Page 13 of Shattered Crown

“I come seeking understanding.” Thorne's form solidified near the ancient trunk, more tree than man in this sacred space. “The humans gather. They bring magic they claim doesn't exist. And now...” He couldn't finish, couldn't voice his fears about the letter, about patterns repeating.

The Oak's branches creaked in something like sympathy. “We have seen this dance before. A crown split in two. Thorns weeping blood. Shadows wearing beloved faces.”

Visions flooded Thorne's mind. Not memories, but possibility. Warning. He saw himself corrupted, saw Silas's face twisted in betrayal, saw the forest burning while brother fought brother.

“No,” he growled, bark-skin rippling with denial. “We are not them. Silas is not Marcus.”

“Are you certain?” The Oak's question carried no judgment, only ancient curiosity. “The patterns run deep. Blood calls to blood.”

“Silas chose me. Chose us.”

“As another once did. Before fear poisoned love.”

Thorne staggered, his form flickering between shapes as memories he'd buried or lost surged forward.

Two figures with Ashworth features, but distinctly different. Brothers. Arguments echoing through these very groves. Accusations of betrayal, but not from Marcus alone. Between them. Brother against brother, and Thorne caught in the middle.

“Lysander,” he whispered, the name tasting like ash and regret.

The forest shuddered with his realization. Leaves fell like tears, carpeting the ground in premature autumn. Birds took flight in startled flocks.

A pulse through the crystal snapped him back to the present. Silas. Awake and radiating distress.

Thorne didn't bother with physical travel. He tore through space itself, materializing in their bedroom in a whirlwind of leaves and shadow. The sight that greeted him stopped his heart.

Silas sat on the edge of the bed, paper crumpled in white-knuckled fists. His face had gone the color of old parchment, and his whole body trembled.

“Silas?” Thorne crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees before his lover. “What is it? What does it say?”

Wordlessly, Silas held out the letter. His hand shook so badly that Thorne had to steady it to take the paper.

The words burned themselves into his mind:

To the Guardian's Beloved,

You don't know me, but we share blood. I am descended from Lysander Ashworth, brother to the betrayer, who chose exile over treachery. The stolen birthright your family claims was built on his sacrifice.

Lysander loved as you do. Loved a guardian as you do. For that crime, he was cast out, erased from history. But we survived. We remember.

The crown and your father know of your bond. They plan to use it as Marcus did, to break the guardian's power through his heart. History spirals toward repetition.

Find us. Before the moon turns. Before love becomes weapon once more.

Look for the thornless rose.

- N.

The letter slipped from nerveless fingers. Ancient grief crashed into fresh terror, and Thorne's magic responded to his turmoil. Wind howled through the manor, rattling windows in their frames. Branches scraped against glass like clawing fingers. The temperature plummeted until their breath misted the air.

“Thorne,” Silas's voice cut through the chaos. “Thorne, look at me.”

But Thorne couldn't. Couldn't face the possibility that everything he'd built with Silas was just another iteration of an old tragedy. That love would again become the weapon that destroyed him.

Strong hands cupped his face, forcing eye contact. Silas had moved to kneel with him, heedless of the magical storm raging around them.

“I am not Marcus,” Silas said fiercely. “And you are not whoever you were then. We are us. Here. Now.”

“The patterns,” Thorne choked out. “The Oak showed me. Blood calls to blood.”

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