Page 9 of Eternal Thorns

He hadn't allowed himself to think about the betrayal in decades. Now the memories rose unbidden, sharp as thorns and twice as poisonous. Marcus Ashworth - the first of them, not this latest lord - standing in this very grove with promises of peace between their peoples. His earnest face, so like his descendant's, swearing oaths that would turn to ash in Thorne's mouth.

The ritual had been Marcus's idea. A way to bind their worlds together, to ensure lasting harmony. Thorne had believed him. Had trusted him. Had loved him, in ways that transcended the simple boundaries between human and fey.

What a fool he'd been.

The grove responded to his pain, darkness bleeding from his skin to stain the air around him. The luminous flowers closed their petals, retreating from his anguish. Temperatureplummeted until frost crackled across leaves that had never known winter.

A young fox spirit, drawn perhaps by his distress, crept to the grove's edge. Its multiple tails swished nervously as it watched him with eyes like burning coals. When Thorne's power flared again, the creature yipped in alarm and vanished into the underbrush.

Centuries of guardianship pressed down on him like steel chains. The weight of grief and duty cracked his carefully maintained human appearance. His form flickered, magic spilling out at the edges. Antlers of twisted shadow grew from his brow. His skin became bark, his blood ran sap, his eyes held galaxies of ancient power. This was his true form - the thing he'd been before taking on the mantle of Guardian, before trying to bridge the gap between worlds. Before Marcus's betrayal had shattered everything.

The fox spirit's fear called him back. These displays helped no one. He forced his power back into its more approachable shape, though his markings still pulsed with barely contained emotion.

He needed to see this new Ashworth for himself. No more reports from crows, no more council debates. He needed to know what manner of threat had arrived at his borders.

Shadow-walking came as naturally as breathing. Thorne let his form dissolve into the forest's darkness, becoming one with the spaces between moonlight and starshine. In this state, he could traverse his entire realm in minutes, slipping from shadow to shadow like water flowing downhill.

The journey showed him changes he hadn't noticed before. Trees that had stood sentinel for centuries now leaned subtly toward the manor, like flowers tracking the sun. The magical currents that flowed through his domain, usually as reliable as river paths, shifted and eddied in new patterns. It was as if theforest itself recognized something in the Ashworth, responding to him on levels too deep for even Thorne to control.

His border guardians paced restlessly at their posts. A trio of dryads writhed in their trees, their bark-skinned forms agitated. Even the usually stoic stone spirits showed signs of disturbance, their crystal veins pulsing with uncertain light.

“My lord,” one of the dryads called as he passed. “The wards”

“I know.”

He could feel it now that he was closer. Not broken, but altered. The old wards, spells he'd personally woven centuries ago to keep humans out and fey in, hummed with recognition. They weren't failing; they were responding, like hounds catching a familiar scent.

It shouldn't be possible. He'd sealed these boundaries with blood and grief after the betrayal, ensuring no Ashworth could ever again breach the forest's defenses. Yet here was proof otherwise - gaps in his perfect barrier, places where old magic stirred at the presence of Ashworth blood.

Thorne slipped closer to the manor, staying within the forest's shadows. Through his connection to the crow scouts perched on the building's gothic spires, he watched the young noble and his companion unload their horses in the courtyard. The man - Silas, his scouts had learned - moved with unconscious grace despite his obvious exhaustion. Something in the way he carried himself, the tilt of his head, the gesture he used to push hair from his eyes.

For a moment, Thorne could almost believe he was seeing a ghost - the same sharp profile, the same storm-gray eyes. But no, this man was his own person. Where Marcus had carried himself with calculated charm, Silas showed genuine concern for his tired horses and his equally exhausted companion. Where Marcus had viewed the forest with ambitious hunger, Silas looked upon the Eldergrove with something closer to awe.

Most telling was the way he kept touching something beneath his shirt. Thorne focused his awareness on whatever the man carried, and nearly lost his grip on shadow-form.

A key. Not just any key, but one of the originals. One of the seven forged to bind their worlds together, artifacts he'd believed destroyed in the aftermath of Marcus's betrayal. The forest's magic responded to its presence like an instrument being tuned, adjusting itself to harmonize with power it remembered.

The Elder Willow's words about patterns and healing rang in his mind. He pushed them aside. One Ashworth with pretty manners and an ancient key didn't change centuries of justified mistrust. The Ashworth would show his true nature eventually. They always did.

Still, as he watched the young noble lead his horses toward the manor's stables, Thorne couldn't quite suppress a flutter of something that felt dangerously like hope. He crushed it immediately. Hope was a luxury he'd surrendered long ago, traded for the power to protect what remained of his realm.

Better to know exactly what threat this Ashworth posed. Thorne extended his magic toward the manor, expecting the wards to resist as they had for centuries. Instead, the ancient defenses parted like mist before sunlight, welcoming his power like an old friend.

“What the hell?”

He pushed deeper, probing the manor's magical foundations. The stones themselves thrummed with spellwork he recognized intimately. Because he was the one who placed them there in the first place.

Patterns of protection and power that bore his magical signature were woven into every cornerstone, every arch, every threshold. Yet he had no memory of placing them there.

The discovery sent cracks through his carefully maintained control. Had his memories been altered? Or was there something about this place, about his connection to the Ashworths, that he'd been made to forget?

His magical probe brushed against something that made his entire being resonate like a struck bell. The object the young noble carried pulsed with power that matched both his own magic and the forest's deepest rhythms. For a fraction of a second, Thorne felt an echo of something so profound, so achingly familiar, that his shadow-form wavered.

The key responded to his magical touch, reaching back with power that felt like coming home. Thorne yanked his magic back so fast he nearly lost his corporeal form entirely. He fled through the shadows, not stopping until he reached the safety of his grove.

Briar was waiting for him, practically vibrating with nervous energy. Her freckles strobed like fireflies as she paced.

“Thank the old powers you're back,” she burst out. “Everything's going weird. Like, really weird. The dryads are singing songs nobody's heard in centuries. The wind keeps changing direction for no reason. Even the mushroom circles are spreading in new patterns.”

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