Page 21 of Eternal Thorns

8

ECHOES OF TRUST

The ancient oak embraced Thorne's shadow form as naturally as it held its own leaves, centuries of partnership making them nearly one entity. From this vantage point, he had a perfect view of Thornhaven's front gate and the figure now approaching it with determined steps.

“Right on time, Agnes,” he muttered, watching the witch's steady progress. Her arrival was inevitable as she'd played bridge-keeper between the realms since before his hair turned silver. But something about her purposeful stride set his teeth on edge.

Through the enhanced sight that came with his guardian powers, he watched magical currents shift around her. Her basket radiated traces of forest magic, herbs and roots still singing with power borrowed from his realm. But it was the reaction of Silas's key that made his form waver between shadow and light.

The moment Agnes crossed the property line, the key's power flared visible to his magical sight. Golden light spiraled through the air in patterns he hadn't seen in centuries.

His control slipped. The oak's branches creaked in protest as his form flickered, shadows bleeding into substance and back again. He forced himself still, but the damage was done. The ancient tree's wood had absorbed his distress, and now its own magic hummed with discordant notes.

Inside the manor, Agnes was unpacking her basket. Thorne didn't need to be closer to know what she'd brought. As if anything could soothe the storm that raged beneath his carefully maintained control.

But it was Silas's reaction to the witch's offerings that truly threatened Thorne's composure. Silas handled each item with unconscious grace, an innate understanding of their power that was painfully familiar. The way his fingers traced the silver bindings, how he inhaled the herbs' essence with quiet appreciation.

Every gesture echoed movements Thorne had watched another Ashworth make in what felt like another lifetime.

The oak's branches groaned again as Thorne's form destabilized. Past and present began to blur, memories rising like flood waters. Teaching Marcus which herbs held power, watching his face light up when he first managed to blend human craft with forest magic. The way he'd handled every magical thing with that same gentle reverence, that same quiet joy of discovery.

“Stop,” Thorne commanded himself, but his power was already responding to the memories. Frost crept along the oak's bark despite the morning warmth. Nearby saplings bent away from his turmoil, their young magic recoiling from the chaos in his ancient spirit.

Through it all, Agnes continued her careful instruction. Thorne could practically hear her measured words, the same lessons she'd helped teach generations of magic-touched humans. But her body language told a different story. The wayshe watched Silas handle the herbs, her satisfied nod when the plants leaned toward him of their own accord.

“He's nothing like Marcus,” Thorne insisted to the watching trees. But even the forest seemed to doubt him, its magic stirring with recognition whenever the key's power pulsed.

The oak, tired of his emotional turbulence, finally had enough. A branch shifted deliberately, nearly dislodging him from his perch. The message was clear: get your shit together or find another tree to torment.

“Traitor,” Thorne muttered, but the rebuke helped him focus. He forced his form to stabilize, though the effort cost him more than he wanted to admit. The burns from the key's light still marked his spectral flesh, a constant reminder that some powers didn't care about centuries of carefully cultivated bitterness.

Inside the manor, Agnes was sharing her infamous tea with the young men. Thorne remembered its taste - sharp and sweet and ancient, like drinking liquid starlight. He remembered sharing cups of it with Marcus in this very garden, planning their grand experiment in blending magics. Remembered how the steam had risen in patterns just like the ones forming now above Silas's cup.

The oak creaked a warning before his control could slip again.

Right. Focus.

He was here to observe, to assess potential threats. Not to lose himself in memories of shared tea and broken promises.

But as he watched Silas's hands cup the warm mug, saw how the key's power harmonized with the forest-touched herbs, a treacherous thought slipped through his defenses: What if Agnes was right? What if some magics really were older than vengeance, some bonds deeper than betrayal?

The question burned worse than the key's light had. Thorne retreated deeper into shadow, letting the oak's ancient strengthsteady him. He had a forest to protect, barriers to maintain, darker powers to watch for. He couldn't afford to wonder about might-have-beens or what-ifs.

Even if every gesture Silas made struck chords in magic older than his guardianship, older than his grief.

Even if the forest itself seemed to hold its breath, watching and remembering and hoping.

The oak's branches swayed in a nonexistent wind, and Thorne could have sworn the ancient tree was laughing at him.

Unable to trust his own direct observation, Thorne extended his awareness through his forest network. A sparrow perched in the kitchen window gave him a clear view of the scene. Mice in the walls carried whispers of conversation. Even the ivy creeping up the manor's stones served as his eyes and ears, its leaves trembling with each revelation Agnes shared.

“Your family wasn't meant to rule the forest or fight it - you were meant to bridge the gap between human and fey realms.”

Each word felt like a thorn in his spectral flesh. Centuries of careful burial, of histories deliberately forgotten, undone by an old witch's loose tongue. His anger flared hot enough to wither a patch of wildflowers near his perch, their petals blackening and curling inward.

But it was Agnes' mention of the other journals that truly shattered his control. Power leaked from him like sap from a wounded tree, causing nearby shadows to writhe. Those books were meant to stay hidden, sealed away with all the other remnants of that doomed experiment in trust.

He'd personally concealed them in the forest's deepest reaches, protected by wards that should have lasted millennia.

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