Page 7
7
GILDED CAGE
T he capital of Highcrest sprawled before Thorne like a creature of stone and spite, its spires clawing at the sky while smoke coiled between buildings like dying serpents. After centuries among ancient trees and starlit glades, this human hive felt alien, almost hostile. Each breath drew in air heavy with forge-smoke and unwashed bodies, a far cry from the clean scent of pine and morning dew he knew.
“This way,” Elena whispered, guiding him through an alley where puddles reflected slivers of gray sky. “Keep your hood up. The glamour's good, but we can't risk someone looking too closely.”
Thorne pulled the rough wool tighter around his face, fighting the disorientation that came with walking on cobblestones instead of forest loam. His boots, made for soft earth and moss, clicked against stone with sounds that felt wrong, unnatural. Through their bond, he sensed Silas's carefully controlled anxiety, and something in him twisted. The need to reach his lover, to ensure his safety, pulsed through him with an intensity that surprised even himself.
“Almost there,” Elena promised, turning down yet another narrow passage where laundry lines criss-crossed overhead like trapped clouds. “My family's maintained this safe house for generations.”
The townhouse slouched between its neighbors, windows boarded with planks that had weathered to silver-gray. Ivy crawled up its walls in patterns that looked random to untrained eyes but spelled out protective runes in the old tongue. As they crossed the threshold, Thorne felt ancient wards recognize him, their magic humming a welcome beneath layers of carefully cultivated neglect.
“The basement,” Elena said, leading him down stairs worn smooth by countless feet. “We saved what we could.”
The sight that greeted him nearly brought Thorne to his knees. A garden, small but fiercely alive, grew around an ancient oak whose branches spread against the low ceiling like arms reaching for sky. Luminous mushrooms dotted the base of the trunk, and night-blooming flowers opened despite the lack of natural light.
“Brother,” Thorne whispered, stumbling forward to press his palms against bark that felt warm, almost pulse-like. Power flowed into him, weak but pure, like water to a man dying of thirst.
“Will it be enough?” Briar asked, her small form materializing from his shadow. She'd insisted on accompanying him, claiming someone needed to ensure he didn't do anything stupid for love.
“It has to be.” Thorne sank to the ground, roots curling up to cradle him like old friends. Through the tree's connection to older magics, he could sense the layout of the city, including the palace where Silas navigated his dangerous game.
But reaching him directly proved frustratingly impossible. Iron barriers and human wards created a maze that scattered his magical senses. Thorne pushed harder, feeling his form flicker dangerously. The need to reach Silas burned in him with unusual intensity, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if their bond was amplifying his protective instincts beyond reason.
“Stop,” Elena commanded. “You'll draw the king's mages. They patrol constantly for unauthorized magic, especially now.”
“I need to reach him,” Thorne said, his voice rougher than intended. The words came out almost desperate, and he noticed Elena and Briar exchange concerned glances.
“You will. But not like this.” She knelt beside him, studying his face with newfound worry. “The bond... it's affecting you more strongly here, isn't it? Away from your forest, in hostile territory?”
Thorne wanted to deny it, but honesty won out. “Everything feels... amplified. The need to protect him, to be near him. It's like a constant ache.”
“That's the bond responding to threat,” Elena explained gently. “In your forest, you're both safe. Here, with him in danger and you weakened, it's overcompensating. You need to recognize when it's the bond pushing you and when it's your own judgment.”
Elena's network proved more extensive than Thorne expected. Kitchen maids who maintained hidden shrines in pantry corners. Guards whose families remembered older oaths. Minor nobles who practiced guardian traditions behind closed doors.
“The king plans more than just attacking the Eldergrove,” whispered a servant girl as she brought them bread and cheese on the second morning. Her hands shook as she arranged the plates. “There's talk in the kitchens. Strange ingredients being gathered. Ritual components.”
“What kind of ritual?” Elena asked sharply.
The girl glanced nervously at Thorne. “Something about binding. Using the young lord's connection to...” She couldn't finish, but her meaning was clear.
Thorne's form rippled with rage, antlers threatening to manifest. The protective fury that surged through him felt almost foreign in its intensity.
“The bond,” Elena murmured after the girl left. “It's making you more volatile. More protective. We need to be careful.”
Thorne spent the afternoon wrestling with that truth. Each time Silas faced a challenge at court, every political maneuver his lover navigated, sent waves of protective fury through Thorne that he struggled to control. He could feel himself growing more possessive, more prone to action rather than thought. Meditation helped, but only marginally.
