Page 11 of Shattered Crown

The branches above curled tighter, the glow of the moss dimming just a little as the world settled. Silas felt the wet between his thighs, the stretch of being filled, the ache in his muscles, but none of it mattered. It was good. It was real.

“Don’t go,” Silas whispered, not quite sure why the words slipped out. Maybe it was the aftermath. Or maybe it was the looming war and the weight they’d both been carrying.

“I won’t,” Thorne said. “Not unless you send me.”

Silas reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“Lucky bastard,” Thorne murmured, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

The forest responded to their passion, flowers blooming out of season, vines weaving protective barriers around their shelter. Magic spiraled between them, building to a crescendo that left them both gasping.

After, lying tangled together on a bed of moss, Silas traced the glowing patterns on Thorne's chest. They pulsed lazily, sated and content.

“I'm scared,” he admitted quietly.

Thorne's arms tightened around him. “So am I.”

“Not of the battle. Of... of having to choose. Between you and any chance of peace with my family.”

“You won't have to choose,” Thorne said fiercely. “I won't let it come to that.”

“You can't control everything.”

“Watch me.”

Silas might have argued further, but the crystal suddenly flared with burning heat. They both sat up, instantly alert.

They dressed quickly but took time for protective rituals. Thorne painted sigils on Silas's skin with berry juice mixed with his own magic, sealing each with a kiss. Silas returned the favor, weaving charms into Thorne's crown of branches.

Hand in hand, they approached the meeting place—an ancient stone circle that predated even Thorne's guardianship. The forest grew unnaturally quiet as they walked, as if holding its breath.

Thorne's form shifted subtly, becoming more otherworldly, more dangerous. Yet he kept Silas close, their joined hands creating a circuit of shared power.

A figure waited in the circle, cloaked in midnight blue with a mask obscuring their features. They bore tokens from three different kingdoms and spoke with an accent Silas couldn't place.

“Guardian of the Eldergrove,” the stranger said formally. “I come with warning.”

“Speak,” Thorne commanded.

“The forgotten heir returns. Crown's shadow falls on thorns. What was divided must?—”

The sound of approaching creatures cut them off—a chittering, unnatural noise that made the hair on Silas's neck stand up. Not human soldiers, but something twisted and wrong.

“Corrupted forest spirits,” Silas hissed, recognizing the distorted magical signatures.

The messenger thrust a sealed letter into his hands. The wax bore the Ashworth crest, but subtly different—older, more elaborate.

“Find the truth between the lines,” they said urgently. “Before the moon?—”

They vanished into shadow as the first of the corrupted beings burst into the clearing. Once they might have been dryads or wood sprites, but now their forms bent at impossible angles, their eyes leaking black ichor, their voices a cacophony of broken songs.

Thorne pushed Silas behind him, power gathering like storm clouds. The forest responded to its guardian's call, branches creaking ominously, roots shifting beneath the earth.

“You trespass on sacred ground,” Thorne warned, his voice carrying ancient authority.

The corrupted spirits didn't respond with words—only screams as they launched themselves forward. Their touch withered plant life, leaving smoking trails of decay.

Thorne's power exploded outward, a wave of pure forest magic that temporarily drove them back. Trees bent like reeds in a hurricane. The very ground trembled.

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