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GATHERING SHADOWS

T he forest felt wrong. Not hostile exactly, but watchful in a way that made Silas's skin prickle. He pressed the communication crystal against his chest, drawing comfort from its steady warmth as their horses picked their way along the narrow border path.

“So,” Kai said, his voice deliberately casual, “are we going to talk about the fact that we're being followed, or just keep pretending this is a scenic detour?”

“Keep pretending,” Silas replied, scanning the tree line. “Where's Eliar? I thought he was supposed to meet us at the market.”

Kai's expression shifted slightly. “He... had something come up. Said he'd catch up with us later.”

Something in his tone made Silas look closer. “Everything okay?”

“Fine. Just... you know how he is. Mysterious.” Kai shrugged, but his eyes remained sharp, watching their surroundings. “Speaking of mysterious, that smoke to the east isn't exactly normal campfire behavior.”

Silas squinted at the thin columns rising through the trees. Something about their arrangement bothered him, though he couldn't quite place why. The smoke was too regular, too controlled for ordinary travelers. Combined with the strange warnings from the village and the feeling of being watched, it set his instincts on edge.

Now, as they rode through the increasingly watchful forest, those fragments connected to the wrongness he felt around them.

Through gaps in the trees, columns of smoke rose in too-perfect formation. Military precision. His stomach tightened.

“We need a better look.”

They guided their horses off the main path, moving through increasingly dense undergrowth until they reached a rocky outcrop. Below them, spread across what should have been empty borderland, a military encampment bristled with activity.

“Shit,” Kai breathed.

Royal banners snapped in the wind alongside colors Silas knew too well—the crimson and gold of House Ashworth. His father's personal guard. At least two hundred men moved with practiced discipline between neat rows of tents. Supply wagons suggested this wasn't a temporary position.

“That's...” Silas swallowed hard. “That's my father's command tent.”

The elaborate pavilion stood at the camp's center, its peaked roof adorned with the Ashworth crest. Lord Thomas had been here. Recently, judging by the fresh wheel ruts leading to it.

“Well, family reunions are always awkward,” Kai muttered. “But I'm more worried about them.”

He pointed to figures in silver-threaded robes moving among the soldiers. Silas froze, confusion warring with recognition.

“Those look like... but that's impossible,” Silas whispered. “The Crown doesn't acknowledge magic exists. It's been the official stance for generations.”

“Tell that to them,” Kai replied grimly. “Those are definitely mages. And not just any mages—see the silver threading? King's colors.”

“But the king himself claims magic died out centuries ago. It's been royal doctrine since?—”

“Since your family helped establish it?” Kai raised an eyebrow. “Come on, Silas. You're smarter than this. When has the Crown ever told the complete truth about anything?”

Silas watched the robed figures setting up ritual circles at the forest's edge. Even from this distance, he could see the components they used—iron filings that made his teeth ache, salt barriers that sparked with contained power, and something dark and granular that looked sickeningly like grave soil.

“Those aren't defensive wards,” Silas realized. “And they're not hiding what they're doing. This is deliberate.”

“Which means the game has changed,” Kai agreed. “The question is, why now? Why suddenly acknowledge what they've denied for generations?”

The crystal pulsed against Silas's chest, responding to his rising alarm. He closed his eyes, reaching for the connection it provided, and felt Thorne's distant presence like a hand on his shoulder.

“We need to know more,” Silas decided. “Cover me?”

Kai nodded, already scanning for the best approach. They'd done this before, back when exposing corruption meant sneaking through noble houses instead of military camps.

Silas crept closer, using every shadow, every fold in the land. The skills Kai had taught him blended with new instincts born from his time in the Eldergrove. He moved like the forest creatures now, silent and sure.

Fragments of conversation drifted to him:

“...barrier's weakest at moonrise...”

“...young Ashworth must be retrieved...”

“...lord's orders are clear. Neutralize the guardian...”

Ice flooded his veins. The clinical way they discussed Thorne, as if he were merely an obstacle to be removed, made bile rise in his throat. These were his father's men, following his father's orders, planning to hurt the person he loved.

The crystal burned hot against his skin.

