Page 2 of Eternal Thorns (The Feybound Chronicles #1)
1
THE LAST ASHWORTH
S ilas Ashworth's reflection stared back at him from the polished marble floor of the grand hall, distorted by centuries of footsteps that had worn shallow valleys into the stone. The whispers of his assembled family members skittered across the vaulted ceiling like startled mice. He kept his spine straight, the way he'd been taught since childhood, though his stomach churned with a nauseating mix of dread and defiance.
The ancient portraits of dead Ashworths glared down at him from their gilded frames. Countless generations of noble faces, all wearing the same expression of disapproval he now saw mirrored in the flesh-and-blood relatives gathered before him. His father, Lord Thomas, stood on the raised dais beside the massive hearth, firelight catching the silver at his temples. In his hands, a cream-colored document trembled almost imperceptibly.
Fuck , Silas thought, watching his father's fingers shake. He's actually scared .
That small detail hit harder than the endless lectures about duty and family honor ever had. Lord Thomas Ashworth, the man who'd faced down rebellions and negotiated peace treaties, was afraid. Because his son had chosen truth over tradition, justice over power.
“The charges,” Lord Thomas began, his voice steady despite his trembling hands, “are as follows.”
The fire popped and crackled, sending shadows dancing across the assembled faces of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Some wore masks of pity, others barely concealed their satisfaction. Cousin Regina actually smirked, the firelight catching on her pearl necklace.
Probably already plotting how to take my place in the succession , Silas thought bitterly.
His grandmother, Lady Evangeline, watched from her carved mahogany chair, her expression unreadable as ancient scripture. Her steel-gray hair caught the firelight, forming a halo that reminded Silas of the crown she'd worn in her youth as the family matriarch. Now she sat silent, her gnarled hands folded over her cane, as her only grandson faced judgment.
“Willful exposure of confidential agreements between House Ashworth and our allies,” Lord Thomas continued. “Deliberate sabotage of carefully negotiated arrangements. Transmission of sensitive documents to Crown investigators, resulting in—” his voice caught for just a moment “—resulting in severe damage to this family's standing and the trust of our peers.”
The weight of hundreds of years pressed down on Silas's shoulders. It emanated from every corner of the hall: from the ancient tapestries depicting the family's rise to power, from the display cases holding artifacts of their influence, from the very stones that had been laid by Ashworth hands. The air felt thick with generations of accumulated secrets and carefully maintained alliances, all now threatening to crumble because one young heir had decided that truth mattered more than tradition.
“What you fail to understand, Silas,” his father continued, “is that these arrangements ensure stability. Peace. Prosperity for all the noble houses. Your rash actions have endangered decades of careful diplomacy.”
Careful diplomacy . That's what they called it now. Not bribery or extortion or the systematic exploitation of those who couldn't fight back. Silas bit the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking. He'd said his piece during the initial investigation. Now was the time for consequences.
Lady Evangeline shifted in her chair, the movement drawing Silas's attention. Something flickered across her face—was it concern? Pride? Before he could decide, it vanished behind her usual mask of aristocratic indifference.
“However,” Lord Thomas’ voice took on a formal tone that made Silas's skin prickle with anticipation, “in recognition of your blood and your previous service to this family, the council has decided to offer you a chance at redemption.”
A chance at redemption. The words dripped with false mercy. Several of his cousins exchanged knowing looks. Whatever was coming, it wouldn't be pleasant.
“You will be granted stewardship of Thornhaven Estate.”
Thornhaven. The forgotten northern property that bordered the forbidden Eldergrove. No one had lived there for decades. The last steward had returned babbling about voices in the woods and shadows that moved against the wind.
Through the tall windows, snow began to fall, fat flakes swirling against the darkening sky. Perfect timing for his exile to the frozen north. Silas fought back a harsh laugh.
“You will be provided with a minimal staff,” his father continued. “Sufficient funds for basic maintenance and survival. You will remain there until such time as the council deems you have proven your commitment to this family's interests.”
