3. MoonCrest Court
MoonCrest Court
Towering trees reached towards the sky; their massive trunks housed entire homes.
Suspended bridges, crafted from living branches and vines, gracefully arched between them, illuminated by a soft, golden glow.
Lanterns hung from the canopy like captured stars, casting flickering patterns against the deep green leaves.
The scent of damp earth and magic floated on the wind.
The city stretched both upward and outward.
While some Cait Sidhe lived high above homes nestled within the trees, their balconies adorned with ivy and moonstone, others built their homes along the forest floor.
Here, the roots of the majestic trees formed natural archways, enclosing grand halls and dwellings alike.
At the heart of it all, nestled between two colossal trees whose branches curved protectively over its golden walls, stood the castle.
The structure appeared as if the forest itself had shaped it into existence, woven rather than constructed.
Gold traced the archways, forming intricate patterns that swirled like living runes across the stone, whispering of a magic older than time.
It was a beautiful and untamed masterpiece, unlike the rigid palaces of Eadartha.
The Cait Sidhe’s castle pulsed with its own unique energy.
Laughter filled the air, music wove through the streets, and the hum of a thriving kingdom resonated throughout.
As they ventured further into the city, the voices grew louder.
“Maelan?”
“By the moon, it’s him…”
Figures emerged from their homes, from winding staircases carved into the bark, from shaded market stalls, all turning toward them.
Their feline eyes gleamed with recognition, shock, and disbelief.
Then, one by one, they bowed. Some in full, others with the briefest nods, but all acknowledging him.
Sorcha swallowed hard. Even Kyron seemed tense at the sheer weight of the moment.
Maelan had not just returned; the Cait Sidhe had been waiting for him.
As they neared the castle, a figure emerged from its golden halls.
A man with the unmistakable presence of a warrior, his features were sharp and his movements precise.
His gaze locked onto Maelan, and his breath caught.
“So it’s true… you’re alive.”
Like the others, he was beautiful in an otherworldly way.
He was tall and athletic, and his posture was effortlessly poised.
Just brushing his jawline, his calico-colored hair was a striking blend of orange, white, and deep black.
His emerald eyes were undeniably feline: elongated and slanted.
While his pointed ears twitched, dusted with the faintest touch of fur.
But his presence differed from the others.
Maelan only smirked, and in a single breath, he shifted.
This was not Cat.
He towered over her now, easily standing at 6’5, his form a perfect balance of power and grace.
Beneath his shirt, his muscles flexed, the fabric glimmering with a soft iridescence in the dim light.
Elegant and intricate black markings curled on his arms, resembling the stripes of a Bengal cat.
His neck bore the same stripes that reached his jawline, except for a single peculiar stripe that went from his jaw to his ear.
Sorcha glimpsed the wound on his exposed side, a blood-caked burn peeking out from beneath his shirt.
His hair was as black as obsidian, yet it held faint streaks of rainbows.
Depending on the light and how he moved, the colors changed.
It was slightly tousled, cropped just short enough to brush his ears.
But it was his eyes that undid her. That same liquid silver, but now set upon a face she didn’t recognize.
A face that was devastatingly beautiful. For a short while, she simply stared.
Then, the calico man exhaled a quiet laugh. “You always enjoyed an entrance.”
The warriors grinned, some rolling their eyes, some laughing outright. The moment broke as if they had just been waiting for the confirmation, waiting to believe it was really him.
One of them clapped him on the back. “What in the Veil took you so long?”
Another ruffled his hair, grinning like a brother reunited after years apart.
The golden-eyed warrior beside them sighed, shaking his head. “Come on, then. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
Maelan only smirked. “Well then,” he drawled. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”
Sorcha heard nothing; she was still staring.
The sheer presence of him was overwhelming.
This was Cat? This was the obnoxious, unserious, sharp-tongued, effortlessly lazy creature she had carried in her arms, who had draped himself over her shoulders as if he had no care in the world?