A twig snapped behind him. Silas froze, then slowly turned to find a patrol passing barely twenty feet away. Without thinking, he reached for the forest magic Thorne had taught him, silently asking the plants for help.

The response was immediate. Vines shifted, branches lowered, creating a dense screen that perfectly concealed him. But the ease of the magic drew attention.

One of the mages stopped mid-step, head tilting. “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?” his companion asked.

“A surge. Forest magic, but...” The mage turned slowly, scanning the treeline. “Different. Familiar.”

Silas held his breath, willing himself invisible. The plants trembled with his anxiety.

“You're imagining things,” the second mage said. “Come on, we need to finish the third circle before nightfall.”

They moved on, but Silas didn't relax until they were well out of sight. He retreated carefully to where Kai waited with the horses.

“Time to go,” he whispered. “Now.”

They rode hard, pushing their mounts to dangerous speeds. The forest blurred around them, branches whipping past their faces. Silas kept expecting to hear pursuit, but the only sounds were hoofbeats and their own labored breathing.

“This doesn't make sense,” Silas said as they rode. “The Crown has spent generations denying magic exists. Why suddenly deploy mages openly?”

“Maybe they're not planning on leaving witnesses,” Kai suggested darkly. “Or maybe whatever's happening is too big to keep hidden anymore.”

Thornhaven's gates appeared through the trees like a promise of safety. Before they even dismounted, Thorne materialized, his form solidifying from shadow and starlight.

The look on his face stopped Silas's heart.

“What happened?” Thorne demanded, already reaching for him. “I felt your fear?—”

Silas slid from his horse directly into Thorne's arms. The embrace was fierce, almost painful. Thorne's hands moved over him, checking for injuries while burying his face in Silas's hair, inhaling deeply as if to confirm his reality.

“I’m fine,” Silas assured him, though he clung just as tightly. “But we need to talk. Now.”

The manor's war room had always felt like a relic, its strategic maps and weapon racks gathering dust from disuse. Now it hummed with terrible purpose as Silas related what they'd seen.

With each word, Thorne's form shifted. His usually ethereal appearance hardened, edges sharpening like a blade being honed. When Silas described the mages' preparations, Thorne's crown of branches darkened, delicate leaves transforming into wicked thorns.

The temperature plummeted. Frost crept across the windows.

“They plan to break the barriers,” Thorne said, his voice carrying harmonics that made the crystal glasses vibrate. “To force their way into the Eldergrove.”

“But they're using mages,” Silas protested. “The Crown doesn't even admit magic exists. This goes against everything they've claimed for centuries.”

“Then they've decided the truth is worth less than whatever they hope to gain,” Thorne replied coldly.

Kai unrolled a letter, the seal broken but still recognizable as belonging to one of his court informants. “The Crown Alliance has been pushing for this for months. Lord Sebastian leads them now, arguing that the 'untapped resources' of magical territories could fund expansion eastward.”

“Crown Alliance?” Silas frowned. “My father disbanded that faction years ago.”

“They've reformed under Sebastian's leadership,” Kai explained. “He's united three noble houses that traditionally opposed each other—all suddenly speaking with one voice about 'containing magical threats.'”

“They've always wanted the Eldergrove,” Thorne said grimly, ice forming where his fingers touched the table. “But this feels more organized, more deliberate.”

“Because it is,” Silas replied, pointing to the markings on the map showing the reported border disturbances. “These aren't random incursions—they're testing our defenses systematically.”

“Just what?” Thorne whirled on him, eyes blazing with ancient fury. “Camping peacefully at our border with mages they claim don't exist?”

“I need to understand what's happening. Try diplomacy before?—”

“Diplomacy?” Thorne's laugh was bitter, sharp enough to cut. “With the man who sent you here as punishment? Who now masses armies at our doorstep and openly wields magic after centuries of denial?”

“He's still my father!”

“And what am I?” The words cracked like thunder.

Silas stepped forward, reaching for him. “You're everything. You know that. But if there's a chance to prevent bloodshed?—”

“The only blood I care about is yours.” Thorne caught his hands, grip almost bruising. “You will not leave these walls. Not while they're out there. Not while they've abandoned all pretense of normalcy.”

“You can't keep me prisoner!”

“I can keep you alive!”