Old Jameson, the family steward who'd bounced Silas on his knee as a child, winced at the word “minimal.” His weathered face showed more genuine sympathy than all of Silas's blood relatives combined.
“Furthermore,” Lord Thomas pressed on, “you are forbidden from engaging in any political activities or correspondence without explicit council approval. You will focus solely on restoring Thornhaven to a habitable condition.” His father's voice hardened. “And you will stay away from the Eldergrove. The ancient warnings about that place remain in effect.”
At the mention of the Eldergrove, Lady Evangeline's fingers tightened around her cane until her knuckles went white. The movement was subtle, but Silas caught it. He'd always been good at noticing details others missed. It's what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
“Do you understand and accept these terms?” Lord Thomas asked, finally looking directly at his son.
Silas met his father's gaze. They had the same eyes, people always said, but where Lord Thomas' were cold as steel, Silas's held a storm. Right now, that storm was building to a crescendo.
“I understand,” Silas said carefully, “that you're choosing the most convenient way to hide your shame. Not exile, not disownment, but a quiet dismissal to a worthless estate where I can't cause any more problems .” He put just enough emphasis on the last word to make several council members shift uncomfortably.
“Mind your tone,” his father warned.
“Why?” Silas felt reckless heat rising in his chest. “Isn't that exactly what this is? You can tell everyone I'm 'learning estate management' while you do damage control. Keep up appearances. That's what matters most, isn't it?”
A muscle twitched in Lord Thomas' jaw. “You will leave for Thornhaven tomorrow morning. This discussion is concluded.”
The council members began to disperse, their silk clothing rustling like dead leaves. Some shot Silas disapproving glances, others pretended he'd already ceased to exist. Regina paused just long enough to whisper something to her mother while staring directly at him, her smile sharp as a knife.
“Silas.” Lady Evangeline's voice cut through the emptying hall. “A word in my study, if you please.”
It wasn't really a request. Silas knew his grandmother's commands when he heard them, even when wrapped in courtly politeness. He followed her through the winding corridors of Ashworth Manor, watching how she moved with fluid grace despite her age and the cane she carried. The portraits seemed to watch them pass, their painted eyes following their progress through the dim halls.
Lady Evangeline's study occupied the manor's east tower, a circular room lined with towering bookshelves and cluttered with curiosities from her decades of travel and collection. Silas had spent countless childhood hours here, exploring the glass cases filled with strange artifacts and poring over maps of places he'd never heard of. The familiar smell of old books and his grandmother's rose tea usually brought comfort. Tonight, it just made his stomach twist.
“Shut the door,” she instructed, settling into her favorite armchair by the crackling fireplace.
A half-finished game of chess sat on the small table beside her, the pieces carved from some dark wood Silas had never been able to identify.
He closed the heavy door and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, feeling like a child about to be scolded. The firelight caught on strange objects around the room—a crystal skull that seemed to watch him, a collection of curved daggers with jeweled hilts, maps marked with symbols he'd never learned to read.
“Your father,” Lady Evangeline said carefully, “is an idiot.”
Silas choked on a surprised laugh. Of all the things he'd expected her to say, that wasn't one of them.
“Sending you to Thornhaven.” She shook her head, silver hair catching the firelight. “He thinks he's being clever, teaching you a lesson about isolation and hardship. He has no idea what he's really doing.”
“What do you mean?” Silas moved closer, dropping into the chair opposite her. An ancient tapestry hung on the wall behind her, its threads dulled with age. He'd never paid it much attention before, but now he noticed it showed the Eldergrove, its trees reaching toward a strange, starless sky.
“Did you ever wonder why we kept Thornhaven, when it's so far from our other holdings? Why no one lives there, despite the size of the estate?” She leaned forward, her pale eyes intense. “Why the family never sold it, even when we needed funds?”
“I assumed it was worthless,” Silas said. “Because of the Eldergrove.”
“Worthless?” She laughed softly. “Oh, my dear boy. That land is anything but worthless. It's priceless . And that's precisely why it's dangerous.”
