Page 34 of Shattered Crown

“Is it?” His father's voice remained pleasant, but steel lurked beneath the conversational tone. “I've heard interesting reports about your time at Thornhaven. Unusual activities. Strange company. Meetings in the forest at odd hours.”

Silas's heart hammered against his ribs, but he kept his voice steady through years of courtly training. “The estate required attention. I've been fulfilling my duties as you commanded.”

“Duties.” The king laughed, the sound carrying no warmth. “Is that what you call your dalliance with the forest spirit?”

Silas fought to keep his expression neutral while rage built inside him like a gathering storm. His father spoke of Thorne like he was discussing a passing fancy, a phase to be outgrown, a childish indulgence to be set aside for adult responsibilities.

“I don't know what you've heard?—”

“I know everything, Silas.” The mask of paternal concern slipped entirely, revealing cold calculation beneath. “Did you think I sent you to that border without keeping watch? Every meeting, every touch, every whispered word in the dark. My spies have been thorough.”

Bile rose in Silas's throat. The violation of it, the casual cruelty of reducing something sacred to gossip and surveillance reports. He thought of intimate moments shared with Thorne, of confessions whispered in moonlight, of tender touches meant for no one else's eyes. All of it observed, cataloged, reported back to his father like common intelligence.

“The guardians are not our enemies,” Silas said carefully, fighting to keep his voice level. “The old pacts?—”

“The old pacts were made by weak men afraid of power they didn't understand.” The king's voice hardened. “We've moved beyond such primitive fears. Today's hunt will demonstrate exactly how far we've come.”

The hunting party slowed as the dogs converged on something ahead. Their baying took on an otherworldly quality, echoing strangely between the twisted trees. Nobles craned their necks, eager for first sight of the prey. Through a gap in the gnarled branches, Silas glimpsed their quarry—a magnificent stag with antlers that caught the light like polished bronze.

But as the creature turned, meeting his gaze directly, recognition shot through Silas like lightning. The intelligence in those eyes, the way shadows clung to its form despite the morning sun, the subtle wrongness of its proportions—this was no ordinary deer. A forest spirit had taken stag form, either trapped or lured into this twisted hunt.

“Magnificent, isn't it?” his father said, pride evident in his voice. “We've been tracking this one for months. The amount of power contained in such a creature...” He let the sentence hang, its implications clear.

Around them, nobles murmured appreciation, some already placing wagers on who would take the killing shot. Silas noticed how several courtiers wore new amulets that pulsed with sickly light, how their eyes gleamed with unnatural hunger. The corruption ran deeper than he'd imagined.

“Your shot, son,” King Thomas declared, gesturing forward with theatrical grandeur. “Show us that famous Ashworth aim. Prove yourself worthy of your bloodline.”

The crossbow thrust into Silas's hands felt impossibly heavy. Its wood had been carved with binding runes, the bowstring woven with silver thread and human hair. This weapon was designed not just to kill, but to capture and contain magical essence.

The stag stood proud despite its fear, flanked by snarling hounds that kept their distance as if held back by invisible walls. Its eyes met Silas's with ancient knowing, conveying understanding of its fate and forgiveness for what it believed he must do. In that gaze, Silas saw centuries of wisdom, of guardianship, of magic that had existed long before humans walked these lands.

The nobles pressed closer, their anticipation palpable. Silas felt the weight of expectation, of tradition, of his father's will bearing down on him. This was more than a hunt—it was a test of loyalty, a ritual binding, a declaration of allegiance to his father's cause.

He raised the crossbow, sighting down its length. The stag didn't move, accepting its fate with dignity that made Silas's heart ache. Through his bond with Thorne, he felt a surge of anguish and rage. The guardian recognized this spirit, knew its true name, mourned what was about to happen.

Time seemed to slow. Silas saw two paths before him: submit to his father's will and secure his place in the new order, or choose defiance and face the consequences. There was no middle ground, no compromise possible.

He made his choice.

The crossbow shifted minutely, and Silas fired. The bolt flew wide, thudding harmlessly into a tree trunk twenty feet from the stag. The spirit bounded away, melting into the shadows between heartbeats.

“Poor luck,” Silas said with forced lightness, lowering the weapon. “Perhaps I need more practice.”

Silence fell over the clearing, heavy with disbelief and growing tension. His father's expression darkened like storm clouds gathering. With a subtle gesture that Silas almost missed, guards began moving into position around him.

“Enough games,” King Thomas said, his voice cold enough to frost the air. “Did you think I brought you here for sport?”

The pretense shattered like glass. Guards seized Silas's arms before he could react, their grips iron-hard. Someone wrenched the crossbow from his hands while others forced him from his horse. He hit the ground hard, tasting dirt and blood where he'd bitten his tongue.

“Father, what?—”

“Silence.” The king dismounted with deliberate slowness, each movement calculated for maximum intimidation. “Did you really think that shot was accidental? That I don't know my own son's skill with a crossbow?”

As guards hauled him to his feet, Silas's vision cleared enough to see the truth of their surroundings. What he'd taken for natural clearings were ritual spaces cleared by magic. Standing stones rose from the earth, their surfaces crawling with runes that hurt to look at directly. Iron cages hung from ancient trees, each containing a captured magical creature—sprites, will-o'-wisps, creatures he couldn't name.

“The hunt was never about deer or boar,” his father continued, approaching with measured steps. “These creatures, their deaths, will power the binding ceremony. And your participation, willing or not, would have sealed you to our cause.”

Horror washed over Silas as pieces clicked into place. The elaborate preparations, the gathered components, the ancient texts—his father had planned to use him as a living conduit. The hunt was a ritual, designed to blood-bind him to a ceremony that would enslave magical beings to human will.

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