Magic crackled between them, responding to their heightened emotions. Books rattled on shelves. The windows groaned in their frames.

“I'm not some delicate flower that needs protecting,” Silas snapped, trying to pull away.

Thorne's response was to pin him against the wall, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that tasted of desperation and fear. Silas made a sound of protest that quickly melted into something else entirely as Thorne's hands slid into his hair, tilting his head for better access.

“I cannot lose you,” Thorne growled against his lips. “Not to him. Not to anyone.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice undid Silas completely. He stopped fighting, instead pulling Thorne closer, giving as good as he got. Their magic surged and merged, sending papers flying, knocking chairs over.

“Uh, I'll just...” Kai's voice came from the doorway. “Yeah. Be literally anywhere else.”

The door closed hastily behind him.

When they finally separated, breathing hard, Silas rested his forehead against Thorne's. “This isn't just about us anymore. If Sebastian has truly united those houses and convinced my father to use magic openly, something fundamental has changed in the kingdom.”

“The question is why now?” Thorne's voice had calmed, though frost still rimmed the windows. “After centuries of denying magic's existence, why would the Crown suddenly embrace what they've condemned?”

“Fear,” Silas said softly. “Or opportunity. Perhaps both.” He moved back to the map, tracing the pattern of incursions. “Sebastian wouldn't risk this without being certain of success. He's always been calculating.”

“You know him well?”

“We grew up together at court. He was... different once. Ambitious, yes, but not cruel.” Silas's expression darkened with memory. “Something changed after his mother died.”

“Whatever their reasons,” Thorne said, joining him at the map, “we need to prepare. If they're willing to acknowledge magic after generations of denial, they won't stop at simple incursions.”

“They want the Eldergrove itself,” Silas realized. “Its power, its resources.”

“And they'll have to go through us to get it.”

The weight of what they faced settled between them, terrible and unavoidable. War had come to the forest's edge, and neither diplomacy nor denial would turn it away.

* * *

Thorne led him to parts of Thornhaven he'd never seen, down winding stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the manor's foundation should allow. The air grew thick with age and power.

“These chambers predate the manor itself,” Thorne explained, his hand warm in Silas's. “Built when the first bridge between realms was forged.”

They emerged into a vast cavern where crystalline structures pulsed with faint light. Each was taller than a man, arranged in precise geometric patterns that hurt Silas's eyes if he looked too long.

“Beautiful,” he breathed.

“Deadly,” Thorne corrected. “When active, they channel the forest's full power. Nothing uninvited could pass.”

“How do we activate them?”

Thorne's answer was to pull him close, positioning Silas's hands on the nearest crystal. “Together. Your blood carries the key, but my magic provides the spark.”

He covered Silas's hands with his own, and suddenly Silas could feel it—the dormant power humming beneath his palms, waiting to be awakened.

“Focus,” Thorne murmured in his ear. “Feel the patterns. Let them flow through you.”

It was like learning to dance, following Thorne's lead as magic moved between them. Each crystal they awakened strengthened their connection, made their combined power burn brighter.

By the third crystal, Silas was trembling from the intensity. By the fifth, he could barely stand. Thorne supported him, one arm around his waist, their bodies pressed together as magic coursed through them both.

“Too much?” Thorne asked, concern evident.

“No,” Silas managed. “Just... intense.”

They were approaching the final crystal when Silas noticed an irregularity in the chamber wall. A seam that didn't match the natural stone.

“Wait.” He pulled away from Thorne, drawn to investigate.

The hidden alcove opened at his touch, revealing artifacts that made his breath catch. Portraits, documents, personal items—all bearing the Ashworth crest but ancient, forgotten.

One painting stopped him cold.

Two men stood side by side, one a perfect mirror of himself, the other unmistakably Thorne. But the nameplate read “Marcus and Lysander Ashworth,” with dates suggesting brothers, not a single betrayer.

“Thorne?” His voice shook. “You need to see this.”

Thorne approached slowly, as if the painting might attack. When he saw it, he went perfectly still.

“Lysander,” he whispered. “I... I'd forgotten that name.”

