Page 6 of Eternal Thorns (The Feybound Chronicles #1)

5

ANCIENT ECHOES

T horne's return to his sacred grove was less a graceful materialization and more an undignified collapse. His form wavered between shadow and substance, refusing to settle into either shape. Power leaked from him like sap from a wounded tree, leaving traces of frost and starlight in the air.

“Fuck,” he snarled, the human curse feeling appropriate for once. The twilight flowers around him pulsed with frantic light, their eternal blooms responding to his chaotic energy. Some closed their petals entirely, trying to shield themselves from his turbulent magic.

He examined the places where the key's light had touched him. Silvery burns marked his spectral flesh. The key shouldn't have been able to harm him. He was the Guardian, ancient and powerful, bound to the forest's deepest magic. Yet that familiar radiance had cut through his defenses like they were morning mist.

A young dryad peeked around a nearby tree, drawn by his distress. When he turned his gaze toward her, she squeaked and vanished into her bark. Similar reactions rippled through the grove as lesser spirits scattered, sensing the dangerous instability of his power.

The Elder Willow's branches swayed toward him, trying to offer comfort through their ancient connection. He shoved the tendrils of her magic away, earning a reproachful rustle of leaves.

“Don't,” he warned. “Not now.”

But it was too late. Silas’ face kept surfacing in his mind, overlaying memories he'd thought safely buried. Gray eyes wide with confusion and determination. That stubborn set to his jaw, so like another young noble who had once stood in this very grove. Who had once held that same key, had once looked at Thorne with eyes that promised forever and delivered betrayal instead.

Marcus , his heart whispered traitorously. He looks so much like Marcus .

The grove's magic responded to his pain, swirling in chaotic patterns that sent the remaining spirits fleeing. Frost crept across the luminous flowers, making them chime discordantly. Shadow and moonlight warred in the air around him, unable to settle just as his form refused to stabilize.

“This changes nothing,” he told the empty grove, but the words rang hollow. The key's reaction changed everything. It had recognized him - not as an enemy, but as its original wielder. The other half of a pair forged to bridge two worlds.

He looked down at his hands, watching them flicker between flesh and shadow. The silvery burns still gleamed, proof that some part of the old magic remembered what he had been. What they had all been, before pride and fear had shattered everything.

A memory rose unbidden: Marcus standing in this grove, holding out the newly-forged key like an offering. “With this, we can ensure peace between our peoples. No more suspicion, no more barriers. Just trust.” His smile had been so bright, so earnest. “I swear to you, Thorne. This time will be different.”

Thorne's power lashed out, shattering a nearby crystal formation. The pieces fell like tears, each one catching and reflecting his own conflicted expression.

Silas truly seemed to know nothing of his family's crimes. That ignorance should have made Thorne's task simpler. The forest demanded justice, after all. What better revenge than to let the last Ashworth stumble blindly into destruction?

But the key had awakened. Ancient magic stirred in response to Ashworth blood, magic that remembered older oaths than vengeance. The very barriers Thorne had spent centuries maintaining were beginning to shift, responding to possibilities he'd thought forever lost.

“No,” he growled, forcing his form to solidify. “I will not be swayed by an echo of his face. By some cosmic joke that gave his descendant his eyes.”

The Elder Willow's branches rustled again, a sound that managed to convey deep skepticism.

“The Ashworth has until the full moon,” Thorne continued, ignoring her. “Let him discover the truth of his heritage. Let him understand exactly what price his family's ambition demanded.”

And then? The wind seemed to ask. When he stands before you, wearing his ancestor's face and carrying your other half's power, what will you do?

Thorne had no answer. The burns on his spectral flesh pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a rhythm that felt disturbingly like the key's own resonance. Something old and powerful was waking, and he wasn't entirely sure he could control its direction.

“You were meant to watch, not wage war.” The Elder Willow's voice cut through his brooding as she materialized fully, her bark-skin form radiating disapproval. Behind her, Rowan emerged from his ancient oak, his moss-covered armor glinting in the grove's strange light. Other ancient spirits followed - tree shepherds, earth weavers, keepers of old magic who rarely bothered with physical form.

