asks, though it's clear he already knows who she is.

She nods, throat suddenly dry.

"We need to ask you some questions about Maya Thornton's disappearance. And about the individuals you were seen conversing with yesterday."

The patrons' murmurs grow louder. Lyra can feel their fear and suspicion like a physical weight pressing against her skin. The mark on her back throbs painfully, as if responding to the rising tension.

"I don't know where Maya is," she says, fighting to keep her voice steady. "And I barely know those people from yesterday. They were just... passing through."

The watchman's eyes narrow. "Interesting company you keep for 'barely knowing' them. Silver-haired woman. Man with eyes 'too blue to be natural,' according to witnesses. Another fellow who 'moved like an animal.'" He consults a small notebook. "Sound familiar?"

Before Lyra can respond, the tavern door opens a third time.

Four men in dark suits enter, their movements too synchronized, too precise.

They wear the badges of city officials, but Lyra immediately recognizes the predatory grace in their steps—the same unnatural fluidity she saw in Kael and the others.

Only these men don't look at her with protection in their eyes. Their gazes are cold, calculating, assessing her as one might a particularly valuable piece of livestock.

The leader steps forward. His face is handsome in a forgettable way, but his eyes shift like storm clouds, gray to black and back again.

"Officer," he addresses the watchman, "we'll take it from here. Federal jurisdiction." He flashes a badge too quickly to read.

The watchman frowns. "This is a local matter—"

"Not anymore." The storm-eyed man smiles, the expression never reaching his eyes. "There's been a series of similar incidents across three counties. We have reason to believe they're connected to a trafficking operation. Ms. Ashwind may have information vital to our investigation."

His gaze slides to Lyra, and the pendant against her skin turns ice cold. She knows, with instinctive certainty, that these are not federal agents. These are Caelum's people—Storm Court. Hunters.

The watchman hesitates, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to challenge federal authority. "Fine. But I want to be kept in the loop."

"Of course," the leader says smoothly. He turns to Lyra. "Ms. Ashwind, if you'll come with us, we have some questions."

The patrons watch in uneasy silence. Some look relieved that the authorities are taking over; others seem troubled by the sudden change in jurisdiction. Maya's neighbor bites her lip, clearly torn between concern for her friend and suspicion of Lyra.

"I have work to do," Lyra says, stalling. "The bar—"

"Can manage without you for a few hours," the storm-eyed man interrupts. His smile tightens. "Unless you have something to hide?"

One of his companions moves to block the back exit. Another positions himself near the front door. The third watches the patrons, ensuring no one interferes. The trap is closing.

"Where's Maya?" Lyra demands, abandoning pretense. "What have you done with her?"

A flicker of surprise crosses the leader's face, quickly replaced by calculation. "So you do know something." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Your friend is alive. For now. How long she stays that way depends entirely on your cooperation."

The pendant pulses against Lyra's skin, a warning. The mark on her back flares hot enough to make her gasp, drawing stares from the nearest patrons.

"You're making a scene, Your Highness," the storm-eyed man murmurs, mockery in the title. "Come quietly, and perhaps Lord Stormborn will be merciful to your friend. Resist, and these good people might discover exactly what happens when fae magic is unleashed in a confined space."

He gestures subtly, and Lyra sees small sparks dancing between his fingers—the promise of a storm building in his palm.