“Lysander Ashworth,” Silas said, his mind racing through the fragmented family histories he'd studied. “He was mentioned in our oldest family records, but only in passing—a footnote, a cautionary tale of weakness. He and Marcus were brothers, but Lysander mysteriously vanished from the official histories after a certain point.” He traced the gilded frame with trembling fingers. “My tutors always glossed over him, saying only that he'd failed the family somehow. That he'd chosen 'sentiment over duty.'”

“Brothers,” Thorne repeated, his voice distant. “Not one man. Brothers who...”

“Who took different paths,” Silas finished, memories of hidden archives surfacing. “There was a manuscript—one I found in my father's restricted collection. It mentioned Lysander as 'the lost heir' who'd 'succumbed to forest enchantment.' I always assumed it was propaganda, justifying his removal from succession.”

Thorne's hand hovered over the painting, not quite touching it. “The story I've carried for centuries... it was Marcus who betrayed our pact, who turned against the forest after pledging alliance. But there were two of them? Brothers, not a single betrayer?”

“This changes everything,” Silas said. He examined other documents in the alcove—letters, journals, sketches showing both brothers in the forest. One journal entry caught his eye:

L. meets again with the Guardian today. M. grows increasingly suspicious of their bond.

He held up the journal. “While Marcus negotiated political alliances with you, Lysander was...”

“Forming a different kind of bond,” Thorne said, memories visibly struggling to surface. “I remember fragments now. Two faces, similar but distinct. One cold and calculating, the other warm and curious.” He pressed his fingers to his temples. “How could I forget something so fundamental? How could I merge them into a single betrayer in my mind?”

“Trauma,” Silas suggested gently. “Or perhaps deliberate manipulation. If someone wanted to ensure the breach between humans and guardians remained permanent...”

“They would erase the brother who sought unity,” Thorne finished. “Remove even the memory of another path.”

Silas continued examining the artifacts, piecing together a story that had been systematically erased from both human and guardian histories. “Lysander didn't just disappear—he was exiled. These documents suggest he continued to advocate for guardian alliances even after he was removed from succession. He believed in a different future than the one Marcus created.”

“A future where humans and guardians remained connected,” Thorne said, his voice growing stronger as memories crystallized. “Where we didn't retreat into separate realms.”

Before they could explore further, the crystal in Silas's pocket flared with warning. Something was happening above.

They raced back to the surface, emerging into early evening light. The forest had transformed in their absence. Trees moved restlessly, their branches forming defensive patterns. Spirits materialized from shadow and mist, looking to Thorne for guidance.

“The council gathers,” Elder Willow's voice rustled through the leaves. “All must prepare.”

Thorne's demeanor shifted instantly from shaken to commanding. Power radiated from him in visible waves as he strode through the forest, issuing orders, checking defenses. His free hand never left Silas's waist, keeping him close as they moved between gatherings of forest denizens.

The sacred grove hummed with activity when they arrived. Ancient spirits Silas had only glimpsed before now stood in full manifestation—beings of bark and stone, water and wind, starlight and shadow.

“The humans mass at our borders,” announced the Oak Queen, her voice creaking like old wood. “Their magic reeks of iron and death.”

“We know,” Thorne replied, pulling Silas closer. “We've seen their preparations.”

“And what of him?” A spirit of living flame gestured at Silas.

“With us,” Thorne said firmly. “Always.”

Silas felt the weight of ancient eyes studying him, measuring his worth. The crystal at his throat pulsed in time with his racing heart.

“Your bond changes everything,” Elder Willow observed. “Makes us stronger, yes, but also vulnerable. They will use it against you.”

“Let them try,” Thorne growled.

* * *

As the council dispersed, Thorne created a shelter from living branches, drawing Silas inside. The space was small, intimate, lit by phosphorescent moss.

“I need you,” Thorne said simply, already pulling at Silas's clothes.

Silas let himself be guided to the floor, moss and thick roots rising up beneath him to form a soft, warm bed. The air pulsed with magic, faintly humming through the wood and into his spine. He was already slick, his body aching with anticipation, hole wet and wanting. It wasn't new. Not with Thorne. His body remembered this—remembered him.

Thorne’s hands trembled as they moved over his skin, reverent but urgent. He paused only long enough to look at Silas, to really see him, before pushing Silas’s thighs open and settling between them.

