Page 6

6

ECHOES OF HOME

S ilas jolted awake, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat soaked through his tunic, plastering it to his skin. The dream clung to him like cobwebs.

Gilded halls stretching endlessly, the weight of a crown pressing into his temples, and worst of all, Thorne kneeling at his feet, silver chains binding him like some exotic pet.

“Fuck,” he whispered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. The dream-crown's weight lingered, a phantom pressure that made his stomach turn.

Careful not to disturb Thorne's sleep, Silas extracted himself from their shared bedroll. The pre-dawn air bit at his damp skin as he moved to the edge of their small camp. Stars still glittered overhead, but the eastern horizon held the first hints of gray.

“You're thinking too loudly,” Thorne's voice came from behind him, rough with sleep.

Familiar arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back against a warm chest. Thorne's chin settled on his shoulder, breath tickling his ear.

“Bad dreams?” Thorne asked, though their bond likely told him everything he needed to know.

Silas nodded, not trusting his voice. The nightmare images flashed again: Thorne in chains, himself on a throne, power corrupting everything they'd built.

Thorne turned him gently, cupping his face with hands that still carried the warmth of sleep. In the growing light, his eyes held that impossible depth, green and gold swirling like forest canopies viewed from below.

“Whatever haunts you,” Thorne murmured, “remember this.”

His kiss started soft but deepened quickly, tongue sliding against Silas's with deliberate intent. Through their bond, Silas felt waves of certainty, love, choice. Not destiny's puppet strings but conscious decision, renewed with every touch.

“Prophecy may have brought us together,” Thorne breathed against his lips, “but every moment since has been our choice. Yours and mine.”

Silas's back hit tree bark as Thorne pressed closer, hands sliding under his sweat-damp tunic. The rough texture grounded him in reality, banishing the last wisps of nightmare. When Thorne's fingers found his nipples, pinching just hard enough to make him gasp, all thoughts of destiny evaporated.

“Here?” Silas managed, aware of their sleeping companions nearby.

“Here,” Thorne confirmed, already working at the laces of Silas's trousers. “Now. Let me remind you what's real.”

The first touch of Thorne’s hand on his cock made Silas bite back a moan, sharp and involuntary. His whole body jolted like a struck chord, nerves still raw from the dream’s grip. But Thorne’s touch—calloused and confident—cut through the haze, anchoring him. The nightmare had left a cold sweat clinging to his skin, the lingering scent of fear still in his nose. But Thorne’s warmth, the roughness of his palm stroking him slow and sure, was something real, undeniable.

He didn’t resist when Thorne dropped to his knees.

The forest around them was still. The others were asleep, tucked away in tents or curled beneath cloaks, but it all blurred at the edges of Silas’s mind. All that existed now was Thorne’s breath ghosting over his cock, the heat of his mouth a second later as he took him in deep, without preamble.

Silas’s hands flew to Thorne’s shoulders, fingers digging in. The contrast between the nightmare’s cold void and this—Thorne’s mouth, the pressure, the wet heat of his tongue—nearly undid him.

“Fuck—” he whispered, not daring to speak louder. The sound scraped out of him like prayer and profanity all at once.

Thorne hummed in response, sending vibration straight through him. He bobbed his head slow and deliberate, eyes half-lidded and focused like worship. Silas watched, breath stuttering. There was no distance in this. No detachment. Every flick of Thorne’s tongue felt like a vow.

Silas’s knees buckled, and Thorne caught him with an arm looped around the back of his thigh, keeping him upright against the tree. Leaves shivered above them, a soft rustling canopy, and the world seemed to hold its breath around them.

“Thorne—” His voice cracked. “I need?—”

“I know.” Thorne pulled back, lips wet, voice low. He rose in one fluid motion, crowding into Silas’s space again, kissing him hard. Silas tasted himself on Thorne’s tongue, the sharp copper of hunger wrapped in something gentler—something like devotion.

Thorne turned him gently, so Silas faced the tree, his chest pressed to bark that scraped lightly against his tunic. He heard the rustle of Thorne’s trousers being shoved down, felt the heat of him against the back of his thigh, then higher. Thorne’s hands moved with reverence, pushing Silas’s tunic up, exposing the curve of his ass to the cool morning air.

