The guard's comments linger in the frigid air separating us. Thorne's face stiffens immediately, the vulnerable moment lost.
Already straying toward the eastern wall, he asks, "How bad?"
The guard pants, trying to keep pace, says, "Shadowmeres are breaking through." "Captain Merrin has assigned the eastern battalion, but they're ill-equipped for shadow creatures."
Heart hammering, I dash after them. The frost blossoms will have to wait; if the eastern ward collapses entirely, our urgent worries will take center stage.
We arrive at the eastern garrison exactly as the sun rises on the horizon. What I see stops me cold.
Normally glittering with a subtle golden glow even in daylight, the eastern wall is completely dark. A part about twenty feet wide has lost all brightness, looking like an ordinary stone wall rather than a mystical barrier. Through this black portion, writhing shadows stream into Thornwall like smoke through a broken window.
The Shadowmeres aren't what I expected. They're not solid beings but rather patches of living darkness that change and flow, reaching tentacles toward anything living. Where they touch, frost forms—not the clear, crystalline frost of Thorne's magic, but a dark, decaying type that spreads like illness.
The royal guards fight bravely, but their weapons pass harmlessly through the shadow monsters. Only the mage-guards with light-enchanted blades make any impression, but they're outnumbered five to one.
"We need more light magic," Captain Merrin cries as she spots us. Her armor bears the traces of shadow-frost, her left arm hanging limply at her side. "The eastern jasmine beds have completely died. There's nothing powering the ward."
Thorne studies the situation, expression somber. "Get your injured to the healers," he instructs. "And evacuate the eastern quarter. We can't hold this breach much longer."
"We can't abandon the eastern quarter," I blurt out, appalled at the prospect of inhabitants being uprooted. "There must be another way."
Thorne's eyes meet mine, something unfathomable in their silver depths. "I don't see one, unless you can make jasmine bloom instantly."
Before I can answer, a gigantic shadow thing lunges toward a group of civilians being evacuated. The guards won't reach them in time.
"Thorne!" I scream.
He doesn't hesitate. The prince throws his hands forward, and winter erupts from his fingertips. Not gentle snow but a targeted blast of pure cold that hits the shadow thing with such force it shatters into dozens of smaller pieces that disperse in the dawn light.
The civilians are saved, but I watch in horror as the magical reaction spreads through Thorne. His face gets ashen, veins of black spreading beneath his skin for a moment before vanishing. Around us, I feel the garden's charm decrease further, as though his use of power has drained something crucial from the entire system.
"The winter magic," I whisper, comprehension dawning. "It's making things worse."
Thorne doesn't dispute it. "It's all I have," he answers simply, going to intercept another shadow monster.
For the next hour, we wage a losing struggle. Thorne selectively utilizes his winter magic only when lives are immediately threatened, but each time, I watch the toll it takes on both him and the garden's already fading magic. The eastern jasmine beds, which should be our magical defense, lie shriveled and dead, unresponsive even to my touch.
When the last civilian is evacuated, Thorne orders the eastern gate locked and fortified. It's a transitory measure at best.
"We've lost the eastern ward completely," Captain Merrin announces ominously. "The shadow-frost has tainted the earth. Even if we replant, nothing will grow there today."
I've never seen Thorne look so defeated. His shoulders drop as he dismisses the captain, instructing her to build a new defensive line three streets in from the eastern wall. We've effectively conceded territory to the shadows.
"Is this what happened to the previous gardeners?" I inquire as we stroll back toward the center grounds. "They couldn't stop the decline?"
"None of them could make anything grow in contaminated soil," Thorne admits wearily. "The blight spreads quicker than we can contain it. And every time I use my strength..."
"It gets worse," I finish for him. "Why?"
He stops, looking at his hands. "Balthren has a theory. The royal line has always borne winter magic—the power of dormancy, of preservation. For decades, it was balanced by the spring magic of another family that was lost. Together, they maintained perfect equilibrium."
"But now there's only winter," I add softly.
"Yes. And winter without spring is just death." His voice is hardly audible. "The more I use my power, the more I accelerate the imbalance. I'm murdering my own empire just by attempting to protect it."
We reach the central garden pavilion, where Balthren waits with terrible tidings from other sections of the wall. The western ward is fading as well, and the southern lilies are exhibiting signs of the same disease that devastated the eastern jasmine.
"Your Highness," Balthren begins gently, "given today's occurrences, I must insist you stop using your magic totally. The correlation is undeniable now."
Thorne's jaw tightens. "And when the shadows break through again? Stand by and watch my people die?"
"We need to find another solution," I say, thinking of the frost blossoms from earlier. "There has to be a way to restore balance."
Balthren glances at me curiously. "The ancient texts talk of balance—winter and spring in harmony. But the spring magic lineage has been gone for generations."
"Maybe not completely gone," I add cautiously, remembering how the plants respond to me in ways Thorne indicated they never had with past gardeners. "Maybe it's just been... dormant. Hidden."
The discussion continues late into the night, but no obvious solution emerges. The fact is inescapable: utilizing Thorne's cold magic against the shadows is like battling fire with oil. It might work momentarily but ultimately makes everything worse.
I retire to my cottage, weary and heartsick. The loss of the eastern ward weighs deeply on us all. As I sink into disturbed slumber, I dream of silver frost coating green leaves, of ice that nurtures instead of kills, and of winter and spring dancing together in perfect harmony.
I wake up determined. There must be a method to use Thorne's magic without exacerbating the imbalance. If winter without spring is death, then maybe winter with spring is the remedy we need.
I just need to find where the spring magic has been hiding all these years.