Page 65 of Shattered Crown

Silence wrapped itself around the tent, heavy and suffocating.

Silas felt Thorne’s turmoil. Fear, love, acceptance — all colliding in a storm of emotions he could barely contain. They had always known this journey would demand everything. Now the shape of that price stood clear before them.

“I will do it,” Silas said, the words falling into the hush like stones into deep water.

Before anyone else could speak, he straightened, meeting each pair of stunned eyes in turn.

“This is why I was born,” Silas continued. “This is why the bond chose me. No one else can carry this. It has to be me.”

“Silas, no,” Kai said sharply, his face pale. Thorne's protest came almost simultaneously, a broken whisper. Even Briar cried out in alarm, her wings buzzing in distress.

Silas raised a hand, stopping them.

“Who else?” he asked quietly. “I am already bridging realms through my bond with Thorne. I am the heir to the Ashworth legacy. Every choice, every step, has led to this. We have no other.”

Eventually, acceptance settled over the group like a funeral shroud. They spent the remaining hours in preparation, gathering supplies, fortifying the camp, and speaking the words that had long remained unspoken.

Under the cold stars, Silas sat beside Thorne, their hands entwined, feeling every heartbeat as if it might be the last. Tomorrow would either break them or forge something new from the ashes.

15

THE VALLEY OF FIRST PROMISES

The Valley of First Promises hadn't changed in centuries. Thorne's foot touched ground he hadn't walked since Marcus's betrayal, and the land recognized him instantly. Ancient magic stirred beneath the soil, sending tremors through his essence that felt like welcome and warning combined.

Silas squeezed his hand. “You okay?”

“The valley remembers,” Thorne replied, his voice rough with emotion. Memories crashed over him like waves: ceremonies performed under starlight, oaths sworn with Marcus beside this very stone, promises that had turned to ash and shadow. But now he faced these ghosts with Silas's warmth anchoring him to the present.

Around them, their army spread across the valley's approaches. Frost fey took positions on the northern ridge while forest spirits melded with the tree line. Human soldiers and rebel mages formed defensive lines, their diversity still amazing to behold. The air crackled with tension and gathering power.

“We need to prepare the ritual space,” Nathaniel called out. “Every stone must be cleansed, every symbol redrawn exactly as it was at the First Pact.”

Thorne nodded, grateful for the distraction, even if it couldn't quiet the weight pressing on his chest. He released Silas’s hand slowly, fingers brushing in reluctant parting. There was still time. There had to be.

The valley’s heart cradled the ritual circle. Thirteen standing stones rose from the earth, arranged in perfect symmetry. Moss veiled the outer rings, and wildflowers bloomed where no roots should have taken hold. The stones were carved with ancient sigils that shimmered and shifted when looked at directly. Their meanings slipped through thought like dream fragments. Magic, alive and watching.

Thorne approached the first stone and laid his palms flat against its surface. The stone was cool, its magic sluggish and resistant, as though wounded. With care, he called to it, coaxing the pulse of the land to rise. Slowly, the earth stirred. Black ichor seeped from invisible fractures, hissing as it met the soil.

A voice spoke softly from behind him.

“Thorne.”

Not a guardian. Not one of his kin.

Thorne turned.

A tall figure emerged from behind a standing stone, draped in robes of bark and lichen. His presence smelled of deep earth and storm-wet leaves. Silver hair fell to his shoulders like birch bark in autumn, and his eyes glowed with green fire. Not light, but something older. Forest flame.

Thorne froze.

“...Elandor?” he said, barely more than a breath.

The figure inclined his head. “You remember.”

“I thought you were gone,” Thorne said. His voice cracked. “When the Hollow fell. When the last rootline collapsed. I felt your absence like a torn thread.”

“I burned,” Elandor replied. “But I did not die. I went to ground. Deeper than shadow. I waited for the land to remember itself.”

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