By evening, once he'd managed to center himself somewhat, Elena found him in the small garden. “Come,” she said softly. “There's something you need to see.”
She led him to a hidden chamber beneath the cabin, one that required careful navigation through warded passages. “Tonight's court gathering,” she explained as they descended narrow stairs. “The wards are weakest then. You can watch, though not interact.”
The image swam into focus: crystal chandeliers casting rainbow fragments across marble floors, nobles in silk and velvet moving through the elaborate steps of court dances. And there, at the center of it all, stood Silas.
Thorne's breath caught. His lover wore formal attire in deep blue that brought out his eyes, moving with practiced grace as he led a nobleman's daughter through a waltz. To any observer, his smile appeared genuine, his manner perfectly appropriate for a returned heir.
But Thorne saw what others missed: the slight tension in Silas's shoulders, the way his fingers brushed the crystal at his throat between dances, the micro-expressions of distaste when certain nobles approached.
“He's magnificent,” Elena murmured appreciatively.
Thorne's growl made her laugh. “Peace, guardian. I meant his performance. He's playing them all perfectly.”
Lady Evangeline appeared in the scrying mirror, resplendent in deep green silk. She and Silas exchanged what seemed like casual pleasantries, but Thorne caught the subtle hand signals, the loaded glances.
“She's been preparing for this,” Elena explained. “Gathering allies among the older houses. Those who remember when the relationship between humans and guardians wasn't about dominance.”
“I can't bear this,” he admitted finally. “Watching but not touching. Being so close yet completely separated.”
“Then don't just watch,” Briar suggested. “You're connected. Use it.”
Dangerous advice, but Thorne was past caution. He gathered his power, pushing against the palace wards, seeking the familiar resonance of their bond.
Pain lanced through him as human magic fought back. His form wavered, threatening to discorporate entirely. But there, a thread of warmth, of home...
Silas's chambers materialized around him, though Thorne himself remained partially transparent, more ghost than guardian. Silas whirled from where he'd been removing his formal jacket, eyes wide with shock and joy.
“Thorne!”
They reached for each other instinctively. The agony of their fingers passing through each other made them both gasp.
“I couldn't stay away,” Thorne confessed, drinking in the sight of his lover. “Are you well? Are they treating you?—”
“I'm fine,” Silas assured him quickly. “Playing my part. Gathering what we need.” His eyes devoured Thorne with equal hunger. “Gods, I miss you. Miss your touch, your scent, everything.”
“Soon,” Thorne promised, though he had no idea how to make it true. “What have you learned?”
“Father's planning something bigger than we thought. There are references in the archives to someone named Nathaniel Ashworth, exiled years ago. I think he might be?—”
The wards flared, forcing Thorne back. Their time was up.
“I love you,” they said simultaneously, the words carrying all the longing of their separation.
Then Thorne was back in the safe house, gasping from the effort. Elena steadied him while Briar made worried noises.
“That was foolish,” Elena scolded.
“That was necessary,” Thorne countered.
* * *
Elena found him in the basement garden at midnight, pacing between the ancient oak's roots like a caged animal. The tree's branches trembled in sympathy with his agitation, leaves rustling without wind. Luminescent fungi cast an eerie blue glow across the stone walls, and the air smelled of earth and old magic.
“You'll wear a groove in the earth if you keep that up,” she said, settling onto a moss-covered stone. Her dark hair was unbound for once, falling in waves around her shoulders, and she wore a simple linen dress rather than her usual traveling clothes. The informality made her seem younger, more approachable.
Thorne didn't pause in his pacing. “I can feel him getting further away. Not physically, but... the bond feels strained. Muffled.”
“The palace wards are designed to do exactly that,” Elena replied, pulling a worn leather journal from her satchel. The book was thick with age, its pages yellowed and edges soft from centuries of handling. “My ancestors documented similar tactics during the last guardian purge.”
That got his attention. He stopped, turning to face her. “Your family kept records?”
“We kept everything.” She opened the journal, revealing pages covered in coded script interspersed with detailed drawings. “Guard rotations, ward patterns, which nobles could be trusted, which foods were safe for guardians to eat in human form. My grandmother made me memorize it all before I could read properly.”
Thorne moved closer, drawn despite himself. The journal smelled of lavender and age, preservation spells woven into its binding. “How far back do these records go?”
“To the beginning,” Elena said softly. “To Lysander and the first Elena. Their story isn't what your histories claim.”
Briar materialized from the shadows, her small form glowing faintly as she perched on Elena's shoulder. Tonight she wore a crown of tiny white flowers that cast their own light.