When fingers brushed over his hole, slicked from Thorne’s mouth or spit, Silas’s breath hitched. There was no teasing. No delay. Just the deliberate press of two fingers pushing in, slow and steady, opening him with practiced care.

His hips bucked forward against the tree, caught between rough bark and the relentless slide of Thorne’s fingers.

“You’re real,” Silas whispered. He wasn’t sure if it was for himself or Thorne.

“I am,” Thorne murmured behind him. “And so are you. You’re not lost, Silas. I’ve got you.”

Silas exhaled sharply as the fingers inside him curled, brushing that spot that made him see stars. His forehead pressed against the bark, grounding himself against the sensation. His cock ached, leaking, but Thorne’s focus was on preparing him, working him open with slow, intimate attention.

When Thorne finally slid inside—one long, deliberate push that filled him to the hilt—Silas cried out into the crook of his arm, muffled and raw. The stretch, the pressure, the way Thorne fit so perfectly—it was everything. It was proof.

Thorne’s chest pressed against his back, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Still with me?”

Silas nodded, gasping. “Yes. Gods, yes.”

Thorne’s pace was unhurried at first, rolling his hips into Silas with steady control. Each thrust drove the air from Silas’s lungs, not just from pleasure, but from the weight of emotion behind it. This wasn’t fucking. This wasn’t possession.

This was remembering.

The nightmare had left him feeling hollow, like something precious had been ripped from him in sleep. But this—Thorne’s cock inside him, the grip of his hands on Silas’s hips, the soft grunt each time he thrust forward—filled all the empty places.

“I dreamed I lost you,” Silas admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Never.” Thorne's reply was immediate, spoken against his skin, breath warm at his nape. “You're mine. And I'm yours. No nightmare can change that truth.”

His pace quickened, hips snapping forward harder, making Silas brace himself with both hands against the tree. The angle shifted, and stars burst behind his eyes with every thrust. He clenched around Thorne, greedy for it, grounding himself in the feeling.

Sweat slicked their bodies, the sound of skin on skin rising with each movement, but they stayed quiet, moving in that desperate rhythm only lovers knew. Silas felt every inch of it—the scratch of bark, the air cooling sweat on his spine, the press of Thorne’s chest, the cock sliding in and out of him with a rhythm that made his toes curl.

Thorne’s hand wrapped around his cock again, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation threatened to shatter him.

“Let go,” Thorne whispered. “Let it all go, Silas.”

And he did.

The orgasm ripped through him without warning, spilling over Thorne’s hand and down his own stomach, his knees giving out entirely. Thorne held him up through it, fucking him through every tremor of aftershock, groaning low as he followed with his own release moments later, buried deep inside him.

Silas felt the warmth of it bloom in him, felt Thorne’s whole body shudder behind him before he slumped forward, wrapping both arms around Silas’s middle and kissing the nape of his neck.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

Eventually, Thorne slid out with a soft sigh, and Silas whimpered at the loss but didn’t pull away. He leaned into the embrace, letting Thorne support his weight. His legs trembled, but he felt lighter. Emptied of the nightmare, refilled with something quieter. Steadier.

Thorne cleaned him with his tunic, murmuring apologies for the mess, even as he pressed soft kisses along Silas’s spine.

“Better?” he asked finally.

Silas turned in his arms, resting his forehead against Thorne’s. “Better,” he said, though his voice was hoarse. “They’ll come back. The dreams always do.”

“Then I’ll be here every time,” Thorne said, brushing sweat-matted hair from his face. “And I’ll fuck them out of you again if I have to.”

Silas huffed a soft laugh. “Romantic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He kissed Thorne then—slow and tender and full of gratitude he didn’t know how to voice. “Thank you.”

Camp stirred to life as full dawn broke. Elena emerged from her small tent, somehow looking fresh despite their rough accommodations. She'd braided flowers into her dark hair, a touch of beauty in their dangerous journey.

“Morning,” she called cheerfully, producing a wrapped package from her pack. “I saved some traveling bread from home. It's got guardian herbs baked in.”

The bread's scent hit Silas like a physical force. Rosemary and something else, something that spoke of sunlit kitchens and simpler times. Memory crashed over him: his mother's garden, before she died. Before his father's ambition consumed everything good in their family.

