Page 87 of Shattered Crown

“I sent you away believing I was protecting you,” he finally said. “From burdens I didn't want you to carry. From powers I didn't understand.” He looked at Silas directly. “I was wrong in method, if not in intention.”

The admission, limited as it was, represented more vulnerability than Thomas had shown in years.

“Mother would say that good intentions pave difficult roads,” Silas replied, offering neither forgiveness nor continued accusation. “But she'd also say that paths can be rebuilt.”

Thomas nodded slowly. “One stone at a time.”

They sat together as night deepened around them, not fully reconciled but perhaps beginning to build something new from the rubble of the past. When Thomas spoke again, his voice carried uncharacteristic uncertainty.

“Tell me about the grove,” he requested. “Not the tactical information. Tell me what it feels like.”

The question surprised Silas. “It feels... alive. Conscious. Like stepping into a vast conversation that's been ongoing for millennia. The trees remember everything—every season, every passing life, every oath made or broken beneath their branches.”

“And your guardian? What drew you to him beyond tactical advantage?”

Silas considered carefully. “His complexity. He's ancient yet timeless. Fierce in his protection of the forest, but capable of incredible gentleness. He carries centuries of pain yet still chooses hope.” He met his father's gaze. “He reminds me of Mother in that way.”

Something shifted in Thomas's expression—a flicker of recognition, perhaps even understanding. “Elena would have liked him, I think. She always saw beyond surfaces to the truth of things.”

“She would have expected you to try as well,” Silas said quietly. “To see beyond your fear.”

“Fear has been my constant companion since I lost her,” Thomas admitted. “Fear of failing. Of losing what remains.”

“Including me?”

“Especially you.”

The simple confession hung between them, neither fully healing their wounds nor erasing them. A beginning, not an end.

As the first rays of sunlight touched the garden, Thomas stood. “We should return. Preparations continue.”

“Thank you,” Silas said. “For sharing this place with me again.”

“It was hers before it was mine,” Thomas replied. “Perhaps it can be yours now, when you need a moment's peace.”

The offering wasn't reconciliation, not completely, but it represented a doorway left purposefully open. As they walked back toward the palace, Silas felt cautious hope kindle in his chest. Not just for survival against Sebastian, but for something he'd stopped believing possible—a foundation for genuine understanding with his father.

The coordination between realms had begun with pragmatic necessity. Perhaps, with time and care, it might grow into something more meaningful. As he prepared for the day's duties, Silas carried his mother's wisdom like a torch: Change begins in moments of connection, in gardens and conversations, in the space between hearts learning to trust again. From such seeds, new futures grow.

20

THE WITHERING

The forest screamed.

Thorne felt each cry like knives in his soul as he raced through territory that should have been familiar. Ancient oaks twisted into grotesque shapes, their bark splitting to reveal writhing shadows beneath. Paths that had existed for centuries vanished, replaced by thorny mazes that tore at his flesh despite his guardian nature.

A corrupted dryad lunged from what had once been a sacred spring, her beautiful features now a mask of rage and pain. Black ichor dripped from her fingers as she clawed at Thorne's face. He caught her wrists, channeling purifying energy through their connection, but the corruption fought back with vicious intelligence.

“Sister,” he whispered, pouring more power into the cleansing. “Remember yourself.”

For a moment, recognition flickered in her eyes. Then the darkness surged, and she dissolved into shadow, leaving only an echo of anguish in the air.

Thorne pressed on, his heart heavy with each loss. He felt concern and encouragement. His partner had grown stronger in their time apart, finding new reserves of strength as he navigated palace politics and family reconciliation.

The central glade appeared suddenly, as if the forest had finally recognized his urgency. Thorne stumbled into the clearing and froze, his breath catching at the sight before him.

Elder Willow stood in the center, but barely. Her ethereal form flickered like candlelight in a storm, transparency revealing the ancient tree that housed her essence. Once silver bark now showed spreading veins of black corruption, and her branches drooped with unnatural weight.

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