Page 107 of Shattered Crown

“And the political ramifications?” Thomas pressed. “Half my court already whispers about magical influence. This alliance would confirm their worst fears.”

“Their worst fears are nothing compared to what the Shadowblight brings,” Eliar said, his celestial nature lending weight to his words. “I've seen realms fall to similar entities. Division was always their first victory.”

The debate continued, circular and frustrating, until a weak voice cut through the arguments.

“You're both idiots.”

Everyone turned to see Agnes being supported by Briar and Lyra. The ancient witch looked frail, her life force still recovering from the sacrifice she'd made, but her eyes blazed with familiar fire.

“Agnes,” Thorne rose immediately. “You should be resting.”

“I'll rest when you stop dancing around the obvious.” She allowed herself to be settled onto a cushioned seat. “Thomas, your great-grandfather signed treaties with the forest lords. Thorne, your predecessor's predecessor welcomed human scholars into sacred groves. This isn't new. It's remembered.”

Her words shifted something in the atmosphere. Thomas leaned forward, genuine curiosity replacing political calculation.

“Tell me more about these treaties,” Thomas requested, genuine curiosity replacing political calculation.

Agnes straightened slightly, her frail body gathering strength from centuries of memory. She gestured for Briar to bring her a worn leather satchel. From it, she withdrew a bundle wrapped in preserved leaves that had long since turned to a delicate, paper-thin sheath.

“The Concordat of Shared Boundaries,” she said, carefully unwrapping what appeared to be fragments of parchment so ancient they seemed to shimmer with their own inner light. “Signed in the reign of your great-grandfather, King Aldric II, and Guardian Silvermist of the Western Reaches.”

Thomas leaned forward, his diplomatic mask slipping to reveal scholarly interest. “That can't be correct. The histories record Aldric II as a staunch traditionalist who refortified the kingdom's borders against magical incursion.”

“History is written by those who wish to shape future memory,” Agnes replied, her voice gaining strength. “What your court scholars recorded and what actually occurred often bear little resemblance to each other.”

She placed the parchment fragments on a smooth stone between them. The writing seemed to shift between human script and something more fluid, symbols that appeared to grow like vines across the page.

“After the Great Drought of the Fourth Century, when both human lands and forest territories suffered, Aldric II sought allies against starvation,” Agnes continued. “Three successive harvests had failed. The forest, too, withered at its edges. Necessity drove enemies to the same table.”

“I've never seen mention of this drought in our records,” Nathaniel said, studying the fragments with scholarly attention. “Though there are curious gaps in the agricultural records from that period.”

“Because your ancestors rewrote history to erase their dependence on forest magic,” Agnes countered. “Just as the elder guardians later obscured their reliance on human ingenuity.”

“That seems... convenient,” Thomas observed skeptically.

“King Aldric came to this very clearing,” Agnes pressed on, ignoring his doubt. “Much like you have today. He met with Silvermist under the full moon of the harvest season.” Her weathered fingers traced faded illustrations on the parchment. “Together, they created a system of magical watersheds—guardian magic guiding rainfall patterns while human engineers designed irrigation channels that served both territories.”

Silas studied his father's face, noting how the king's eyes narrowed—not in dismissal, but in the way they did when he was reassessing information. It was the same expression he'd worn when reviewing disputed border reports or contradictory intelligence from foreign emissaries.

“For three decades, this partnership flourished,” Agnes continued. “Forest guardians taught human healers plant lore that saved thousands during the Winter Fever outbreak. Human metallurgists shared techniques that allowed guardians to reinforce weakened heart trees against the Withering Blight.”

“If such cooperation existed,” Thomas interjected, “what ended it?”

Agnes's face darkened. “The same forces that always destroy what's carefully built. Fear. Ambition. Misunderstanding.” She looked directly at Thomas. “Sound familiar, Your Majesty?”

The king did not respond, but his jaw tightened slightly.

“A new ruler succeeded Aldric—his son, Mathias the Cautious. Unlike his father, who had witnessed the benefits of cooperation firsthand, Mathias knew only the stories of ancient conflicts. His advisors, particularly Lord Chancellor Blackthorn, whispered of guardian plots to subvert human authority.”

“Blackthorn,” Diana repeated, glancing at Silas. “Like Sebastian?”

“His ancestor,” Agnes confirmed. “A family with a long history of fearing what they don't control.”

Briar helped Agnes turn to another fragment of parchment. “Meanwhile, Silvermist was succeeded by Ironbark, who distrusted humans after witnessing logging expeditions that approached too near sacred groves. Each side moved from cooperation to suspicion, from suspicion to isolation, from isolation to hostility.”

“And the treaties were forgotten,” Thorne added, his resonant voice somber.

“Not forgotten,” Agnes corrected. “Deliberately buried. Court historians were commanded to revise chronicles. Forest loremasters inscribed new stories of human treachery. Within a generation, few remained who remembered the truth.”

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