“You’ve been waiting,” Thorne murmured, fingers ghosting over the mess between Silas’s legs. “Fuck, you’re already wet for me.”

Silas nodded, lips parted. “Always am, with you.”

That earned him a sound, low and rough in Thorne’s throat. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a moan. Just hunger wrapped in love. He kissed Silas again, deep and slow, even as his fingers worked him open. They didn’t need much. Just enough to tease. Just enough to savor.

The moment Thorne pressed the blunt head of his cock against Silas’s hole, Silas moaned, head tipping back into the moss. His body gave easily, pulling Thorne in inch by inch, until the stretch burned in that perfect way. He was full, completely and utterly, and he never wanted to be anything else.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” Thorne said, his voice rough against Silas’s throat.

Silas’s nails dug into his back, hips already moving. “Don’t make me beg,” he whispered. “Just fuck me.”

The rhythm started slow. Thorne buried himself to the hilt and stayed there for a breathless moment, like he was trying to memorize the feel of it. Then he pulled out just enough to press back in again, grinding his hips down with each slow stroke. Silas clung to him, breath hitching every time Thorne’s cock hit deep, dragging against that spot that made his whole body tremble.

It wasn’t just sex. It was a claiming. A tethering. Every thrust said I’m here, and every moan said don’t leave.

Thorne’s mouth found Silas’s again, sloppy and desperate. His hands kept moving—one braced beside Silas’s head, the other gripping his thigh tight, grounding them both.

“You feel so good,” Thorne said, hips moving faster now. “So fucking good like this.”

“Harder,” Silas gasped. “Please.”

The pace shifted. Thorne drove into him with purpose, cock dragging in and out, slick and messy and perfect. Their bodies slapped together, the sounds sharp in the small hollow, and Silas loved it. Loved the way Thorne filled him, loved the way he lost control, voice cracking as he cursed and groaned and whispered Silas’s name like a prayer.

Every thrust sent heat spiraling up his spine. His cock was hard between them, untouched, leaking against his stomach, but he didn’t care. All he could feel was Thorne inside him, splitting him open in the best way.

“You’re mine,” Thorne growled, biting at Silas’s neck. “This hole, this body—it’s all mine.”

“Yes,” Silas gasped. “Yours. Fuck, I’m yours.”

The words hit something deep inside Thorne. His rhythm stuttered, then turned frantic, his thrusts growing rougher, messier, cock slamming into Silas’s slick hole with enough force to make the branches overhead quiver.

Silas was close. He could feel it building, tight and unbearable. “I’m gonna come,” he gasped. “Thorne—please?—”

“Come for me,” Thorne rasped. “Let me feel you.”

Silas shattered, his orgasm hitting like a wave, soaking his belly, his chest, his soul. He cried out, back arching, body clenching hard around Thorne’s cock.

Thorne cursed, hips jerking as he spilled inside him, cock pulsing deep, filling him with warmth and breathless pleasure. His body collapsed over Silas’s, shaking with the force of it, both of them a tangled, sweaty, glowing mess.

The only sound for a long moment was their breathing. Silas’s heart thundered beneath his ribs, but his mind had gone quiet, like the forest itself was giving them a moment to just exist.

“You okay?” Thorne asked, voice rough, still buried inside him.

Silas nodded, dazed. “Yeah. I just… I needed that.”

Thorne pulled back to look at him, hand cradling the side of his face. “Me too.”

The branches above curled tighter, the glow of the moss dimming just a little as the world settled. Silas felt the wet between his thighs, the stretch of being filled, the ache in his muscles, but none of it mattered. It was good. It was real.

“Don’t go,” Silas whispered, not quite sure why the words slipped out. Maybe it was the aftermath. Or maybe it was the looming war and the weight they’d both been carrying.

“I won’t,” Thorne said. “Not unless you send me.”

Silas reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“Lucky bastard,” Thorne murmured, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

The forest responded to their passion, flowers blooming out of season, vines weaving protective barriers around their shelter. Magic spiraled between them, building to a crescendo that left them both gasping.

After, lying tangled together on a bed of moss, Silas traced the glowing patterns on Thorne's chest. They pulsed lazily, sated and content.

