Page 4 of Eternal Thorns (The Feybound Chronicles #1)
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THE FOREST WATCHES
T horne found Briar in their usual training grove, her freckles strobing with barely contained frustration. The young sprite's magic flared erratically, sending confused patterns through evening air that made nearby twilight flowers close their petals in protest.
“I don't understand!” she burst out before he could speak. “The magic should respond! I'm doing everything right!”
“Are you?” His form shifted between solid and shadow as he circled her. “Or are you doing what you think is right?”
“There's a difference?”
“Only in everything that matters.” He gestured, and forest magic flowed like water finding its level. “Watch. Don't try to direct it. Just...”
“Let it be what it is?” Her tone carried centuries of shared lessons and gentle arguments. “Like you let yourself be what you are?”
His power stuttered, crown of branches casting strange shadows. Even after four centuries, she could still catch him off guard with her insight.
“That's not the lesson today, little spark.”
“Isn't it?” Her glow dimmed slightly. “You teach balance but maintain rigid control. Preach harmony while holding yourself apart.” She met his ancient eyes without fear. “Maybe I'm not the only one who needs to remember what magic truly is.”
The whispers reached Thorne first through the roots, then through the wind, then through the trembling leaves of his ancient oak throne. He stood motionless, bare feet pressed against bark that shifted beneath him like a living carpet, processing the forest's warnings. After centuries as guardian, he'd learned to read the Eldergrove's many voices. Today, they sang with discord.
Something was wrong at the border.
His markings flickered to life, patterns of silver light flowing across his skin like moonlight through canopy. The forest's magic responded instantly, amplifying his awareness until he could feel every rustling leaf, every creeping root, every drop of sap within his realm. The disturbance came into sharper focus.
Not trappers this time. Not lost travelers stumbling where they shouldn't. This was something else. Something that made the oldest trees, the ones who remembered the first betrayal, tremble in their rings.
“Return,” he commanded, his voice carrying on a sudden wind.
The crows came as summoned, his network of shadow-enhanced scouts descending through the canopy in a rush of dark wings. Their eyes glowed with traces of his magic as they landed, forming a black crown around his shoulders and the branches near his head. Their memories poured into him like ice water.
The manor. Of course it would be the manor.
Thornhaven Estate had stood abandoned for decades, its wards maintained by magic older than even his reign as guardian. Now it had occupants. Young men, by the crows' recollection. One dark-haired and noble-born, the other common stock. But it was the noble who made Thorne's markings flare with recognition.
“Impossible,” he breathed.
The wards around the manor were responding to the newcomer, recognizing something in his blood. Ancient magic, long dormant, stirred like a waking beast. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
Thorne extended his senses further, pushing against the boundary where his realm met the manor grounds. The magical barriers there, built to keep his kind separate from the human world, rippled at his touch. They felt different. Weaker in some places, but strangely strengthened in others, as if responding to a key they'd been waiting for.
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 old accords. 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.
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. Temperature plummeted 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 the forest 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.”
Thorne steadied himself against his oak throne, trying to process this new information while his magic still hummed from contact with the key. “What kind of songs?”
“That's the thing.” Briar wrung her hands, causing sparks of anxiety-magic to fall like stars. “They're love songs. Old ones, about the time before the sundering. About human and fey hearts beating as one. The dryads don't even know why they're singing them, the melodies just keep bubbling up.”
“And the dreams?”
“How did you know about those?” When Thorne just looked at her, Briar sighed. “Right, of course you know. The younger spirits are all having them. Visions of the old days, of mixed courts where human and fey danced together. Some are even dreaming of” She hesitated.
“Of what?”
“Of you. But not like you are now. They see you laughing, dancing, your power unbound by grief. And there's always someone else in the dreams, a human with storm-gray eyes”
“Enough.” The word carried enough power to make the grove's flowers close. Briar took a step back, her glow dimming.
Thorne paced the grove's perimeter, his form flickering between shapes as he thought. The arrival of an Ashworth with an ancient key was troubling enough. But these other signs suggested something far more dangerous. The very foundations of his realm were responding to the man’s presence, awakening magics better left dormant.
The Elder Willow's warnings about patterns and healing rang hollow now. This wasn't about healing. This was about survival. Everything he'd built, everything he'd protected since the betrayal, was at risk of unraveling.
“Um,” Briar ventured, “what are you going to do?”
Moonlight filtered through the canopy, turning Thorne's markings to liquid silver. His power gathered around him like a storm preparing to break. “I'm going to deal with this directly.”
“The council said to watch and wait.”
“The council doesn't understand what's at stake.” His form shifted fully into his true shape for a moment - antlers of shadow, eyes of starfire, skin of ancient bark. “If this Ashworth has somehow found one of the original keys, if he's already affecting the forest this strongly just by existing, we can't afford to wait.”
“What if the Elder Willow is right?” Briar asked quietly. “What if this is meant to heal things?”
“Some wounds don't heal, little spark. Some betrayals run too deep.” Thorne began gathering the magic he'd need, weaving shadows and moonlight into patterns of power. “I'll test his intentions myself. And if I find any trace of his ancestor's treachery”
He left the threat unspoken, but the grove darkened in response to his resolve. Briar shivered, her glow barely visible now.
“When?” she whispered.
“Tomorrow night. Let him settle in, feel secure.” Thorne's smile held no warmth. “The manor's wards may welcome him, but I intend to show him exactly what it means to trespass in my realm.”
As if in answer, the key's distant power pulsed once, sending ripples through the forest's magic. Thorne ignored the way it made his own power sing in response, the way it called to something buried beneath centuries of carefully cultivated bitterness.
Tomorrow night, he would confront this latest Ashworth. Tomorrow night, he would discover if the man carried more than just his ancestor's face. And if necessary, tomorrow night, he would end whatever chain of destiny the Elder Willow thought she saw unfolding.
The forest's magic swirled around him like a living thing, responding to his intention. In the distance, wolves began to howl - not quite wolf, not quite fey, but something in between. The hunt was coming.
And Thorne intended to make sure this Ashworth understood exactly what kind of power he had wandered into.