Because there was nothing careless about the man standing before her now.
Sorcha wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there, drinking him in, but then Kyron leaned down, his breath warm against her ear.
“You'd best wipe the drool from your face,” he murmured, amusement thick in his voice.
A chuckle rumbled from him as he nudged her, jolting her out of her daze.
Heat rushed to her face. “I wasn’t.”
Kyron just smirked and rolled his eyes. As if picking up on their exchange, Maelan’s eyes darted toward her, and a faint smile touched his lips, as if he had overheard them.
Sorcha cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, and willed herself to focus.
Maelan was still Cat. No matter how beautiful he was.
And if he had heard Kyron’s comment, he was gracious enough not to mention it.
They reached the entrance to the golden castle, and just before they could enter, Maelan stopped.
He turned, eyes flicking between them. “You need to change.”
Sorcha blinked. “What?”
Maelan gestured toward the iron buckles and clasps on her Circle uniform. “The metal. The iron.” His gaze lingered on Kyron’s sword. “You can’t walk through the city like that, unless you want every fae here to be sickened by your presence or take it as an insult.”
Kyron tensed. “I’m not leaving my sword.”
“Relax,” Maelan interrupted smoothly. “No one’s asking you to throw it into the sea. Just put it away for now. You’ll get it back.” His lips curled slightly.
Kyron scowled but didn’t argue; he understood. Sorcha glanced at the golden-eyed warrior, who had been watching their exchange silently.
Maelan turned to Sorcha, his voice softer. “Same goes for you, please leave the weapons.”
She nodded.
He led them inside the castle, past grand halls carved from shimmering stone and walls embedded with glinting emeralds and moonstone; she followed without question.
At last, he stopped before two wooden doors set into the stone.
“These are your rooms for the night,” he said. “Your armor and weapons can stay here. There will be a change of clothes inside.” Sorcha raised a brow.
Maelan smirked. “You're welcome.”
He turned, moving toward the hall, but before he left, he glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll want to hurry. The night market is opening soon; the city comes alive at night.”
And with that, he disappeared into the castle, leaving Sorcha and Kyron to change.
Kyron’s room was quiet. The walls shimmered faintly with embedded quartz, casting fractured light across the carved wood.
He peeled off his clothes piece by piece, setting each on the low bench by the wall.
His fingers hesitated at the collar of the soft tunic someone had left out for him.
A forest green with subtle gold threading at the seams. It was simple, elegant and absolutely fae.
He exhaled. The neckline dipped lower than he liked, and the fabric clung a little more than he wanted it to.
He ran a hand over the fabric, feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with not having his weapons.
Across the hall, Sorcha stood barefoot on cool stone.
Her armor lay folded and set aside. On the bed lay a deep violet gown, sleeveless, cut close at the waist, with tiny silver starbursts stitched into the sides and hem.
It looked like the evening sky. She touched the fabric once it was on her, feeling unsure.
Then she caught her reflection. Her hair was tousled and loose, leaving her shoulders bare.
The dress hugged every curve tightly and wrapped her in shimmer when she moved. It was beautiful.
When they emerged, neither of them spoke at first. Kyron’s gaze caught on her instantly. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.
“You look…. clean” he said finally
She raised her brow. “Is that your way of saying I look nice?”
He grinned, one hand pushing through his hair. “I meant… yes, you look really nice.”
Her eyes flicked down his tunic, the way it hugged his frame, the way he hadn’t quite laced it up all the way. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Nether of them moved until she turned toward the sound of music rising in the distance.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s see what this place looks like at night.”
He followed, his voice low behind her, “I’m sure it has nothing on you.”
Night Calls
As Sorcha, Kyron, and Maelan stepped through the castle’s archways, the shift in atmosphere was immediate: warm, electric, pulsing. By day, the city was graceful and unhurried, but under the glow of twilight, it breathed.