She rose suddenly, moving to one of the many cabinets that lined the walls. Her fingers traced the wood until she found whatever secret catch she was looking for. A small drawer popped open with a click.
“The stories about the Eldergrove aren't just stories,” she continued, retrieving something from the drawer. “Your great-great-uncle Edmund disappeared there. They found his horse at the forest's edge, but never a trace of him. Your cousin Marie, when she was just a girl, wandered too close. She came back changed. Never spoke again. And Marcus…”
Silas felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter night. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need to understand.” She returned to her chair, something clutched in her hand. “The forest remembers the Ashworth name, and not fondly. There are old wounds there, old promises broken. Old magic that doesn't forgive easily.”
“Magic?” Silas fought to keep his voice steady despite his racing heart. The word itself felt dangerous here in his grandmother's study, where shadows seemed to move against the candlelight. “We've spent generations denying its existence. The official stance is that magic died out centuries ago.”
His grandmother's laugh held no humor. “Official stances rarely align with truth. You've felt it yourself, haven't you? In the gardens at night? In the way certain books call to you from the library shelves?”
Silas's mouth went dry. He'd never told anyone about those moments - the way plants seemed to reach for him during his midnight wanderings, how certain ancient texts made his fingers tingle when he touched them.
“Those are just stories,” he said, but the protest sounded weak even to his own ears. “Tales to frighten children away from the Eldergrove.”
“Is that what you truly believe?” She opened her hand, revealing a key unlike any he'd seen before. The metal seemed to shift in the candlelight, its engravings moving when he wasn't looking directly at them. “Or is that what you've been taught to say?”
“Gran, you're not making any sense.” But his eyes kept being drawn back to the key. Something about it called to him on a level he couldn't explain.
“Take it,” she said. “It belonged to your grandfather. He meant for you to have it, though he never told me why.”
Silas reached for the key hesitantly. The metal was indeed cold, and it seemed to hum faintly against his palm. “What does it open?”
“That's not the right question.” Lady Evangeline's gaze drifted to the tapestry. “The question is, what will it show you?”
“Gran, you're not making any sense.”
“No, I suppose I'm not.” She sighed, suddenly looking every one of her years. “Promise me something, Silas. Write to me. Every week, without fail. And stay away from the forest's edge, especially during the full moon. The barriers are thinnest then.”
“Barriers?” He leaned forward. “What barriers? What aren't you telling me?”
But she was already waving away his questions, her sharp mind visibly retreating behind the aristocratic mask she wore so well. “Just promise me. Weekly letters, and no wandering after dark.”
“I promise,” he said, though his curiosity was already burning. The key seemed heavier in his hand, like it was made of secrets rather than metal.
Lady Evangeline stood, smoothing her skirts with practiced grace. “Good. Now go pack. The road to Thornhaven is long, and the weather won't wait for you.”
“Gran,” he tried one last time, “please. Tell me what's really going on.”
She paused at the door, one hand resting on the frame. For a moment, he thought she might actually answer. Instead, she said softly, “The forest remembers the Ashworth name, Silas. Make sure you're worthy of what that means.”
Then she was gone, leaving him alone with the strange key and the watching tapestry. In the firelight, the threads depicting the Eldergrove seemed to move, like branches swaying in a wind he couldn't feel. The crystal skull on a nearby shelf reflected the flames in its empty eyes, and somewhere in the darkness outside, an owl called.
Silas looked down at the key in his palm. The engravings definitely moved now, flowing like water across the metal's surface. Whatever his grandmother wasn't telling him, whatever waited for him at Thornhaven, he had a feeling his exile was going to be anything but boring.
He pocketed the key, its cold weight pressing against his chest through his shirt. Tomorrow, he would leave everything he'd ever known for a cursed estate on the edge of a haunted forest. And somehow, despite the fear and anger still churning in his gut, he felt more alive than he had in years.
The owl called again, closer this time. Through the study's window, Silas could see the snow falling harder, blanketing the world in white. Somewhere in the distance, barely visible through the swirling flakes, the Eldergrove waited. And for just a moment, he could have sworn he heard it whisper his name.