Page 8 of Eternal Thorns

The situation warranted cruder language than the formal tongues of his people.

A flash of movement caught his eye - a small figure darting between trees at the grove's edge. “Come out, Briar. I know you're there.”

His apprentice materialized from a shaft of fading sunlight, looking appropriately sheepish. The young sprite's freckles glowed brighter when nervous, currently making her face shine like a constellation.

“The Elder Willow requests your presence,” Briar said, trying to sound formal despite her obvious excitement. “She's calling a council.”

Of course she was. The old crone probably had some cryptic prophecy about this exactly. She always did.

“Tell her I'll come when I'm finished here.”

“She said you'd say that.” Briar grinned. “She also said to remind you how well ignoring her warnings worked out last time.”

Thorne's markings flared with irritation, causing several crows to flutter away in alarm. The sprite had a point, though. The Elder Willow had earned her authority through centuries of being right at exactly the moments he wanted her to be wrong.

“Fine.” He stepped down from his throne, the ancient oak's branches curling back to their normal position. “But this had better not be another prophecy about time being a river or fate being a weaver or whatever metaphor she's favoring this century.”

The council grove lay deeper in the forest's heart, where the oldest trees had witnessed the first treaties between human and fey. Now those same trees watched as the realm's most ancient spirits gathered, their forms flickering between human appearance and their true natural shapes as they arrived.

The Elder Willow already occupied her place at the grove's center. Today she wore her favorite manifestation - an elderly woman with skin like pale bark and hair that moved like weeping willow branches in a breeze. Her eyes, when they settled on Thorne, held all the weight of her centuries.

“So,” she said, her voice rustling like autumn leaves, “an Ashworth returns.”

The name sent a spike of rage through Thorne's magic. Nearby flowers withered and died, their petals turning to ash. “If you summoned me here to speak of prophecies”

“I summoned you here because you need to hear them.” The Elder Willow's roots shifted beneath her, raising her slightly. “The patterns are aligning, Guardian. The chance for healing comes.”

“Healing?” Thorne's laugh held no humor. “The Ashworths destroyed any chance of healing when they broke the oldaccords. When they betrayed everything we built together. When they-” His voice caught on memories he'd rather forget.

“When they broke your heart?” The Elder Willow's voice gentled. “Or when you let that betrayal break your faith?”

More flowers died. A cold wind whipped through the grove, carrying the first bite of winter. The other spirits shifted uneasily, their forms blurring between flesh and nature.

“The man carries the old blood,” the Elder Willow continued. “And something else. A key, forged in the days before the sundering.”

Thorne went very still. “That's not possible. Those keys were destroyed.”

“Were they? Or did some survive, waiting for the right moment? For the right bearer?”

At the grove's edge, Briar cleared her throat. “Um, there's something else. The magical barriers around the manor they're acting weird. Like they're, I don't know, happy? Can wards be happy?”

“No,” Thorne said. “They can't.” But he remembered the ripples he'd felt earlier, the way the ancient spells had seemed to sing in recognition.

“Time spirals like a growing vine,” the Elder Willow said, ignoring Thorne's eye roll at the inevitable metaphor. “What was broken can be mended. What was lost can be found. If we have the courage to try again.”

“And if we don't?” Thorne demanded. “If this Ashworth proves as faithless as his ancestors?”

“Then you will deal with him as Guardian.” The Elder Willow's eyes took on an unsettling glow. “But first, you must watch. Wait. Give time the chance to heal what it once broke.”

The council murmured agreement, and Thorne knew he was overruled. He could feel the forest's magic aligning with the Elder Willow's words, accepting her wisdom over his anger.Even his own markings had dimmed, their light settling into a more contemplative pattern.

“Fine,” he growled. “We watch. We wait. But if he threatens the grove, if he shows any sign of his family's treachery”

“Then he's yours to deal with,” the Elder Willow agreed. “But Thorne? Remember that not all Ashworths are alike. Just as not all guardians are unchanged by time.”

The council dispersed, leaving Thorne alone with his thoughts and the weight of unwanted prophecies. He could sense the newcomer settling into the manor. The ancient wards hummed with recognition, welcoming the man like a long-lost child.

Thorne retreated to his sacred grove. Here, where the forest's power concentrated like morning dew, eternal twilight painted everything in shades of purple and silver. Luminous flowers bloomed year-round, their petals glowing with old magic. It was usually his place of peace. Tonight, it felt like a prison of memories.

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