“My mother used to grow herbs like these,” he found himself saying as they gathered around the small fire. “Back when... before everything changed.”

Thorne's hand settled on his thigh, a steady presence. The touch said I'm here without words.

“She had this little walled garden,” Silas continued, accepting a piece of the fragrant bread. “Father called it frivolous, but she defended it fiercely. Said every palace needed something growing, something alive.” He laughed softly. “I used to hide there when my tutors became too much. She'd pretend not to see me behind the lavender bushes.”

“Sounds beautiful,” Elena said carefully, as if aware she walked on delicate ground.

“It was.” Silas took a bite of bread, letting the familiar flavors settle his nerves. “Father had it paved over after she died. Said it was a waste of space.”

The words hung heavy until Kai broke the silence. “Well, that explains a lot about your charming personality. Raised by a man who paves over gardens.” Kai paused, then added, “By the way, Eliar went back to Thornhaven last night. Said someone should keep watch there while we're dealing with this mess.”

The tension cracked. Even Silas found himself smiling at Kai's irreverence.

“Probably wise,” Thorne nodded. “The manor's defenses need a guardian's touch.”

“Yes, I'm sure that's the root of all my issues,” Silas replied dryly, returning to Kai's earlier comment. “Nothing to do with betraying my family or falling in love with an ancient forest spirit.”

“Speaking of family,” Briar piped up from her perch on a low branch. A raven had just landed beside her, carrying something in its beak.

The sealed letter bore the royal crest. Silas's stomach dropped as he recognized his father's personal seal pressed into the wax. With steady hands that belied his inner turmoil, he broke the seal and unfolded the heavy parchment.

To my son Silas,

Your absence from court has been noted with great concern. I require your immediate return to discuss matters of utmost importance regarding your future and the future of our house.

Failure to present yourself within a fortnight will be considered an act of defiance against the crown. I trust you understand the gravity of such a choice.

“Well,” Silas said after reading it aloud, “that's unambiguous.”

“You can't go back,” Thorne stated flatly. “It's obviously a trap.”

“Of course it's a trap,” Silas agreed. “But ignoring a royal summons brands me a traitor officially. Right now, I'm just a disappointment. There's a significant legal difference.”

Elena frowned thoughtfully. “Could you use this? Turn their trap around somehow?”

The idea sparked something in Silas's mind. His father thought he was still the dutiful son who could be manipulated through duty and shame. What if he played that role?

“I could return,” he said slowly, watching Thorne's expression darken. “Gather intelligence, maybe delay whatever they're planning. Buy us time.”

“Absolutely not,” Thorne snapped. “You're not walking back into that viper's nest alone.”

“I wouldn't be alone. Kai could accompany me as my guard. And you...” Silas reached for Thorne's hand. “You could follow through magical means. Stay close but hidden.”

“It's too dangerous,” Thorne insisted, but Silas could see him considering it.

“Everything we do is dangerous,” Silas countered. “At least this puts me somewhere I understand. Court politics, I know. It's the one battlefield where I have the advantage.”

Their argument grew heated, magic crackling in the air around them. Elena and Kai retreated to a respectful distance as words turned to shouts.

“You don't understand what you're asking,” Thorne snarled, his form flickering between human and something wilder. “To send you back to them, to risk losing you to that world again...”

“I'm not asking,” Silas shot back. “I'm telling you what needs to be done. This is my choice, Thorne. My risk to take.”

The words hung between them until Thorne surged forward, claiming Silas's mouth in a brutal kiss. They fell to the forest floor, hands tearing at clothing, magic spiraling wild around them.

“I can't lose you,” Thorne gasped between desperate kisses. “Not to them, not to anyone.”

“You won't,” Silas promised, rolling them so he straddled Thorne's hips. “Because I carry your world within me now. They can't take that away.”

“If we do this,” Thorne said, “we do it my way. I follow close enough to reach you if needed. We maintain constant contact through the bond and crystal. And the moment I sense real danger, I extract you regardless of consequences.”

“Agreed,” Silas said, knowing some of those terms would be impossible to keep but willing to promise anything to ease Thorne's fear.

Elena provided court-appropriate clothing from her seemingly bottomless pack. The fine fabrics felt foreign against Silas's skin after weeks in practical travel wear. As Thorne helped him dress, each touch lingered, as if memorizing the feel of him.

