Page 75 of Shattered Crown

Briar landed on Thorne's other shoulder, unusually subdued. “The trees cry,” they whispered. “Elder Willow's light dims. Without her...”

They didn't need to finish. Without Elder Willow, the forest's ancient defenses would crumble. Sebastian would have free reign to corrupt everything Thorne had sworn to protect.

“Tonight,” Thorne decided.

Silas nodded, but his hand found Thorne's, fingers intertwining. Neither spoke of how wrong separation felt after everything they'd survived together.

The capital's spires appeared on the horizon as afternoon shadows lengthened. Crowds gathered along the main road, news of their approach spreading like wildfire. Some cheered, others watched with hostile silence. Thorne noted how rumors had fractured public opinion. Hero or harbinger, savior or threat, the stories multiplied with each retelling.

Diana met them at the palace gates, relief naked on her usually composed features. “Thank the gods,” she breathed, embracing Silas with surprising force. “When we heard about the battle...”

“We survived,” Silas assured her. “Though not unchanged.”

Her gaze swept their group, lingering on Thorne before settling on Nathaniel. “Him,” she whispered. “After all these years.”

“You know me?” Nathaniel asked.

“I was a child when you were exiled,” Diana replied. “But stories persist. Your return will cause quite a stir.”

“Good,” Nathaniel managed a grim smile. “Time to shake things up.”

Guards ushered them through increasingly ornate corridors. Thorne felt magic layered into the very stones, ancient protections mingling with newer wards. Some reacted to his presence, testing and probing before accepting his passage.

In private chambers, Diana's formality dropped. “Your father woke three days ago,” she reported. “Coherent but... changed. He speaks little of what happened during his coma.”

“His position on magical integration?” Silas asked.

“Unclear. He's met with various factions but commits to nothing. The court fractures further each day.”

“And the shadows?” Thorne interjected. “Have they reached here?”

Diana's expression darkened. “Small incidents. Servants reporting strange dreams. Minor artifacts behaving erratically. Nothing overt, but the pattern suggests infiltration.”

“Sebastian tests our defenses,” Thorne concluded. “Probing for weakness before striking in force.”

They spent the next hour implementing additional protections. Thorne wove guardian magic through existing wards while Diana coordinated with palace security. Kai and Briar added their own touches, creating a layered defense that might buy time when assault came.

Silas watched as Thorne moved methodically along the palace's ancient walls, his transformed hands tracing patterns that glowed briefly before sinking into the stone. The guardian's movements were precise but strained, his newly recovered strength clearly being pushed to its limits.

“Are you sure you're strong enough for this?” Silas asked, concern evident in his voice. “You've barely recovered from what happened.”

Thorne paused, his cosmic eyes meeting Silas's. “I have to be,” he replied simply. “These existing wards were designed to keep guardians out, not to protect against what's coming. They need to be... repurposed.”

As Thorne worked, the stones beneath his touch seemed to awaken. Patterns that had lain dormant for centuries—guardian runes hidden beneath layers of mortar and royal insignia—began to glow with renewed purpose. The castle walls themselves appeared to exhale, as if remembering a connection long forgotten.

They spent the next hour implementing additional protections. Thorne wove guardian magic through existing wards while Diana coordinated with palace security. Kai and Briar added their own touches, creating a layered defense that might buy time when assault came.

As evening fell, servants prepared chambers for their group. Thorne found himself alone with Silas for the first time since leaving the forest. The weight of impending separation pressed between them.

The night air curled in through the half-cracked window, laced with the wild scent of distant pine and blooming starvine. Thorne stood beside the bed, his fingers laced with Silas’s, heart thrumming with the ache of what he was about to leave behind. The pull of the Eldergrove whispered at the edges of his magic, a quiet urgency laced with worry. Elder Willow was weakening. He could feel it, even now—a thinning of her song in the symphony of the forest.

But Silas’s eyes were on him.

“Stay,” the young man whispered, voice low and raw with feeling. He reached up, fingertips brushing Thorne’s cheek like they were memorizing the slope of it.

Thorne didn’t answer with words. Instead, he closed the small distance between them and crushed their mouths together, swallowing whatever breath remained between them. Silas tasted like the summer rain that clung to the leaves outside. Like sweetness. Like safety. Like home.

They fell into each other without grace, their bodies a tangle of limbs and need. Thorne’s hands roamed Silas’s skin, relearning it like a sacred text—freckles and scars and every shiver his touch inspired. He pressed kisses along the curve of Silas’s jaw, down his throat, then lower still, mouth reverent as he worshipped the body beneath him.

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