Page 27 of Shattered Crown

She slid a small pin across the table. It looked like a common piece of jewelry, but Silas recognized the ancient symbol worked into its design.

“Some of us remember the old oaths,” she said quietly. “The ones sworn before your family decided magic was something to be controlled rather than respected. That pin might open doors you need opened.”

“Why help me?”

Her smile held no warmth. “Because some wars destroy both sides. And I'd rather not command ashes.”

The capital's spires pierced the horizon the next morning, beautiful and threatening as dragon's teeth. As they approached, Silas felt the crystal grow cooler against his skin. The layers of human construction, of cold stone and colder ambition, interfered with his connection to Thorne.

But when he closed his eyes and focused, the bond remained. A thread of starlight through shadow, unbreakable as long as he held faith.

The palace guards snapped to attention as Silas approached the gates. Whispers followed their progress through the courtyard.

“The young lord returns.”

“I heard he was exiled.”

“No, no, sent to manage family holdings.”

“But why is he back now?”

Silas kept his expression neutral as they crossed the familiar stone pathways, past the fountain he'd played in as a child, through the colonnaded walkway that had always echoed with gossip. With each step deeper into the palace complex, the weight of returning pressed heavier on his shoulders. Through the crystal, he sent pulses of anxiety to Thorne. The response came immediately: waves of love and strength that steadied his nerves. He could do this. He had to do this.

Diana led them through the marble corridors, her boots clicking against the polished floor, past tapestries depicting Ashworth victories and painted portraits of stern-faced ancestors. When they reached the formal reception hall with its vaulted ceilings and elaborate chandeliers, Lady Evangeline was already waiting, resplendent in court dress. Her embrace conveyed both genuine relief and careful warning.

“Your father has been... most insistent about your return,” she said, loud enough for nearby courtiers to hear. Then, softer, as she adjusted his collar, “The old alliances remember. Be careful, but be ready.”

Her eyes lingered on the crystal at his throat, recognition flashing briefly before her court mask slipped back into place.

King Thomas didn't make him wait, a clear power play. The throne room was packed with nobles eager to witness this family drama unfold. Silas approached the throne with measured steps, cataloging everything: new guards in unfamiliar uniforms, magical wards that made his skin crawl, tension thick enough to choke on.

His father sat the throne like it had grown from his body, crown glinting in the afternoon light. The king's greeting dripped ice: “My son returns. I trust your exile has taught you the value of family loyalty.”

Silas felt every eye in the throne room upon him, measuring his response. Courtiers leaned forward slightly, hungry for the drama of reunion. Lady Harrington, his father's most loyal supporter, nodded approvingly at the king's cool reception.

What followed was pure political theater. King Thomas spoke of forgiveness and second chances while outlining expectations that amounted to complete submission. “Your time away was meant to be instructive,” he stated, studying the court's reaction. “A lesson in what truly matters. Have you learned?”

He let the question hang in the air, a test disguised as welcome. “The crown requires steadfast heirs. Ones who understand that personal desires take second place to duty.”

“I have learned much, Father,” Silas replied, his voice carrying the precise mixture of deference and dignity that court protocol demanded. His hands remained relaxed at his sides, though he longed to clench them. “The Eldergrove has been... most educational.”

Lord Blackwood scoffed audibly from his position near the throne. “Educational? Is that what we're calling consorting with forest spirits these days?”

Murmurs rippled through the assembled nobility. Silas allowed his gaze to rest briefly on Blackwood, long enough to acknowledge the barb but not so long as to show it had struck home.

“I've learned about power, Father,” Silas continued, addressing the king directly. “About different kinds of strength. About alliances that serve the realm in ways we've forgotten.”

The king's eyes narrowed slightly. “Curious lessons from a forest backwater.”

“Perhaps that's why you sent me there,” Silas countered, his tone perfectly balanced between observation and challenge.

Duke Marlow cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, perhaps the young lord would benefit from time to... readjust to civilized society before discussing matters of state.”

“My son claims to have learned about power and alliances,” King Thomas replied, never taking his eyes from Silas. “I'm curious to hear what forest wisdom he brings to our court.” His smile carried no warmth. “Enlighten us, my son.”

Silas recognized the trap. Speak too freely of the Eldergrove's magic, and he'd be dismissed as bewitched. Say too little, and he'd appear unchanged by his exile. He chose his words with careful precision.

“I learned that strength comes in many forms, Father. That true loyalty isn't always obvious. That sometimes, those we've been taught to fear understand protection better than those we've been taught to trust.”

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