Silas's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

The wild court had no king, and Silas meant to take the throne. He was the last warden crowned in dead branches, and the old law said only such a warden could rule. But no one had told him where the throne stood. He had walked the forest for forty years and never once found it. Silas lived inside a hollow oak so old its roots split the ground like fingers. He pressed his palm to the bark and felt it warm. Flowers burst from the trunk under his touch, out of season, white and shivering. Every plant he held bloomed. It was his gift and his curse. It had never once shown him a path. The crown of black branches sat heavy on his frost-white hair. He gathered its dead twigs each spring and wove them tight. The branches never sprouted. Nothing he grew could grow on the dead. He knew one story might help. The fae gathered in a temple deep in the woods, and there they spoke of hidden things. He had gone there twice. Both times the doors stayed shut to him. A warden was not welcome among them. So Silas tried another way. The old tales named a bird that knew the throne's place. A crow with feathers like night sky, stars caught in her wings. She flew where no map reached. Tame her, the tales said, and she would lead you there. He waited three nights beneath the oak. On the third, she came. The crow landed on a low root and folded her starred wings. Her eyes were pale and steady. She did not fear him. Silas held out his open hand. He did not grab. He grew. A single rose swelled from his palm, gold and warm as morning, its light spilling over his fingers. The crow tilted her head. Wild things loved what he could make. She hopped closer. Her beak brushed the petals. Silas stayed still. His arm ached. He did not move it. The rose glowed between them like a small sun. The crow stepped onto his wrist. Her claws gripped hard. She was heavier than she looked, and cold ran off her feathers. Silas breathed out slow. He had done it. He had tamed the bird that knew the way. Then she took flight. She did not fly free. She circled the oak once and shrieked, sharp and short, and looked back at him. She wanted him to follow. Silas ran. Branches tore at his coat. The crow flew ahead, a streak of dark and stars, and he kept her in sight. She led him past ground he had walked a hundred times, then past ground he had never seen. She landed on a stone arch swallowed by moss. Beyond it, a clearing opened. In its center rose a throne of living wood, empty and waiting. Silas stopped at the arch. He had found it at last. But he was not alone. Eyes watched from the trees, and none of them looked glad to see him.