“Remember who you truly are,” Thorne whispered, lips brushing Silas's pulse point. “Remember what we're fighting for.”

Silas caught Thorne's hand, pressing it to his heart. “Every beat belongs to you. This is just a mask I wear.”

The hardest moment came at the crossroads where they had to part ways. Silas and Kai would take the main road to the capital while the others followed hidden paths. Thorne pulled Silas into a fierce kiss, completely uncaring of their audience.

“Stay safe,” he demanded rather than asked. “Come back to me.”

“Always,” Silas promised, feeling Thorne's fear and trust war within their bond.

* * *

As they rode away, Silas touched the crystal at his throat. It pulsed warm against his skin, carrying Thorne's presence like a heartbeat. Whatever lay ahead, he wouldn't face it alone.

The main roads told a disturbing story. Military checkpoints had sprouted like mushrooms after rain. Soldiers wore his father's colors, and supply wagons rolled steadily toward the Eldergrove border. War preparations were evident in every village they passed.

“Your old man's not subtle, is he?” Kai observed as they navigated yet another checkpoint.

“Subtlety was never his strength,” Silas replied. “He prefers overwhelming force to finesse.”

The closer they drew to the capital of Highcrest, the more Silas felt himself changing. His posture straightened, his speech patterns shifted, and the mask of nobility settled over his features like an old, ill-fitting coat. Kai watched the transformation with obvious concern.

“Don't lose yourself in there,” his friend warned one evening. “Remember what's real.”

“I know what's real,” Silas assured him, touching the crystal. Through it, he felt Thorne's steady presence, distant but constant.

Their most significant encounter came at an inn just outside the capital. Commander Diana Vale sat at a corner table, dressed in civilian clothes but unmistakably military in bearing. Her presence was no coincidence.

“Lord Ashworth,” she greeted formally as they approached. “Welcome back to civilization.”

“Commander,” Silas replied, playing the game. “Enjoying your leave?”

“Something like that.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully to the other patrons. “Perhaps we could speak privately?”

In a small private dining room, her demeanor changed completely. “Your father's plans are more extensive than you know,” she said without preamble. “Not everyone in the military agrees with his methods.”

“Meaning?”

She slid a small pin across the table. It looked like a common piece of jewelry, but Silas recognized the ancient symbol worked into its design.

“Some of us remember the old oaths,” she said quietly. “The ones sworn before your family decided magic was something to be controlled rather than respected. That pin might open doors you need opened.”

“Why help me?”

Her smile held no warmth. “Because some wars destroy both sides. And I'd rather not command ashes.”

The capital's spires pierced the horizon the next morning, beautiful and threatening as dragon's teeth. As they approached, Silas felt the crystal grow cooler against his skin. The layers of human construction, of cold stone and colder ambition, interfered with his connection to Thorne.

But when he closed his eyes and focused, the bond remained. A thread of starlight through shadow, unbreakable as long as he held faith.

The palace guards snapped to attention as Silas approached the gates. Whispers followed their progress through the courtyard.

“The young lord returns.”

“I heard he was exiled.”

“No, no, sent to manage family holdings.”

“But why is he back now?”

Silas kept his expression neutral as they crossed the familiar stone pathways, past the fountain he'd played in as a child, through the colonnaded walkway that had always echoed with gossip. With each step deeper into the palace complex, the weight of returning pressed heavier on his shoulders. Through the crystal, he sent pulses of anxiety to Thorne. The response came immediately: waves of love and strength that steadied his nerves. He could do this. He had to do this.

Diana led them through the marble corridors, her boots clicking against the polished floor, past tapestries depicting Ashworth victories and painted portraits of stern-faced ancestors. When they reached the formal reception hall with its vaulted ceilings and elaborate chandeliers, Lady Evangeline was already waiting, resplendent in court dress. Her embrace conveyed both genuine relief and careful warning.

“Your father has been... most insistent about your return,” she said, loud enough for nearby courtiers to hear. Then, softer, as she adjusted his collar, “The old alliances remember. Be careful, but be ready.”

Her eyes lingered on the crystal at his throat, recognition flashing briefly before her court mask slipped back into place.