“I'm scared,” he admitted quietly.

Thorne's arms tightened around him. “So am I.”

“Not of the battle. Of... of having to choose. Between you and any chance of peace with my family.”

“You won't have to choose,” Thorne said fiercely. “I won't let it come to that.”

“You can't control everything.”

“Watch me.”

Silas might have argued further, but the crystal suddenly flared with burning heat. They both sat up, instantly alert.

They dressed quickly but took time for protective rituals. Thorne painted sigils on Silas's skin with berry juice mixed with his own magic, sealing each with a kiss. Silas returned the favor, weaving charms into Thorne's crown of branches.

Hand in hand, they approached the meeting place—an ancient stone circle that predated even Thorne's guardianship. The forest grew unnaturally quiet as they walked, as if holding its breath.

Thorne's form shifted subtly, becoming more otherworldly, more dangerous. Yet he kept Silas close, their joined hands creating a circuit of shared power.

A figure waited in the circle, cloaked in midnight blue with a mask obscuring their features. They bore tokens from three different kingdoms and spoke with an accent Silas couldn't place.

“Guardian of the Eldergrove,” the stranger said formally. “I come with warning.”

“Speak,” Thorne commanded.

“The forgotten heir returns. Crown's shadow falls on thorns. What was divided must?—”

The sound of approaching creatures cut them off—a chittering, unnatural noise that made the hair on Silas's neck stand up. Not human soldiers, but something twisted and wrong.

“Corrupted forest spirits,” Silas hissed, recognizing the distorted magical signatures.

The messenger thrust a sealed letter into his hands. The wax bore the Ashworth crest, but subtly different—older, more elaborate.

“Find the truth between the lines,” they said urgently. “Before the moon?—”

They vanished into shadow as the first of the corrupted beings burst into the clearing. Once they might have been dryads or wood sprites, but now their forms bent at impossible angles, their eyes leaking black ichor, their voices a cacophony of broken songs.

Thorne pushed Silas behind him, power gathering like storm clouds. The forest responded to its guardian's call, branches creaking ominously, roots shifting beneath the earth.

“You trespass on sacred ground,” Thorne warned, his voice carrying ancient authority.

The corrupted spirits didn't respond with words—only screams as they launched themselves forward. Their touch withered plant life, leaving smoking trails of decay.

Thorne's power exploded outward, a wave of pure forest magic that temporarily drove them back. Trees bent like reeds in a hurricane. The very ground trembled.

“Thorne,” Silas called, summoning his own power. The key at his throat blazed with light. “They're trying to surround us.”

“Then we fight back to back,” Thorne replied, his form growing taller, more primal, antlers spreading from his crown.

Silas pressed his back to Thorne's, channeling energy through the ancient key. Their magic merged naturally now, creating a shield of swirling light and forest energy. Where corrupted spirits touched it, they recoiled, their twisted forms unable to breach the combined power.

One larger creature—perhaps once a guardian of a lesser grove—hurled spheres of corrupted energy that exploded against their shield, each impact making Silas's teeth rattle.

“We can't hold this position,” Thorne growled, sending lances of pure green energy through three attackers, who dissolved into tainted mist. “There are too many.”

Silas nodded, concentrating on maintaining their protective barrier while Thorne carved a path toward the deeper forest. Each step required perfect coordination, their combined magic allowing them to move as one.

With a final surge of power, Thorne created an opening in the corrupted ranks. “Now!” he shouted, grabbing Silas's hand and pulling him through the gap.

They ran through paths only a forest guardian could see, the sounds of pursuit gradually fading behind them. The letter felt heavy in Silas's pocket, its secrets burning to be revealed.

When they finally stopped, deep in the Eldergrove's heart where the oldest trees stood sentinel, Silas leaned against Thorne, both of them breathing hard.

“That was no coincidence,” Thorne said grimly. “Those creatures appeared the moment the messenger mentioned the forgotten heir.”

“Someone doesn't want us to hear that message,” Silas agreed, fingering the sealed letter. “Or receive this.”

The game had changed, pieces moving on a board larger than any of them had imagined. And somewhere in the shadows, a forgotten heir waited to reclaim what was lost.

They'd survived the first move.

But the real battle was just beginning.