Page 91 of Moonlit Desires
And in their cardinal positions around their queen, four guardians exchange glances of shared satisfaction—not just in her decision, but in the woman who made it of her own wisdom, guided by connection rather than controlled by it.
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The Court adjusts to a new rhythm as the northern petitioner retreats, the gathered fae shifting positions like stars rearranging themselves into fresh constellations.
Lyra settles back into her throne, the mark between her shoulder blades pulsing more steadily now that the border matter has been addressed.
Her gaze moves across the hall in what appears to be casual observation but is, in truth, a deliberate seeking of connection with each guardian—four points of contact that anchor her more securely than the silver throne beneath her.
Kael approaches with measured steps, a leather folio bearing the Court's seal held in his scarred hands.
"The agricultural agreements from the eastern settlements require your review, My Queen," he says, voice pitched for formality though his eyes convey something far more personal.
He extends the documents with one hand while the other moves to assist her—an unnecessary gesture that allows his fingers to brush against hers in momentary contact.
The touch sends golden warmth cascading through their connection, his essence responding to hers like sunlight greeting the moon.
To observers, the exchange appears properly formal—a warrior guardian performing his duty.
Only Lyra feels the deliberate pressure of his thumb against her wrist, tracing a pattern that mimics the movement of his lips against her skin in private moments.
Her eyes meet his briefly, acknowledging the gesture with subtle warmth that transforms his severe features for a heartbeat before his public mask returns.
"The eastern settlements have been particularly generous this season," she notes, scanning the figures with genuine interest. Agricultural production has tripled since the Court's renewal, plants responding to restored magic with unprecedented vigor.
"We should acknowledge their contribution at the next high ceremony. "
Kael inclines his head in agreement, stepping back to his position with the precise movements that have made him legendary on training grounds. Only Lyra notices how his gaze lingers, how the crescent mark on his chest pulses once in rhythm with her own before he resumes his formal stance.
The Court's attention shifts to a trade delegation presenting competing claims to newly discovered silver springs in the western territory.
As negotiations grow heated, Riven materializes at Lyra's left side, shadows curling around his ankles in elegant patterns occasionally threaded with silver—a permanent reminder of how their magics merged during battle.
"The delegate with peacock feathers in his cap has been accepting bribes from both parties," he whispers, mercury eyes gleaming with mischief as his shadows extend just far enough to brush against her wrist like cool silk.
"His pockets carry tokens from opposing factions, and his conscience weighs considerably less than either. "
Lyra suppresses a smile, maintaining her expression of thoughtful consideration as she files away this information.
Riven's network of shadow informants misses nothing, his natural suspicion transformed from bitter cynicism to protective vigilance since their bonding.
His shadows perform a brief dance around her fingers, invisible to all but her, the sensation both playful and possessive.
"Perhaps we should ask him directly which claim he truly supports," she suggests quietly, eyes twinkling with shared conspiracy.
Riven's lips curve in that half-smile that transforms his sharp features into something almost approachable.
"Deliciously cruel, My Queen. I approve entirely.
" His shadow briefly takes the shape of a miniature peacock strutting importantly before dissolving back into formlessness as he steps away, his duty as informant fulfilled.
The negotiation grows increasingly complex as ancient water rights clash with modern needs.
Silver springs hold magical properties beyond mere hydration—their waters carry memories that can heal traumatic forgetting, restore connections severed by time or distance, occasionally even preserve life beyond its natural span.
Both communities present valid claims rooted in historical precedent.
Lyra listens with focused attention, asking precise questions that reveal underlying concerns beyond the obvious dispute.
Where previous rulers might have simply decreed a solution favoring whoever offered greater tribute, she identifies a third path—seasonal sharing based on lunar cycles, with each community gaining exclusive access during the phases that most benefit their particular needs.
"The springs themselves will respond more powerfully to this arrangement," she explains, her hands sketching patterns in the air that momentarily shimmer with silver light. "Water magic flows more freely when in harmony with the moons' influence."
The delegates exchange surprised glances, neither having anticipated a solution that might actually increase the resource rather than merely divide it.
As they bow in acceptance of her decree, a rumble of approval vibrates through the floor—so subtle most courtiers mistake it for shifting foundations beneath the ancient hall.
Lyra, however, immediately identifies its source.
Her eyes find Thorne positioned strategically between the delegations, his approval manifesting physically as it often does when his emotions run strong.
His amber eyes meet hers across the hall, carrying pride that requires no words to communicate.
The mark between her shoulder blades responds with threads of amber light briefly visible through her gown's open back.
The connection between them transcends the physical distance, his satisfaction flowing through their bond with primal directness that contrasts with Kael's restrained warmth and Riven's playful shadows.
Thorne's appreciation is uncomplicated yet profound—beast and man in perfect agreement that his queen has navigated challenging waters with instinctive wisdom he respects above all else.
When uncertainty briefly flickers through her—wondering if her solution truly serves the Court's best interests or merely postpones inevitable conflict—a different kind of connection steadies her.
Across the hall, Ashen looks up from his star charts with unexpected clarity in his typically distant gaze.
His eyes find hers with unerring precision, and he offers a single, affirming nod that speaks volumes.
In that simple gesture, he communicates what words could never adequately express—that among the countless futures he perceives constantly, the path she's chosen leads toward harmony rather than discord.
His certainty flows through their bond like crystal clarity, cutting through her momentary doubt with the precision that characterizes everything about him.
The silver mark on his palm briefly glows visible to her perception alone, responding to the crescent between her shoulder blades.
A small commotion near the hall's entrance draws the Court's attention—a child of perhaps five or six years has slipped away from watchful parents, moving with determined steps toward the throne.
The small fae carries something cupped carefully in both hands, delicate wings fluttering with nervousness yet face set with the particular determination only children can maintain under intimidating circumstances.
Court guards move to intercept, but Lyra raises a hand to stay with them. The child approaches with wide eyes that grow wider still as they near the throne, taking in the queen's gown of living moonlight and the four guardians whose attention has collectively shifted to this unexpected development.
"For you," the child says simply, extending hands that cradle a wilted moonflower—its once silver petals now dulled to gray, its stem bent but not quite broken. "It was the last one in our garden. Mother said it died because it was special."
Murmurs ripple through the Court—moonflowers typically bloom for a single night before dissolving into silver dust with the dawn.
This one has somehow maintained physical form despite its vitality fading, an exceedingly rare occurrence that traditional Court wisdom interprets as an omen requiring royal attention.
Lyra rises from her throne, descending the steps to kneel before the child without concern for her gown of living moonlight pooling against the ancient floor. Her movement brings her eye-level with the young fae, whose wings flutter more rapidly with proximity to the queen's magic.
"May I?" she asks, echoing the same gentle request she offered the northern petitioner, though now directed to a child rather than an elder.
The child nods solemnly, extending the wilted bloom with careful hands.
Lyra cups her palms beneath the child's, not taking the flower but supporting the small hands that hold it.
Silver light flows from her fingertips, surrounding the moonflower without overwhelming it.
Unlike the aggressive healing she performed on the crystalline infection, this magic moves with delicate precision—a suggestion rather than command, invitation rather than instruction.