Page 12 of Shattered Crown

“Thorne,” Silas called, summoning his own power. The key at his throat blazed with light. “They're trying to surround us.”

“Then we fight back to back,” Thorne replied, his form growing taller, more primal, antlers spreading from his crown.

Silas pressed his back to Thorne's, channeling energy through the ancient key. Their magic merged naturally now, creating a shield of swirling light and forest energy. Where corrupted spirits touched it, they recoiled, their twisted forms unable to breach the combined power.

One larger creature—perhaps once a guardian of a lesser grove—hurled spheres of corrupted energy that exploded against their shield, each impact making Silas's teeth rattle.

“We can't hold this position,” Thorne growled, sending lances of pure green energy through three attackers, who dissolved into tainted mist. “There are too many.”

Silas nodded, concentrating on maintaining their protective barrier while Thorne carved a path toward the deeper forest. Each step required perfect coordination, their combined magic allowing them to move as one.

With a final surge of power, Thorne created an opening in the corrupted ranks. “Now!” he shouted, grabbing Silas's hand and pulling him through the gap.

They ran through paths only a forest guardian could see, the sounds of pursuit gradually fading behind them. The letter felt heavy in Silas's pocket, its secrets burning to be revealed.

When they finally stopped, deep in the Eldergrove's heart where the oldest trees stood sentinel, Silas leaned against Thorne, both of them breathing hard.

“That was no coincidence,” Thorne said grimly. “Those creatures appeared the moment the messenger mentioned the forgotten heir.”

“Someone doesn't want us to hear that message,” Silas agreed, fingering the sealed letter. “Or receive this.”

The game had changed, pieces moving on a board larger than any of them had imagined. And somewhere in the shadows, a forgotten heir waited to reclaim what was lost.

They'd survived the first move.

But the real battle was just beginning.

3

ANCIENT ECHOES

The first rays of dawn painted Silas's sleeping face in shades of gold and shadow. Thorne stood sentinel by the bed, watching every flutter of his lover's eyelids, every shift that spoke of troubled dreams. His fingers hovered inches from Silas's cheek, not quite touching but channeling a subtle stream of calming magic. The air between them shimmered with power, invisible threads of comfort that couldn't quite chase away whatever visions plagued Silas's rest.

On the bedside table, that damned letter sat like a coiled snake. The Ashworth crest on its broken seal wasn't quite right, twisted somehow from the version Thorne had learned to hate centuries ago. It mocked him with secrets, with implications he wasn't ready to face.

Silas whimpered in his sleep, and Thorne's protective instincts roared to life. Every fiber of his being screamed to gather Silas up, to wrap him in layers of magic and hide him away where nothing could touch him. Not armies, not mysterious messengers, not the weight of family legacy.

But Silas would never forgive him for that.

A soft knock announced Kai's arrival. Thorne didn't turn, trusting his senses to identify friend from foe.

“I'll watch him,” Kai offered quietly. “You need to patrol.”

Thorne hesitated. Leaving Silas, even with Kai, felt like abandoning a piece of himself.

“Go,” Kai insisted. “You're practically vibrating with tension. The forest needs you functional, not wound tight enough to snap.”

With a last lingering look at Silas's face, Thorne dissolved into shadow and starlight, letting his consciousness expand through root and branch.

The transformation always felt like coming home. His awareness spread through the Eldergrove like blood through veins, touching every leaf, every creature, every whisper of wind. Here, he was more than the humanoid form he wore for Silas's sake. Here, he was the forest itself, ancient and vast and powerful.

The human military camp pulsed at the edge of his territory like an infected wound. Two hundred soldiers, their metal weapons scraping against his senses. Worse were the mages with their ritual circles, their magic stinking of iron and death. But most concerning were the blank spots, areas where his awareness simply... stopped.

Foreign magic. It tasted familiar yet wrong, like Ashworth power filtered through something darker. Someone was deliberately blocking him, using knowledge of guardian weaknesses that shouldn't exist outside the oldest grimoires.

Thorne pushed deeper into the forest's heart, seeking counsel from beings older than his guardianship. The First Oak waited in a grove untouched by human feet, its roots diving deep enough to touch the world's bones.

“Guardian,” the Oak's voice rumbled through earth and air. “You come seeking answers.”

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