Chapter 41 – Throne of Thorns
The forest screamed through the night.
The cries weren't of wood snapping or branches swaying—they were human. Hundreds of voices, all layered over one another, echoing with agony and rage. The Ironroot trembled, its fury vibrating through the ground like the heartbeat of a wounded titan.
Kieran pushed forward, every breath sharp with pain. His body felt broken, stitched together only by stubbornness. A jagged cut stretched down his ribs where the roots had nearly torn him apart. The black sap still burned on his skin, refusing to fade. It pulsed faintly, as though the forest had left a mark inside him.
A tether.
A curse.
The sky overhead grew darker, as if clouds were forming from the forest's anger alone. Lightning flickered silently through the branches, illuminating Kieran's path in brief flashes of white.
Every tree watched him.
Every root whispered his name.
He knew the forest wasn't done with him. It would never be done until he was either crowned… or consumed.
Kieran's boots sank into damp earth. The forest floor looked alive—breathing, shifting subtly with every step he took. As he walked, roots curled behind him like serpents slithering back into place.
And then he saw it.
The ruins.
Stone pillars jutted from the ground, half-swallowed by vines. A circular clearing opened like a wound in the forest, illuminated by the pale glow of fungus-covered bark. In the center stood a broken stone altar—its surface cracked, symbols of an ancient language carved deep into it.
Kieran approached with caution.
The air here felt heavier, thick enough to choke on.
As he stepped onto the moss-covered stones, the whispers fell silent. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.
Then—a voice behind him.
"You walk toward your coronation."
He turned sharply.
The shadow stood at the ruins' edge—not fully formed, but more solid than before. Its cracks had fused, its edges sharper. It was healing. Regaining strength. Its golden eyes glowed like embers in a dying fire.
Kieran gripped his sword. "Stay back."
The shadow smirked. "You can barely hold that blade. You bleed from wounds you refuse to acknowledge." It stepped closer, drifting like smoke. "The forest will break you soon enough."
Kieran raised the sword in warning. "Try me."
The shadow tilted its head. "You misunderstand. I don't need to fight you anymore."
Kieran narrowed his eyes.
The shadow raised a hand.
The ruins around them groaned as ancient vines twisted through the cracks, forming towering walls. The clearing darkened as thorned branches arched overhead, sealing off the sky.
A cage of living wood.
A chamber.
A throne room.
Roots slithered across the ground, forming a circular pattern—a spiral leading to the altar at the center. The symbols glowed faintly with a sickly green light.
The shadow stood behind him now, whispering in his ear.
"Thousands of years ago, the first Heart was created here. The first king crowned. The forest learned to feed on a mind. A will." Its voice softened. "You stand where it all began."
Kieran stepped back, heart pounding.
"Why show me this?"
"Because you must understand the weight of what you refuse," the shadow said. It gestured toward the altar. "Sit upon the stone, and the roots will enter you. They will knit your broken soul into the forest's veins. You will become the Ironroot."
Kieran's skin crawled at the thought. "I'd rather die."
"You already will," the shadow replied calmly. "The forest collapses. Without a Heart, it thrashes. Breaks its own limbs. Suffocates its own soil." It leaned closer. "And when it implodes, everything around it will die as well."
Kieran glared. "That's not my problem."
"Oh, but it is." The shadow extended a finger, touching the sap burn on Kieran's shoulder. The wound pulsed painfully. "You carry a piece of its essence now. When it dies, you will die with it."
Kieran froze.
The shadow smiled cruelly.
"There is no escape, Kieran. The moment you touched the Heart's blood, the forest marked you. You are bound. Kill it, and you die. Leave it, and you die. Fight it, and you die."
Kieran gritted his teeth. "You're lying."
"Am I?" the shadow whispered.
A deep rumble rolled through the earth. The roots trembled violently. Trees in the distance collapsed with echoing cracks. A wave of cold wind rushed through the ruins, carrying the scent of rot.
The forest was destabilizing.
Collapsing from the inside out.
And he felt it—deep in his chest—a pull, a tearing sensation, like threads snapping one by one.
He staggered forward, clutching his ribs.
The shadow watched with satisfaction. "You feel the bond unraveling. The forest is dying… and so are you."
Kieran forced himself to stand. "Then I'll break the bond."
The shadow laughed—genuine, mocking amusement. "You can't. You were chosen." Its voice dropped to a whisper. "Chosen because you were broken enough to bend."
Kieran lunged with a roar, slashing the shadow across the chest. The blade passed through—but deeper this time. The shadow's form shuddered, its cracks widening.
It stepped back, anger flashing across its face.
"You are stubborn," it hissed. "But stubbornness is not strength."
Kieran charged again. The shadow dissolved, reappearing behind him. Tendrils of darkness wrapped around his throat, lifting him off the ground.
"Look at you," it whispered. "Gasping like prey."
Kieran struggled, vision blurring.
The shadow leaned close. "Do you know why I exist?"
Kieran could barely breathe.
"I am everything you fear. Everything you regret. Your guilt, your rage, your self-loathing… given form." Its grip tightened. "You created me. The forest merely shaped what was already inside you."
Kieran's eyes widened.
"You cannot kill me," the shadow snarled. "Not until you kill what made me."
Kieran kicked wildly, catching the shadow's leg. The tendrils loosened. He dropped to the ground, coughing violently.
"Enough…" Kieran growled, pushing himself to his knees. "Enough lies. Enough manipulation."
He rose slowly, sword dragging against stone.
"I decide my fate."
The shadow laughed softly. "Then choose, Kieran."
It raised its hand, and the altar behind him began to glow brighter. The roots pulsed. The throne of stone reshaped itself, covered in black vines, forming a jagged seat.
A hollow crown of thorns grew above it, suspended in the air.
The forest's will.
Waiting.
The shadow stretched its arms wide.
"Sit… and live forever as the Heart."
Its voice dropped to a sinister whisper.
"Refuse… and watch the forest take your life piece by piece until it ends in endless screaming."
Kieran looked at the throne.
At the vines.
At the crown.
His chest tightened. The burning in his ribs grew sharper.
He had been fighting the forest.
But the real enemy wasn't the Ironroot.
It was himself.
His past.
His grief.
His guilt.
The forest had only magnified what was already shattered inside him.
Kieran lowered his sword.
The shadow watched eagerly.
Kieran took one step toward the throne—
Then he stopped.
"No," he said softly.
The shadow froze.
Kieran turned away from the throne.
"You want me to become the Heart. But you forgot something."
He raised his sword—not at the throne.
At himself.
The shadow's eyes widened in shock.
"No—"
Kieran drove the blade toward his own side—not to kill, but to sever the sap-infested flesh.
Black blood spilled.
The bond snapped like a tether cut.
The forest shrieked.
The shadow screamed.
Kieran staggered forward, gripping the wound.
And with his last ounce of strength…
He turned his sword toward the throne.
And smashed it.
Stone exploded.
The crown shattered into dust.
The ruins trembled with the force of the forest's anguish.
The shadow fell to its knees, body cracking apart.
"Kieran…" it whispered bitterly. "You… fool…"
The ruins collapsed around them as the forest howled.
Kieran dropped his sword, falling to the ground as darkness swallowed the chamber.
But he had made his choice.
He would rather break the throne…
Than wear it.