Elena flipped to a detailed diagram of the palace grounds, annotated with symbols Thorne didn't recognize. Unlike official maps, this one showed hidden passages, forgotten chambers, and something more—lines of power that coursed beneath the stone like veins of light.
“See these marks?” Elena traced a finger along a curving line. “They indicate weak points in the magical defenses. Places where the ley lines run too close to the surface for even royal mages to fully suppress. The palace was built on an ancient guardian site. They tried to bind the power, but earth magic isn't so easily chained.”
“You're suggesting infiltration,” Thorne said, leaning closer to study the map. The detail was extraordinary—every gargoyle, every hidden door, every shift in the stonework marked with precision.
“I'm suggesting patience and planning.” Her tone sharpened. “Which seems to be in short supply with you.”
Thorne's form flickered with irritation. “Every moment we delay?—”
“Every moment we delay is a moment we're not walking into a trap,” Elena cut him off. “You think you're the first guardian to try a direct assault on the palace? The stones are still stained with their blood. Here.” She flipped to another page, this one showing a list of names and dates. “Guardian Shira, 1453, attempted to rescue her human lover from the dungeons. They found pieces of her scattered across three counties. Guardian Moren, 1582, tried to storm the throne room during a full moon. His antlers still decorate the king's private study.”
The rebuke stung, but Thorne couldn't deny its truth. He sank onto another stone, suddenly weary. “Then what do you propose?”
Elena's expression softened slightly. “First, we need to understand what we're really up against.” She turned to another page, this one depicting ritual circles drawn with mathematical precision. “These binding ceremonies require specific components, specific timing. If we can disrupt even one element...”
“The whole thing falls apart,” Briar finished, hopping from Elena's shoulder to examine the diagrams more closely. “Like pulling a thread from a tapestry.”
“The components list is particularly interesting,” Elena continued, pointing to a section written in what looked like alchemical notation. “Dragon's blood—not actual dragon's blood, but the resin. Moonstone ground under a new moon. Water from a spring that's never seen sunlight. They're gathering traditional binding elements, but there's something else. Something they're trying to hide.”
She pulled out another, newer document—a shipping manifest she'd somehow acquired. “Look at these entries. Iron filings, yes, that's expected. But why would they need so much salt from the Dead Sea? And what's this—'specialized containment vessels, lead-lined, quantity twelve'?”
Thorne studied the manifest, his ancient mind parsing the implications. “They're not just trying to bind guardian magic. They're trying to store it.”
“Exactly.” Elena's eyes gleamed with the thrill of discovery. “This isn't just about controlling you or the Eldergrove. They want to harvest guardian magic itself, bottle it like wine.”
As the night deepened, Elena revealed more of her family's hidden knowledge. She showed him correspondence between her ancestors and various guardian enclaves, creating a picture of a vast underground network that had survived centuries of persecution.
“We've had people inside the palace for generations,” she explained, pulling out a thin sheet that proved to be a floor plan drawn on near-transparent paper. “Servants, minor nobles, even a few guards. They pass information through dead drops, coded messages in laundry lists, that sort of thing.”
“Why?” Thorne asked finally. “Why did your family risk so much to maintain these connections?”
Elena's fingers traced the edge of a page, her expression distant. “Because we remember what Marcus was before the corruption. Because we understand how easily love turns to destruction when fear enters.”
She closed the journal and reached for another, even older volume. This one was bound in leather so dark it seemed to absorb light. “Would you like to know the truth my family preserved? About what really happened?”
Thorne nodded, though his chest tightened with remembered pain.
“Marcus wasn't the firstborn,” Elena began, her words careful, weighted. “By rights, he should never have inherited. But there was a story my grandmother told—that he used magic to influence their father's decision. Nothing proven, mind you, just whispers about enchanted wine at the family council when inheritance was decided.”
She turned the page, revealing a portrait. Marcus wore court finery, crowned with authority he'd claimed rather than inherited.
“Whether by magic or manipulation, Marcus gained what he wanted. But the guilt...” Elena's voice grew thoughtful. “To love truly while hiding such a fundamental betrayal of blood... How could such love survive when built on stolen foundations?”
Thorne felt fragments stirring—emotions without context, guilt without clear source. “He changed,” he said slowly. “Became someone I didn't recognize.”
“Because to recognize himself, he would have to face what he'd done,” Elena explained. “So he buried the truth deeper with each passing year. Built lies to cover lies. And when guilt becomes too heavy to bear, people often convince themselves they were right all along.”
“Every cruel act became justified,” Thorne realized. “Every betrayal a necessary measure to protect what he'd stolen.”