“He carries one of the seven keys,” Thorne said, straightening despite his unstable form. “That changes everything.”

“Does it?” Rowan's deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Or did you simply see what you wanted to see?” He stepped closer, centuries of friendship giving him the right to press harder. “Tell me truly, old friend - did you see him, or did you see his ancestor?”

The question hit like a physical blow. The surrounding trees groaned as Thorne's power lashed out defensively, causing several younger saplings to wither and blacken. Briar darted between the affected trees, her small hands glowing as she worked to contain the magical backlash.

“How dare you”

“He dares because he speaks truth,” the Elder Willow cut in. “The prophecy was clear, Thorne. The curse can only be broken by an Ashworth's choice - freely made, not coerced by fear or forced by vengeance.”

“Prophecies,” Thorne spat. “Pretty words that mean nothing against centuries of betrayal.”

“Yet you gave him until the full moon.” Rowan's knowing look made Thorne's form flicker again. “Why show such mercy if you truly believe him beyond redemption?”

The council waited in heavy silence. Even the twilight flowers seemed to hold their breath, their glow dimming to almost nothing.

“Leave me,” Thorne finally ground out. “I know my duty.”

“Do you?” The Elder Willow's roots shifted beneath her. “Or do you know only your pain?”

They departed gradually, fading back into their natural forms until only Rowan lingered. “We've been friends since before the betrayal,” he said quietly. “I remember how you were then. How you both were.”

“Don't.”

“Just remember - sometimes the hardest curses to break are the ones we place on ourselves.” With that, he merged back into his oak, leaving Thorne alone with memories he couldn't keep contained.

He reached for the forest's heart, trying to ground himself in the pure magic that had sustained him for centuries. Instead, the lingering resonance of the key's power cracked something in his carefully maintained defenses. Memories flooded in like spring thaw breaking winter ice.

Marcus, young and earnest, stumbling over the proper gestures for a simple growth charm. “Like this?” he'd ask, gray eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Show me again?”

The careful forging of the keys, power flowing from both human and fey sources, binding their magics together in perfect harmony. Marcus's hand steady in his as they shaped the metal, their combined power creating something entirely new.

Laughter in this very grove, sharing stories and dreams of a future where their peoples lived as one. The way Marcus's smile could make flowers bloom out of season, could make Thorne's ancient heart feel young again.

The pain of these memories sent Thorne's power surging out of control. Ancient trees creaked and bent like saplings in a storm. Magical barriers rippled and fluctuated across the forest. Lesser spirits cried out in alarm as their homes shuddered under the magical onslaught.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Briar's voice barely penetrated his haze. She'd thrown up a hasty shield of sprite-light, trying to protect the younger growth from his emotional storm. “You're hurting them!”

The genuine fear in her voice helped him drag back control. Centuries of discipline reasserted themselves as he forced his power back into its proper channels. When his vision cleared, he found his grove marked by frost and shadow, though Briar's quick action had prevented lasting damage.

The young sprite watched him from a safe distance, her freckles flickering with concern. “Do you want me to get the Elder Willow?”

“No.” Thorne's voice came out rougher than intended. “No, I just need”

What did he need? The question had no safe answer. Not with Marcus's eyes haunting him in a younger face. Not with the key's power still burning in his spectral flesh, calling to something he'd thought long dead.

“I need to think,” he managed finally. “Tell the others I'm not to be disturbed.”

Briar hesitated. “Even if-”

“Even if the manor burns to the ground.” At her alarmed look, he added, “A figure of speech, little spark. Go.”

She went, though her backward glances spoke volumes. When she was gone, Thorne sank down beside the grove's heart-spring, letting its ancient magic wash over him. The water's surface reflected his face - and for a moment, he could have sworn it showed him as he was before. When he still believed in things like trust and reconciliation.

The burns on his flesh pulsed once, almost gently, as if in response to that thought.

The heart-spring's magic refused to grant Thorne peace. Every time he approached something like meditation, the burns on his flesh would pulse, sending his thoughts spiraling back to gray eyes and broken promises. After the third failed attempt, he gave up.

