Page 32 of Shattered Crown

Elena and Thorne both turned to stare at her.

“Think about it,” Briar continued, warming to her idea. “They expect you to fight, to resist. What if instead, you play along? Get inside their defenses, let them lower their guard, and then?—”

“Spring the trap from the inside,” Elena breathed. “That's... that's either brilliant or suicidal.”

“Often the same thing, in my experience,” Thorne admitted. But the idea had merit. “What would we need?”

They spent the remaining hours refining the plan. Elena produced more tools, more knowledge, more connections than Thorne had imagined possible. By the time the first gray light filtered through the basement windows, they had something resembling a strategy.

“Get some rest,” Elena advised as they finally wrapped up. “Tonight, we position our pieces. Tomorrow...”

“Tomorrow, we change the game,” Thorne finished.

After she left, Briar remained, studying Thorne with unusual seriousness. “She's risking everything too. Her family, their centuries of work. Maybe trust that she knows what she's doing?”

Thorne leaned back against the oak's trunk, feeling its ancient patience seep into him. Through the muffled bond, he sensed Silas's determination, steady as a heartbeat.

Tomorrow would bring challenges enough. Tonight, perhaps, he could learn patience from those who had practiced it for generations.

As he drifted into meditation, the oak's roots curled protectively around him, and for the first time since entering the city, Thorne felt something like hope.

8

THE HUNT

The morning sun barely crept through the heavy curtains as Silas stood rigid before a gilded mirror, watching servants dress him in layers of hunting attire. Each piece felt more suffocating than the last. The silk undershirt clung like a second skin, cold against his flesh despite the room's warmth. Next came a wool vest embroidered with the Ashworth crest, its golden threads seeming to writhe as they caught the light. The leather jerkin that followed carried subtle enchantments that made his skin crawl, protective magic that felt more like chains than shields.

“Arms up, my lord,” murmured the head servant, a gray-haired man named Renwick who had dressed Silas since childhood. The final jacket slid over his shoulders, its fabric whispering secrets against his skin, old magic woven into every thread. The weight of tradition pressed down on him, generations of Ashworth hunters who had worn similar garments, participated in similar rituals.

Silas fought the urge to tear it all off and run. The hunting attire felt like armor for a battle he didn't want to fight, each button and buckle another link in the chains binding him to his father's will.

His reflection stared back at him, a stranger wearing his face. The young noble in the mirror looked every inch the dutiful son, the perfect heir. But beneath the facade, rebellion simmered. His fingers found the crystal hidden beneath his clothes, sending what reassurance he could to Thorne. The response came weak but steady, a pulse of warmth that made his heart ache.I'm here, it seemed to say.Hold on.

“The boots, my lord?” Another servant knelt at his feet, holding up polished leather boots with silver buckles.

“I can manage those myself,” Silas said, perhaps too sharply. The servant retreated with a bow, exchanging a worried glance with Renwick.

As he laced the boots, snippets of conversation drifted from the hallway. Two maids whispered just outside the door, their voices carrying in the morning quiet.

“Never seen so many components gathered at once,” one said, her voice trembling slightly. “The cellars are full of strange things. Jars with... with things floating in them.”

“And those old texts they're consulting?” the other replied. “My grandmother used to tell stories about those. Said they were sealed away for good reason.”

“Best not to ask questions,” the first maid cautioned. “Lord Thomas has been in a mood. Had three scribes whipped yesterday for questioning the preparations.”

Silas strained to hear more, his fingers stilling on the laces. Components? Ancient texts? The pieces formed a disturbing picture in his mind. His father wasn't just planning to harness guardian magic. He wanted to fundamentally alter the relationship between humans and magical beings, to rewrite the very laws that governed their world.

The servants finished their work and departed with low bows, leaving Silas alone with his reflection. He studied the ornate clothing, noting how each piece carried subtle magical enhancements. The jacket's collar bore protective runes against forest magic. The vest's embroidery contained binding spells. Even the boots had been treated with compounds designed to mask human scent from magical creatures.

This wasn't hunting attire. It was battle gear.

The door opened again, and Lady Evangeline swept in. She dismissed the lingering servants with an imperious gesture, waiting until their footsteps faded before approaching her grandson. She moved with purpose despite her age, though Silas noticed the slight tremor in her hands as she gripped his arm.

“You look well,” she said loudly, then dropped her voice to barely a whisper. “For when the choice becomes impossible.” She pressed a small vial into his palm. The liquid inside shimmered like captured starlight, seeming to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

“Grandmother, what is this?”

“Listen carefully.” Her eyes darted to the door, checking for eavesdroppers. “Nathaniel Ashworth isn't just an exiled heir. He's been working against the corruption of our bloodline for years. He knows truths about our family that could change everything.”

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