Briar, who had been unusually quiet, spoke up. “The shadow entity feeds on that, doesn't it? On guilt transformed into righteousness.”
“Yes,” Elena confirmed. “And it's been feeding on the Ashworth line ever since. Each generation inheriting not just lands and titles, but the corruption of believing their ancestors' crimes were virtues.”
She stood, moving to a small chest hidden behind a loose stone. From it, she withdrew several items: a compass that pointed to magical north rather than true north, a mirror that showed truth rather than reflection, and a small vial of what looked like liquid starlight.
“These were Lysander's,” she explained. “Passed down through our family. Tools for those who would heal rather than harm.”
Thorne touched the compass reverently. It spun wildly before settling, pointing directly at his heart. “Why show me this now?”
“Because tomorrow, everything changes.” Elena's voice carried the weight of prophecy. “The hunt, the binding ceremony—they're just the beginning. King Thomas isn't just following his father's footsteps anymore. The shadow entity has him fully now. And it wants more than just the Eldergrove.”
She pulled out one final document—a map of the entire kingdom, marked with ley lines and guardian territories. Red X's marked fallen groves, conquered sanctuaries. The pattern they formed made Thorne's blood run cold.
“It's creating a web,” he realized. “Using the bound guardian magic to create a network of control.”
“And Silas is meant to be the centerpiece,” Elena confirmed. “His connection to you, his Ashworth blood, his position as heir—it all makes him perfect for their purposes. They don't just want to use your bond to control guardian magic. They want to fundamentally change how magic works in this realm.”
The implications staggered him. This wasn't just about his forest or his love anymore. This was about the very nature of magic itself.
“That's why we can't just storm in,” Elena continued. “We need to be smarter. We need to use everything our ancestors learned, every connection we've maintained.” She gestured to the journals, the tools, the accumulated wisdom of centuries. “We're not just fighting for ourselves. We're fighting for everyone who still believes in the old ways, in balance rather than domination.”
Thorne leaned back against the oak's trunk, feeling its ancient patience seep into him. Through the muffled bond, he sensed Silas's determination, steady as a heartbeat. But now he understood the true scope of what they faced.
“Tell me about these weak points in the palace defenses,” he said finally. “Tell me everything.”
Elena smiled, fierce and bright. “I thought you'd never ask.”
They worked through the night, planning and preparing. Elena revealed secret passages that hadn't been used in centuries, guard schedules that followed patterns unchanged since her grandmother's time, and most importantly, the specific requirements for the binding ceremony itself.
“It has to happen at noon,” she explained, pointing to astronomical charts. “When the sun is at its zenith. They need that solar power to overwhelm your lunar nature. And it has to be in the throne room—that's where the original binding circles were carved into the floor.”
“Hidden under carpets now, I assume,” Thorne muttered.
“Under carpets, under newer stone, under layers of concealment spells. But still there, still hungry.” Elena's expression darkened. “That's the real danger. Those circles were made to hold guardian magic. Once you're inside them...”
“I'd be trapped,” Thorne finished.
“Unless we change the game entirely.” Briar spoke up again, her small face serious. “What if we don't try to stop the ceremony? What if we let them think they're winning, right up until the moment they realize they've lost?”
Elena and Thorne both turned to stare at her.
“Think about it,” Briar continued, warming to her idea. “They expect you to fight, to resist. What if instead, you play along? Get inside their defenses, let them lower their guard, and then?—”
“Spring the trap from the inside,” Elena breathed. “That's... that's either brilliant or suicidal.”
“Often the same thing, in my experience,” Thorne admitted. But the idea had merit. “What would we need?”
They spent the remaining hours refining the plan. Elena produced more tools, more knowledge, more connections than Thorne had imagined possible. By the time the first gray light filtered through the basement windows, they had something resembling a strategy.
“Get some rest,” Elena advised as they finally wrapped up. “Tonight, we position our pieces. Tomorrow...”
“Tomorrow, we change the game,” Thorne finished.
After she left, Briar remained, studying Thorne with unusual seriousness. “She's risking everything too. Her family, their centuries of work. Maybe trust that she knows what she's doing?”
Thorne leaned back against the oak's trunk, feeling its ancient patience seep into him. Through the muffled bond, he sensed Silas's determination, steady as a heartbeat.
Tomorrow would bring challenges enough. Tonight, perhaps, he could learn patience from those who had practiced it for generations.
As he drifted into meditation, the oak's roots curled protectively around him, and for the first time since entering the city, Thorne felt something like hope.