Page 50 of Shattered Crown

The attacks intensified.As Thorne fought to hold the eastern border, a surge of memory caught him off guard. This grove, these ancient oaks, they had been Marcus's favorite refuge. Here they had shared secrets, planned futures, dreamed of bridging the gap between their peoples.

The parallel to his current situation struck him like a physical blow. The mounting pressure, the impossible choices, the slow erosion of trust. Was he repeating the same pattern? Had his shielding of Silas been the first step down the path that led to Marcus's betrayal?

The realization that he'd been protecting Silas the same way Marcus had once protected him sent ice through his veins. History was repeating itself, and he was playing both parts.

Lost in memory and recrimination, Thorne almost missed the shadow creature lunging for his throat. He dispatched it with a gesture, but the close call shook him. He couldn't afford distraction, not now.

Yet the memories wouldn't leave him alone. As he moved through the forest, every familiar place triggered echoes of the past. The clearing where he and Marcus had first kissed. The stream where they'd planned their grand alliance. The hollow tree where betrayal had shattered everything.

Seeking clarity, Thorne made his way to the heart grove's most ancient section. Here, trees older than human civilization stood sentinel, their roots diving deep into the world's bones. Among them, he found what he sought: carvings left by Guardian Ashara, recording her wisdom from centuries past.

The symbols were faint with age but still legible to one who knew how to read them. Thorne traced the carved lines with trembling fingers as their meaning became clear.

“Breaking the cycle requires trust beyond sight,” he translated aloud. “Love must be chosen daily, not hoarded like treasure. Protection becomes prison when given without consent.”

These were Ashara's teachings on the bond between guardians and humans. Before her fall defending the northern groves, she had tried to share this wisdom with Thorne, warning of the dangers that came with protecting those we love too fiercely.

“You always tried to tell me,” Thorne murmured to the ancient carvings, acknowledging wisdom he'd been too stubborn to hear in earlier times.

“Talking to trees now?” Rowan's gruff voice startled him. His old friend emerged from the shadows, battle-worn but unbowed. “Or just avoiding the conversation we need to have?”

“Not now, Rowan.”

“Yes, now.” Rowan planted himself firmly in Thorne's path. “You're making his choices for him. Just as Marcus did to you.”

The words hit like hammer blows. Thorne wanted to deny them, to rage against the comparison, but he couldn't. The truth was too obvious.

“I'm trying to protect him,” he said weakly.

“By shutting him out? By deciding what he can and cannot handle?” Rowan's expression softened slightly. “I watched you suffer when Marcus did the same. Don't inflict that pain on Silas.”

“The things I've had to do, the choices I've made...” Thorne's voice broke. “How can I burden him with that?”

“Because that's what love is,” Rowan replied. “Sharing burdens, not carrying them alone. You taught me that, centuries ago.”

Before Thorne could respond, another alarm rippled through the forest. More attacks, more fires, more death. He moved to respond, but Rowan caught his arm.

“Fix this,” his friend said firmly. “Before it's too late.”

* * *

That night,as the forest settled into uneasy quiet, Thorne made a decision. The risk was enormous, but he couldn't continue this way. He needed to reach Silas, truly reach him, despite the distance and danger.

Dream walking required delicate magic under the best circumstances. Attempting it while maintaining the forest's defenses bordered on foolhardy. But desperation drove him forward.

He lay down in a protected grove, clutching Silas's hair token, and let his consciousness drift along the silver threads of their bond. The journey was harder than it should have been, the path obscured by his own shields and Silas's mental defenses.

When he finally broke through, he found himself in a mindscape of marble halls and golden chains. Silas stood at the center, wearing royal robes that seemed to weigh him down. Courtiers with blank faces whispered poison in his ears while shadow puppets danced attendance.

“Silas,” Thorne called, his voice echoing strangely in the dream space.

His lover turned, but his eyes were distant, clouded. “Who...?”

The lack of recognition cut deeper than any physical wound. Thorne reached out, trying to touch Silas's face, but his hand passed through like smoke.

“It's me,” he pleaded. “Remember us. Remember what we are to each other.”

Silas flinched away, the courtiers crowding closer, their whispers growing louder. Thorne felt the dream beginning to collapse, his own power insufficient to maintain the connection.

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