Page 79 of Shattered Crown

“Stop fidgeting,” Diana said from her post by the door. “You look fine.”

“I look like I'm playing dress-up,” Silas muttered, but forced his hands to his sides.

Nathaniel watched from an armchair, sharp-eyed and composed. “The clothing makes a statement. You blend noble tradition with guardian elements. See how the embroidery mimics forest patterns? Subtle but significant.”

Silas glanced down at the delicate silver threading along his cuffs. What he'd dismissed as decoration actually formed protective runes, nearly invisible unless you knew to look. Trust Diana to think of everything.

“Your father will notice,” Nathaniel continued. “He notices everything.”

“That's what worries me.” Silas touched the hidden pocket where Thorne's crystal rested against his heart.

Diana checked the hallway clock. “It's time.”

The walk to his father's chambers stretched endlessly. Servants paused in their duties to watch him pass, whispers following like autumn leaves. Some faces showed recognition and hope, others suspicion or fear. The boy who'd been exiled had returned changed, trailing rumors of magic and rebellion.

Memories ambushed him at every turn. That alcove where he'd hidden from tutors. The window seat where his mother read him stories before she died. The precise spot where his father had informed him of his banishment to Thornhaven, voice cold as winter stone.

Two guards flanked the king's door, their expressions carefully neutral. They'd watched Silas grow up, had probably placed bets on how long this meeting would last.

“His Majesty awaits,” the senior guard announced formally, though his eyes held a flicker of warmth.

The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. Silas stepped through alone, leaving Diana and his past in the corridor.

King Thomas sat upright in a high-backed chair near the windows, morning light illuminating the silver in his hair. Not the bed-ridden invalid Silas had imagined, but a man fighting to reclaim his strength. Bandages peeked from beneath his formal robes, the only visible sign of his ordeal.

“You've changed.” His father's voice carried the same frost Silas remembered.

“So have you.” The words escaped before Silas could stop them.

Thomas's expression hardened. “Superficial wounds. Nothing more.”

They studied each other across a gulf of months and misunderstandings. Thomas gestured to a chair positioned precisely five feet from his own—distance maintained, boundaries established.

As Silas sat, the door opened again. Lady Evangeline swept in, her presence filling the room like expensive perfume. She'd aged gracefully, silver hair arranged in elaborate braids, but her eyes remained sharp as ever.

“At last,” she said, positioning herself between them with practiced ease. “The king and his heir in the same room.”

The term 'heir' hung awkwardly in the air. Silas hadn't felt like anyone's heir since the day he'd been sent away.

“Grandmother,” he acknowledged, accepting her brief embrace.

“You look changed,” she said, studying him. “The forest has marked you.”

Thomas shifted in his chair. “Let's not pretend this is a social call.”

“No,” Silas agreed. “Let's not.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken accusations. Silas had rehearsed this moment countless times, but now the words stuck in his throat. How did you ask your father about decades of lies?

“How long have you known?” The question finally burst free. “About the Eldergrove's magic? About our family's connection to the guardians?”

Thomas's expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the chair arm. “Since before you were born.”

Silas gripped the chair arms, knuckles white.

“The crown has always known,” Thomas continued, voice dispassionate as if discussing trade policy. “Each ruler passes the knowledge to their heir, along with the burden of deciding what to do with it.”

“And you decided to persecute them. To deny magic existed while hunting those who wielded it.”

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