Page 8 of Moonlit Desires

She glances around the tavern—at the faces of people she's served for years, people whose lives and problems she knows intimately. They stare back with a mixture of fear, confusion, and dawning hostility. Whatever happens next, she can't let it happen here.

"Fine," she says. "I'll come. But these people have nothing to do with this. Leave them out of it."

The storm-eyed man smiles. "Wise decision. After you."

As Lyra moves from behind the bar, a ripple of unease passes through the patrons. The dock worker who spoke to Kael rises halfway from his seat.

"You sure about this, girl?" he calls. "These fellows don't look right to me."

The storm-eyed man turns, his pleasant expression never wavering. "Sit down, old man. This doesn't concern you."

"Seems like it might," the dock worker persists. "Especially after what your friend told us yesterday about the Moon Court and curses and whatnot."

A dangerous silence falls. The storm-eyed man's companions exchange glances, hands drifting toward concealed weapons. The patrons sense the shift, bodies tensing, chairs scraping back.

"You've been misinformed," the leader says, his voice hardening. "There's no such thing as—"

The windows implode with a deafening crash.

Glass rains across the tavern as a figure lands in a crouch atop the center table.

Thorne's golden eyes burn with feral intensity, his lips pulled back in a snarl that's more animal than human.

Behind him, shadows detach from the walls, solidifying into Riven's silver-haired form.

The temperature drops precipitously as frost crawls across the floorboards.

"Actually," Riven drawls, "we're quite real."

The storm-eyed man's face contorts with rage. "Guardians," he spits. "Always interfering where you're not wanted."

"Funny," Thorne growls, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. "I was about to say the same to you."

Chaos erupts. The patrons scramble for the exits as the storm-eyed man hurls a bolt of crackling energy toward Thorne.

The shapeshifter dodges with inhuman speed, lunging forward, body blurring as it begins to change—limbs elongating, teeth sharpening, clothing splitting as muscle and sinew reshape themselves.

Riven gestures, and shadows wrap around two of the Storm Court agents, binding them like living ropes. They struggle, pulling knives that glint with unnatural blue light.

"Lyra!" Riven shouts above the din. "Run!"

But the storm-eyed leader is already grabbing for her, fingers sparking with painful electrical charge. Lyra ducks, the pendant swinging wildly around her neck. It catches the light, flaring with sudden silver brilliance.

The storm-eyed man recoils as if burned. "The royal sigil," he hisses. "So it is true."

Lyra backs away, bumping into tables, desperate for an escape route.

Around her, the tavern has become a battlefield—fae magic crackling against walls, patrons screaming, furniture splintering.

This is her fault. All of it. Maya's disappearance.

The fear in the city. The danger to everyone she knows.

"Where is Maya?" she demands, louder now. "Tell me what you've done with her!"

The storm-eyed man laughs, cruel and delighted. "She's with Lord Stormborn now. A guest of the Storm Court. And if you ever want to see her again, you'll come with us willingly."

A shadow falls across Lyra's vision—not Riven's controlled darkness, but something deeper, colder. A voice whispers in her ear, calm amid the chaos.

"He lies," Ashen says, materializing beside her like mist becoming solid. "I have seen her. Your friend is at the abandoned lighthouse. Three of Caelum's servants hold her there. A trap for you."

The storm-eyed man lunges, but Ashen is already moving, pulling Lyra toward the kitchen's back exit. Behind them, Thorne—now more wolf than man—pins one of the agents to the floor with massive paws. Riven dances through shadow, her laughter bright and terrible as her blades find flesh.

"Kael is waiting," Ashen whispers. "We must go. Now."

Lyra hesitates, looking back at the ruined tavern—at the place that has been her sanctuary for years, now destroyed because of what she is. Patrons cower under tables or flee through broken windows. The city watch lies unconscious by the door, victims of the Storm Court's initial attack.

"I can't just leave," she protests. "Maya—"

"Will die if you are captured," Ashen says, his pale eyes suddenly focused and intense. "I have seen it. Trust me, Lyra. Please."

The storm-eyed man roars in frustration as Thorne and Riven block his path. "This isn't over, princess! We know who you are now! Nowhere in this city is safe for you!"

The terrible truth of his words sinks into Lyra's bones. As long as she remains, everyone around her is in danger. Her ordinary life ended the moment her mark appeared.