“To me,” he commanded, and the night air filled with the whisper of dark wings.

His crow scouts arrived in waves, their magic-enhanced eyes gleaming with reflected starlight. He merged his consciousness with their collective sight, viewing the manor from a dozen different angles simultaneously. The experience would drive most beings mad, but he'd had centuries to master it.

The library window drew his particular attention. Old magic lingered there, responding to the key's presence like iron to a lodestone. Through one crow's eyes, he watched Silas finally succumb to exhausted sleep in the master chamber, the key still glowing faintly against his chest. The boy's companion - Kai, he'd heard him called - had dragged a chair against the bedroom door, as if simple wood could keep out forest magic.

“More guts than sense, that one,” Thorne muttered, though he couldn't help respecting the human's loyalty.

A disturbance in the magical barriers pulled his attention outward. The key's power had settled from its earlier display but remained active, sending ripples through spells he'd maintained for centuries. Like pebbles dropped in a still pond, each pulse weakened the separation between worlds just slightly.

“Rowan,” he called, knowing his old friend wouldn't have gone far. “I need the border guardians reassigned.”

The ancient spirit emerged from his oak, still wearing his moss armor. “To what purpose?”

“Don't start. I'm not planning to attack him.” Thorne gestured to the magical disturbances visible in their shared sight. “But those barriers won't hold if we don't adapt them. We need a new pattern.”

Rowan studied the shifting magical currents. “A net, rather than a wall?”

“Something subtle enough not to trigger the key's power, but strong enough to track his movements.” Thorne sent his design through their connection - a web of overlapping patrols, guardians moving in patterns that would seem random to human eyes.

“Clever,” Rowan admitted. “Though the council won't like us expending power this way.”

“The council can-”

“Can what, old friend?”

“Never mind.” Thorne redirected his attention to the crows, sending new instructions through their bond. As they dispersed to their assigned positions, movement near the manor's edge caught his eye.

“Shit.” The word didn't adequately express his concern, but human languages rarely had curses strong enough for magical complications.

Shadow creatures slid through the darkness between trees - entities born from the grief and rage of the original betrayal. They weren't supposed to exist anymore. He'd spent decades hunting them down, binding them, destroying the ones too far gone to save. Yet here they were again, drawn to the manor like moths to flame.

“The key calls to them,” Rowan said quietly. “It remembers their creation, just as it remembers you.”

“I destroyed them all.”

“Did you? Or did you simply bind them to your own pain, old friend?” Rowan's expression held too much understanding. “They're part of this tale too, whether you will it or not.”

The shadow creatures wavered at the edge of the manor's grounds, testing the weakening barriers. They were beautiful in their terrible way - forms made of starless night and ancient sorrow, echoing the shape of Thorne's true form. He'd created them unintentionally in the aftermath of Marcus's betrayal, pouring his grief and rage into the forest until it took on a life of its own.

Through his crows' eyes, he watched one shadow creature drift closer to Silas's window. The key's soft glow repelled it, but the entity's response wasn't fear or anger. If anything, it looked almost... longing.

“Double the patrols near the manor,” Thorne ordered, trying to ignore how the burns on his flesh ached in sympathy with the shadow creatures' desire. “Nothing approaches without my direct approval.”

“And if they're drawn by more than just the key?” Rowan asked. “If they sense a chance for their own healing?”

“Don't.” Thorne's power flared, causing nearby leaves to frost over. “The Ashworth has until the full moon to understand his heritage. That's all.”

“As you say.” Rowan's tone suggested he heard all the things Thorne wasn't saying. “I'll coordinate the new patrol patterns. Try not to freeze the entire forest before dawn?”

When Rowan had gone, Thorne returned his attention to the manor. The shadow creatures had retreated for now, but he could feel them watching, waiting. Just as he was watching, though he refused to examine his own motivations too closely.

Through the pre-dawn darkness, the key's power pulsed steady as a heartbeat. Each wave called to something in his own magic, something that remembered creation rather than destruction, trust rather than betrayal. The shadow creatures felt it too, responding to the echo of what they'd been before grief had twisted them into weapons.

