Page 49 of Shattered Crown

“Don't speak of falling,” Thorne snapped, then immediately regretted his tone. “Forgive me. I...”

“You fear losing me.” Her remaining branches stirred in what might have been a gesture of comfort. “As you fear losing him.”

Thorne couldn't deny it. The Elder Willow had guided him for centuries, her wisdom a constant in his long existence. The thought of continuing without her seemed impossible.

“You must prepare,” she continued. “For succession. For what comes after.”

“There is no after. You will recover.”

“Sweet guardian.” Her laugh turned into a wet cough that shook her entire frame. “Even ancient things must end. Better to prepare than to be caught unaware.”

Before Thorne could argue further, the perimeter wards flared with warning. Another attack. He dissolved into shadow, racing toward the disturbance, leaving the conversation unfinished.

The southern border erupted in chaos as corrupted bears, their eyes glowing sickly green, charged through the underbrush. Behind them came human soldiers bearing the mark of Sebastian's forces. Thorne materialized between them and the fleeing forest spirits, his form expanding into something terrible and beautiful.

“You shall not pass,” he thundered, his voice carrying the weight of centuries.

The soldiers faltered, but their mage commanders drove them forward with whips of lightning. Thorne met their assault with primal fury, calling thorned vines from the earth to entangle them, summoning wind to scatter their formations. But for every enemy he struck down, two more appeared.

A binding spell caught him off guard, wrapping around his essence like chains of ice. Thorne roared in pain and rage, shattering the magic through sheer force of will. The effort left him momentarily vulnerable, and a silver-tipped arrow found its mark, piercing what passed for his shoulder.

He retreated, reforming deeper in the forest where the trees were older and stronger. The wound burned, silver reacting badly with his magical nature. As he pulled the arrow free, he heard distant horns. Reinforcements, but not Sebastian's.

Forest spirits emerged from the shadows, led by a stag whose antlers sparked with lightning. Behind them came dryads from the Western Groves, their bark armor gleaming with protective runes.

“The ancient pacts call us,” the stag declared, bowing his magnificent head. “The Eldergrove does not stand alone.”

Relief warred with wariness in Thorne's heart. Aid was desperately needed, but nothing came without cost in the world of spirits and magic.

“What price for your assistance?” he asked.

“No price,” the stag replied. “Only remembrance. When this war ends, remember who stood with you.”

More spirits arrived throughout the day. River nymphs from the Crystal Falls, bringing healing waters. Mountain trolls from the Northern Peaks, their stone clubs ready for battle. Each group had its own customs, its own way of fighting. Coordinating them all stretched Thorne's diplomatic abilities to their limits.

He found himself desperately missing Silas's talent for negotiation. His lover could have smoothed ruffled feathers, found common ground between disparate factions. Instead, Thorne struggled to keep ancient rivals from turning on each other even as they faced a common enemy.

Night fell, bringing a temporary lull in the fighting. Thorne used the respite to tend to the wounded and reinforce failing wards. As he worked, exhaustion dragging at his essence, a familiar presence slithered into his consciousness.

The shadow entity manifested as a dark mirror of himself, its form a twisted parody of guardian power.

“Still fighting the inevitable?”it purred. “Your forest burns, your Elder fades, and your precious human plays at politics while you suffer.”

“Leave me,” Thorne growled, not pausing in his work.

“I offer salvation.”The entity circled him like smoke.“Break your bond with the Ashworth heir. Free yourself from human weakness. I will spare the Eldergrove, let you rule as guardians were meant to rule.”

“Your lies are as poisonous as your magic.”

“Are they?”The entity's form shifted, showing images of Silas in the royal court, dressed in finery, surrounded by fawning nobles.“See how easily he returns to his true nature. Power calls to power. He will choose the throne over trees, authority over love.”

“You know nothing of love,” Thorne spat, but the images stirred doubt in his heart. How many times had he seen similar scenes play out? Humans always chose power in the end.

“Don't I?”The entity's laugh was like breaking glass.“I was born from love betrayed. I know its every weakness, every failure. As you will learn, guardian. As you will learn.”

It faded away, leaving Thorne alone with his doubts and the taste of ash in his mouth.

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