King Thomas didn't make him wait, a clear power play. The throne room was packed with nobles eager to witness this family drama unfold. Silas approached the throne with measured steps, cataloging everything: new guards in unfamiliar uniforms, magical wards that made his skin crawl, tension thick enough to choke on.

His father sat the throne like it had grown from his body, crown glinting in the afternoon light. The king's greeting dripped ice: “My son returns. I trust your exile has taught you the value of family loyalty.”

Silas felt every eye in the throne room upon him, measuring his response. Courtiers leaned forward slightly, hungry for the drama of reunion. Lady Harrington, his father's most loyal supporter, nodded approvingly at the king's cool reception.

What followed was pure political theater. King Thomas spoke of forgiveness and second chances while outlining expectations that amounted to complete submission. “Your time away was meant to be instructive,” he stated, studying the court's reaction. “A lesson in what truly matters. Have you learned?”

He let the question hang in the air, a test disguised as welcome. “The crown requires steadfast heirs. Ones who understand that personal desires take second place to duty.”

“I have learned much, Father,” Silas replied, his voice carrying the precise mixture of deference and dignity that court protocol demanded. His hands remained relaxed at his sides, though he longed to clench them. “The Eldergrove has been... most educational.”

Lord Blackwood scoffed audibly from his position near the throne. “Educational? Is that what we're calling consorting with forest spirits these days?”

Murmurs rippled through the assembled nobility. Silas allowed his gaze to rest briefly on Blackwood, long enough to acknowledge the barb but not so long as to show it had struck home.

“I've learned about power, Father,” Silas continued, addressing the king directly. “About different kinds of strength. About alliances that serve the realm in ways we've forgotten.”

The king's eyes narrowed slightly. “Curious lessons from a forest backwater.”

“Perhaps that's why you sent me there,” Silas countered, his tone perfectly balanced between observation and challenge.

Duke Marlow cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, perhaps the young lord would benefit from time to... readjust to civilized society before discussing matters of state.”

“My son claims to have learned about power and alliances,” King Thomas replied, never taking his eyes from Silas. “I'm curious to hear what forest wisdom he brings to our court.” His smile carried no warmth. “Enlighten us, my son.”

Silas recognized the trap. Speak too freely of the Eldergrove's magic, and he'd be dismissed as bewitched. Say too little, and he'd appear unchanged by his exile. He chose his words with careful precision.

“I learned that strength comes in many forms, Father. That true loyalty isn't always obvious. That sometimes, those we've been taught to fear understand protection better than those we've been taught to trust.”

Lady Evangeline made a small sound—approval disguised as a cough. King Thomas's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the throne's armrests.

“Fine words,” the king said flatly. “But words are wind. Actions will prove whether you've truly learned your place.”

Silas played his part flawlessly.

Inside, he seethed. Through their bond, he felt Thorne's rage at every honeyed lie, but also pride in his performance. The game required sacrifice, and Silas had learned to pay its price.

“Clear the room,” King Thomas commanded when the public spectacle concluded. “I would speak with my son privately.”

The courtiers filed out reluctantly, denied the drama's climax. When the great doors closed, leaving them alone save for the king's personal guard, Thomas's mask dropped entirely.

“I know what you've become to that creature,” he stated flatly. “End it now, or I will end him.”

“Father—”

“No.” The king's voice cracked like a whip. “You will listen. I have three legions positioned around the Eldergrove. Mages who've found ways to breach its defenses. Weapons you can't imagine. One word from me, and your precious forest burns.”

Silas kept his expression neutral through sheer force of will. “You would risk war with powers you don't understand?”

“I understand perfectly. Magic is a resource, nothing more. And resources exist to be controlled.” Thomas leaned forward. “You have one week to sever your connection to that thing. Return to your proper place. Or watch everything you've come to love turn to ash.”

Through their bond, Silas felt Thorne's fury like distant thunder. But he maintained his facade, bowing his head as if in thought.

“Your wisdom guides me, Father,” he said, the words ash in his mouth. “I will... consider deeply what you've said.”

“See that you do. Dismissed.”

As Silas walked from the throne room, back straight and steps measured, he memorized every detail of his father's threats. The game had indeed begun, but it was far more deadly than even he had anticipated.