With one last look at the chaos she's brought to the place she called home, Lyra turns and follows Ashen into the shadows, the pendant guiding her toward a destiny she never wanted but can no longer avoid.

#

The abandoned lighthouse stands like a broken tooth against the churning sky, its stone base eaten away by decades of relentless tides.

Lyra crouches behind a tumble of rocks with her four guardians, the pendant pulsing against her skin in warning or anticipation—she can no longer tell the difference.

Waves crash against the narrow causeway that connects the lighthouse to shore, gradually disappearing beneath the rising tide.

Soon the path will be submerged, cutting off both escape and reinforcement.

Kael's face is grim in the fading light, his hand resting on a sword that wasn't visible until he needed it to be.

"Three guards," Thorne murmurs, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. His body vibrates with barely contained energy, caught between human form and something wilder. "Two on the ground floor, one with the hostage at the top."

Riven's mercury eyes gleam as shadows curl around her fingers like affectionate pets. "No sign of Caelum himself?"

"He wouldn't dirty his hands," Kael says, voice tight with controlled fury. "Not yet. These will be his lesser servants—expendable, but dangerous."

Ashen kneels at the water's edge, pale fingers trailing through the surf. Ripples spread from his touch, carrying moonlight deeper than they should. "I see multiple paths," he whispers. "In most, there is blood. In all, there is change."

Lyra's throat tightens. The pendant feels like ice against her skin, the mark on her back a brand of fire. She thinks of Maya—practical, loyal Maya who never asked for any of this—and guilt threatens to choke her.

"I should go alone," she says. "This is my fault. Maya's in danger because of me."

Kael's hand finds her shoulder, his touch unexpectedly gentle for a warrior. "That is exactly what Caelum wants. You, alone and vulnerable. We go together, or not at all."

"Besides," Riven adds with a predatory smile, "we've been waiting centuries for a proper fight. Don't spoil our fun."

Thorne growls agreement, teeth already sharpening in anticipation. Only Ashen remains silent, his colorless eyes focused on something beyond the physical world.

"What's the plan?" Lyra asks, surprised by the steadiness in her voice.

Kael draws her closer to the group, his voice dropping to ensure only they can hear. "Thorne and I will create a diversion at the main entrance. Riven will use the shadows to get you and Ashen inside through the upper window. Find your friend while we keep Caelum's servants occupied."

"And if more come?" Lyra asks.

"Then we adapt," Kael says simply. "We are your guardians, Lyra Ashwind. We have prepared for this moment since before you were born."

The tide pulls back, revealing slick stones leading to the lighthouse door.

Kael nods to Thorne, who rolls his shoulders with a series of unsettling cracks.

His transformation is both beautiful and horrifying—muscle and bone flowing like liquid, hair spreading across skin that darkens and toughens.

Where a man stood moments before, a massive wolf now crouches, golden eyes the only recognizable feature.

"Now," Kael whispers.

Thorne bounds toward the lighthouse, a streak of shadow and fury. Kael follows, sword drawn, its blade catching impossible light. They reach the door just as it bursts open, Caelum's servants responding to Thorne's howl of challenge.

Riven's hand closes around Lyra's wrist. "Our turn," she says, and the world dissolves into liquid darkness.

Moving through shadow is like drowning in ink.

Lyra gasps, but there's no air, only the sensation of falling upward.

Riven's grip anchors her to reality as they slip between the spaces where light doesn't reach.

When they emerge, Lyra's lungs burn as if she's been underwater.

Ashen appears beside them, looking no more affected than if he'd walked through a doorway.

They stand in what was once the lighthouse keeper's quarters. Dust covers abandoned furniture, and the windows are filmed with salt. From below come the sounds of battle—Thorne's snarls, Kael's battle commands, the crack of storm magic against stone.

"Up," Ashen whispers, pointing to a spiral staircase that leads to the light chamber.

Lyra moves first, drawn by something beyond conscious thought.

The pendant pulls her forward, and the mark on her back throbs in time with her racing heart.

She ascends the narrow stairs, instinctively placing her feet to avoid the spots that might creak.

Behind her, Riven and Ashen follow like wraiths.

The top chamber is flooded with pale light—not from the defunct lighthouse mechanism, but from a web of glowing blue energy that crisscrosses the circular room. At its center, suspended a foot above the floor, Maya hangs unconscious, her body caged in a lattice of crackling storm magic.