The heart-tree called to him, its magic pulsing in time with the distant key. Thorne found himself drawn to its ancient trunk where the prophecy had been carved centuries ago. The marks in the bark had begun to glow with a faint silver light, each symbol awakening like stars at dusk.

His fingers traced the familiar words, and the forest's magic surged through him. Visions cascaded through his mind like leaves in a storm. Silas walking among his twilight flowers, the grove welcoming him as if he belonged there. The same scene twisted - the manor consumed by living shadows, grief made manifest devouring stone and wood. The images shifted faster, futures splitting and recombining around pivot points of choice not yet made.

But it was the reflections of himself that disturbed him most. He saw his own face in pools of memory, wearing expressions that felt like strangers' masks. Hope brightening his eyes as he shared ancient knowledge. Affection softening his features as he watched someone move through his grove. Trust - gods, trust of all things - as he extended his hand to another.

“No,” he snarled, pulling back. But the heart-tree's magic held him fast, insisting he witness what might be.

The visions blurred together, centering around the key and its bearer. Around choices that would echo through both their worlds. The prophecy marks pulsed brighter, as if singing in harmony with possibilities not seen in centuries.

A discordant note shattered his communion with the heart-tree. Something was wrong at the forest's edge, near where the manor's silhouette cut against the pre-dawn sky. Shadows gathered there, but not his shadows. Not the grief-born creatures he'd created and tried to destroy.

This darkness moved differently, more like oil than shadow, seeping through cracks in the ancient wards. The broken barriers weren't just responding to Ashworth blood - they were creating gaps where older, darker things could slip through.

Thorne sent his awareness racing toward the disturbance. In that liminal space between night and day, he caught a glimpse of another figure watching the manor. Not one of his shadow creatures with their star-filled forms, but something that seemed made of living darkness. Something that remembered the first betrayal, the first breaking, the first price paid.

Before he could investigate further, the figure vanished. But its malevolent anticipation lingered like frost on autumn leaves. This was no simple shadow-born entity, but something that had waited centuries for these precise circumstances.

He realized how narrow his focus had been. He'd been so fixated on the threat Silas might pose that he'd missed signs of a greater danger. The prophecy hadn't specified which ancient powers would wake when an Ashworth returned.

The first rays of dawn touched the forest canopy, making his twilight flowers close their petals. Morning light painted the manor in shades of gold, but Thorne's attention remained fixed on the places where foreign darkness had gathered.

He'd intended to test Silas's intentions, to prove him either different from his ancestor or exactly the same. But older magics were stirring, powers that had been set in motion long before this night. The Elder Willow knew many things, but even she didn't remember the very first betrayal - the one that had created the need for keys and barriers in the first place.

His burns pulsed once, sharply, as if the key was responding to his realization. The shadow creatures he'd created drifted closer, drawn not just by power but by the possibility of transformation. Of returning to what they'd been before grief had shaped them.

“Very well,” Thorne said to the awakening forest. “If we're playing with older magics, let's see what truths they reveal.”

He would still test Silas, but not with threats and ultimatums. Some choices had to be made freely, just as some knowledge had to be discovered rather than given. The young Ashworth carried one half of an ancient power. It was time to see if he could do what his ancestor could not - recognize the responsibility that came with such gifts.

The heart-tree's prophecy marks faded back to normal, but Thorne had seen enough. As dawn fully claimed the sky, he began making new preparations. Let the council think he meant to drive Silas away. Let them believe his interest lay solely in revenge.

The truth was both simpler and infinitely more complex. Just as the key recognized both master and thief, some choices could lead to either salvation or destruction. The trick was knowing which path to illuminate, and which to let souls discover on their own.

Thorne touched his spectral burns one last time, feeling how they resonated with the distant key. Then he set about laying a different kind of trap - one built not of threats, but of revelations.

After all, if darker powers were rising, perhaps it was time to remember what the keys had been forged for in the first place. Not just to bridge worlds, but to heal the wounds that kept them apart.