Page 23 of Shattered Crown

By evening,he felt strong enough for serious discussion. Elena formally proposed their alliance, offering the protection of her hidden grove and knowledge she'd preserved through generations. The crystals brightened as she spoke, responding to ancient magic awakening.

“Together, we might stand a chance,” she said. “My family maintained contact with other hidden refuges. Other descendants who preserved the old ways. With the Binding Stones and your combined strength, we can create defenses the shadow entity cannot penetrate.”

Thorne looked at Silas, remembering his own journey from suspicion to love. Across the clearing, he saw Kai and Eliar exchange a meaningful glance, their own bond a testament to what trust between human and guardian could achieve.

“Trust has to start somewhere,” Thorne echoed his earlier words.

They sealed their alliance with intertwining magics, each contributing their unique power to create something new. Thorne's forest energy flowed silver-green like spring light, while Silas offered the crystalline precision of human will transformed by ritual. Eliar's celestial power manifested as starlight streams, weaving through Kai's warrior magic that burned like forge-fire. Elena anchored them all, her Ashworth blood mixed with generations of guardian alliance creating bridges between each element.

As their powers merged, the grove responded. Flowers bloomed instantly, perfuming the air with scents that hadn't existed in centuries. The ancient trees' bark shifted, revealing patterns that told the story of Lysander and his beloved—Elena's great-grandmother's lover, whose union had created this very magic. Light built between their joined hands, growing from spark to radiance to something that transcended purely visual sensation.

The light erupted in a column that pierced the grove's canopy, spreading into countless strands that connected each person to the others like an intricate web. Through the bond, they shared not just power but understanding—memories of alliance, echoes of the first pact, hopes for what could be restored. The magic didn't force unity but invited it, offering strength through connection rather than domination.

As the light settled, seeping into their skin like blessed oils, Thorne felt something shift in the fabric of reality itself. Ancient patterns, long dormant, realigned with new purpose. The Binding Stones pulsed in harmony with their heartbeats, recognizing in this moment what Lysander and his guardian had hoped to achieve—not mere alliance, but transformation through conscious choice.

6

ECHOES OF HOME

Silas jolted awake, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat soaked through his tunic, plastering it to his skin. The dream clung to him like cobwebs.

Gilded halls stretching endlessly, the weight of a crown pressing into his temples, and worst of all, Thorne kneeling at his feet, silver chains binding him like some exotic pet.

“Fuck,” he whispered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. The dream-crown's weight lingered, a phantom pressure that made his stomach turn.

Careful not to disturb Thorne's sleep, Silas extracted himself from their shared bedroll. The pre-dawn air bit at his damp skin as he moved to the edge of their small camp. Stars still glittered overhead, but the eastern horizon held the first hints of gray.

“You're thinking too loudly,” Thorne's voice came from behind him, rough with sleep.

Familiar arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back against a warm chest. Thorne's chin settled on his shoulder, breath tickling his ear.

“Bad dreams?” Thorne asked, though their bond likely told him everything he needed to know.

Silas nodded, not trusting his voice. The nightmare images flashed again: Thorne in chains, himself on a throne, power corrupting everything they'd built.

Thorne turned him gently, cupping his face with hands that still carried the warmth of sleep. In the growing light, his eyes held that impossible depth, green and gold swirling like forest canopies viewed from below.

“Whatever haunts you,” Thorne murmured, “remember this.”

His kiss started soft but deepened quickly, tongue sliding against Silas's with deliberate intent. Through their bond, Silas felt waves of certainty, love, choice. Not destiny's puppet strings but conscious decision, renewed with every touch.

“Prophecy may have brought us together,” Thorne breathed against his lips, “but every moment since has been our choice. Yours and mine.”

Silas's back hit tree bark as Thorne pressed closer, hands sliding under his sweat-damp tunic. The rough texture grounded him in reality, banishing the last wisps of nightmare. When Thorne's fingers found his nipples, pinching just hard enough to make him gasp, all thoughts of destiny evaporated.

“Here?” Silas managed, aware of their sleeping companions nearby.

“Here,” Thorne confirmed, already working at the laces of Silas's trousers. “Now. Let me remind you what's real.”

The first touch of Thorne’s hand on his cock made Silas bite back a moan, sharp and involuntary. His whole body jolted like a struck chord, nerves still raw from the dream’s grip. But Thorne’s touch—calloused and confident—cut through the haze, anchoring him. The nightmare had left a cold sweat clinging to his skin, the lingering scent of fear still in his nose. But Thorne’s warmth, the roughness of his palm stroking him slow and sure, was something real, undeniable.

He didn’t resist when Thorne dropped to his knees.

The forest around them was still. The others were asleep, tucked away in tents or curled beneath cloaks, but it all blurred at the edges of Silas’s mind. All that existed now was Thorne’s breath ghosting over his cock, the heat of his mouth a second later as he took him in deep, without preamble.

Silas’s hands flew to Thorne’s shoulders, fingers digging in. The contrast between the nightmare’s cold void and this—Thorne’s mouth, the pressure, the wet heat of his tongue—nearly undid him.

“Fuck—” he whispered, not daring to speak louder. The sound scraped out of him like prayer and profanity all at once.

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