Page 51 of Shattered Crown

“Please,” he begged, pouring every ounce of love and longing into the word.

Something shifted in Silas's eyes. Recognition dawned, followed by desperate joy. “Thorne!”

The dream space transformed as their connection reasserted itself. The marble halls melted away, replaced by their familiar grove. Silas threw himself into Thorne's arms, solid and warm and real in the way only dreams could make possible.

“I thought you'd abandoned me,” Silas gasped between kisses. “The bond went so quiet. I couldn't feel you.”

“I'm sorry,” Thorne murmured, holding him close. “I thought I was protecting you.”

“From what?”

“From this.” Thorne shared flashes of memory: burning groves, dying spirits, impossible choices. “I didn't want you to carry this pain.”

Silas pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “That's not your choice to make. We're supposed to face these things together.”

“I know. I see that now.” Thorne pressed their foreheads together. “I've been repeating old mistakes, letting fear drive us apart.”

They clung to each other in the dream space, sharing everything they'd held back. The political machinations of the court, the constant battles in the forest, their doubts and fears and desperate hopes. The honesty was painful but cleansing, like lancing a festering wound.

“I miss you,” Silas whispered. “Every moment, every breath.”

“As do I.” Thorne kissed him softly. “We'll find our way back to each other. I swear it.”

The dream began to fade. They held on until the last possible moment, promising to maintain contact despite the cost. As consciousness pulled them apart, Thorne heard Silas's final words: “I love you. No matter what comes.”

Thorne woke to find tears on his face and renewed strength in his heart. The brief connection had restored something vital, reminding him what he fought for.

* * *

The morning brought terrible news.Sebastian's forces had arrived in earnest, not just soldiers but mages wielding binding spells designed specifically to capture spirits. Thorne recognized some of the techniques from ancient texts, forbidden magic that could tear spirits from their natural anchors.

“They mean to enslave us,” he realized with horror.

The evacuation of non-combatants became urgent. Thorne ordered all spirits unable or unwilling to fight to retreat to the deepest groves, places so old and wild that human magic couldn't reach them.

Many refused.

“This is our home,” a dryad insisted, her arms wrapped around her tree. “We won't abandon it.”

“You must,” Thorne pleaded. “What they plan is worse than death.”

In the end, he had to command them, using his authority as guardian to compel obedience. Each forced departure felt like tearing out pieces of his own heart. Briar surprised everyone by taking charge of the exodus, her usual playfulness replaced by grim determination.

“I'll keep them safe,” she promised. “You just keep the forest standing until we can return.”

The first wave of the attack came at midday. Human soldiers tested the defenses, probing for weaknesses. Thorne let them advance, conserving his strength for what he knew was coming. When the binding mages appeared, their robes marked with symbols that hurt to look at, he was ready with countermeasures learned from ancient battles.

But their power exceeded his worst fears. Shadow magic augmented their spells, making them exponentially stronger. The first binding net nearly caught him, only a desperate twist saving him from capture.

The battle became a nightmare of burning trees and screaming spirits. Thorne fought on multiple fronts, his form shifting constantly between warrior and healer. He saved what he could, but watched helplessly as binding spells trapped lesser spirits, turning them into unwilling weapons against their own kind.

A forest nymph he'd known for centuries attacked him with dead eyes, her water magic corrupted into acid. Thorne recognized her immediately—Silvial, who had once sung healing songs to wounded saplings and woven rainbows in the morning mist. Now her translucent skin had turned murky, her hair dripping with black ichor instead of crystal water.

She lunged without hesitation, fingers extended like claws. Where her touch landed, bark hissed and bubbled. Thorne caught her wrists, feeling the wrongness of her magic—what should have been life-giving moisture now burned like venom.

“Silvial,” he called to her, desperate. “Remember yourself. Remember the songs we shared during the spring floods.”

Her response was a shriek that could never have come from her true voice. The binding had consumed too much of her, leaving only a marionette wearing her face.

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