Page 57 of Starlit Bargains

Kai frowned, confusion evident in his expression. “Who's inside? Thorne?”

“Who else would I mean?” Silas replied, already turning to lead them into the house.

“But how would Thorne know—” Kai began, then glanced between Silas and Eliar, noting the latter's carefully blank expression. “Wait. Does Thorne know Eliar?”

“You should ask him yourself,” Silas suggested, pushing open the heavy front door and ushering them inside.

Eliar stepped over the threshold, immediately assaulted by the thickness of the magic in the air—old and pulsing, layers upon layers of protective spells and arcane research and the unique signature of those who had lived within these walls over the centuries. The sensation was almost overwhelming after so long in Mistwood, where the magic had been carefully controlled and dampened by the Keepers.

The walls themselves seemed to whisper, stirring something inside him that he'd been determinedly ignoring since they'd first caught sight of the estate. Memories. Regrets. A history he wasn't ready to face.

But he didn't have a choice now—because Thorne was waiting for him.

“I thought you said you barely knew Thorne,” Kai said quietly as they followed Silas through the entrance hall. “Just 'knew of him' through some guardian network or whatever.”

“I may have... understated our acquaintance,” Eliar admitted, keeping his voice equally low. “It's complicated.”

“Yeah, I'm getting that impression.” Kai didn't sound angry, just bemused. “Any other 'understatements' I should know about before we walk into whatever this is?”

Before Eliar could answer, Silas stopped before a set of double doors at the end of a long corridor. “He's in the study,” he said, his hand on the doorknob. “I should warn you, he's been in a mood since you disappeared, Kai. And whatever history is between him and your... friend... has not improved his temperament.”

With that ominous caution, he pushed open the doors.

The study beyond was large and circular, lined with bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. A fire burned in a massive stone hearth, casting flickering light across the room's occupants. Maps and scrolls covered a large centraltable, weighed down with various artifacts and instruments Eliar didn't recognize.

And there, standing at the heart of the room, bathed in dim firelight, was Thorne.

Time stopped for Eliar. Centuries compressed into a single, breathless moment as he took in the figure before him—so familiar and yet changed in ways that made his chest ache.

Thorne stood tall and imposing, his form more solid than Eliar remembered, as if he had grown more rooted in the physical world over the intervening years. A crown of living branches adorned his head, small leaves and flowers blooming despite the season, their soft glow illuminating his sharp features. His skin held the warm brown tones of ancient heartwood, marked with patterns like tree rings at his temples and along his exposed forearms.

His eyes, though—his eyes were the same. Silver eyes, ancient, filled with a wisdom and wildness that no amount of time among humans could fully tame.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The tension in the room was palpable, pressing against Eliar's skin like a physical force. He was distantly aware of Kai and Silas exchanging glances, of Briar darting nervously between them, but his focus remained fixed on Thorne.

“You look the same,” Thorne said finally, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade, cutting through the silence.

Eliar huffed a humorless laugh. “You don't.”

It was true. The Thorne he had known had been younger, in the way that ancient beings reckon time—less substantial, still finding his place in the world, still defining the boundaries of his power and purpose. The entity that stood before him now carried more weight, more purpose. His connection to the land was deeper, his essence more fully manifested in physical form.

And yet, the way he looked at Eliar—it was like staring at an old wound that had never properly healed, one that still ached when the weather changed or when memories resurfaced in the quiet hours of night.

“You're supposed to be dead,” Thorne said. “I felt you fall. I felt the bindings take hold. No one survives that—not even one of your kind.”

“Yet here I stand,” Eliar replied, keeping his voice level despite the storm of emotions trying to break free. “Surprised?”

“Furious,” Thorne corrected, a flicker of anger illuminating his eyes from within. “Centuries, Eliar. Centuries of thinking you had been unmade. Of mourning what could not be recovered.”

Eliar hadn't expected that—the raw hurt in Thorne's voice, the implication that his absence had been a wound rather than a relief.

“I thought you hated me too much to care,” he said, the words emerging before he could reconsider them.

Something complicated passed across Thorne's face—grief, anger, perhaps even a flash of old affection. “I never hated you,” he said finally. “I hated what you did. What you risked. The choice you made without consulting those who would be affected by it.”

Silas and Kai exchanged another glance, clearly realizing they were witnessing something deeply personal. But neither moved to leave, sensing perhaps that this confrontation had been too long in coming to be interrupted now.

“Okay, I'm confused,” Kai said, breaking the tense silence. “When exactly did you two know each other?

---