The Thornbound Oath

The lanterns along the boundary were never meant to dim. They were hammered from old iron,

set in stone sockets, and fed by a braid of sap and silver that should have burned steady

through any season. Tonight they gutter. Their flames lean away from the forest as if

a cold breath has moved through them, leaving gaps of shadow between each post.

You come at dusk, cloak damp from the moor, the smell of peat and rain clinging to your

sleeves. The message reached you at noon, sealed with wax the color of blackberries and

a single word written in a hand you know too well: come. You have been the town's warden

since your uncle stepped aside, the one who checks the boundary stones and keeps the old

carvings clean. You are not meant to cross. You are meant to watch. Yet the message did