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Chapter Text

Gillie woke with a jolt. 

Her breath hitched sharp and high in her throat, the scream caught behind her teeth, sweat slicked her brow. Her hand flew to her swollen belly, now peaking and tight beneath the linen of her nightgown. The baby kicked, a restless thud from the inside, and she cradled it instinctively, whispering a low, shaky hush.

Outside, a storm snarled like a wounded beast—branches thrashed against the windows, and magic hummed like a thread being pulled too tight. It prickled over her skin, settled in her bones. Made her toes curl into the short soft fluff of the furs beneath her. Not Spring Court magic, but something older and crueler.

She sat upright, eyes adjusting to the dim, flickering candlelight of their bedchamber. The fire had long gone out, but the coals still pulsed faint orange. Her gaze darted to the corner where Caelan’s jacket and boots were still thrown carelessly across the low settee—exactly where he’d dropped them before bed. He had a habit of tossing them with the arrogance of a prince expecting someone else would pick them up. She had, of course. Always had.

Her heart began to thud louder.

A low noise echoed from beyond the door. A shuffling. A muted grunt. Then a sound of metal dragging against stone. At fiirst she thought it was Caelan, who had a habit to get drunk with his brother and walk around with his sword in one hand, a bottle of something disgustingly strong in the other…

She stared at the bedroom door, slightly ajar. The light in the corridor beyond wasn’t candlelight. It was too bright. Too still. 

Caelan’s sword was indeed gone.

Another spasm gripped her belly, laced hot and cruel down her spine. She sucked in air through her teeth, clutched her belly like it might fall from her, like something was about to rip its way out.

Something was wrong.

Barefoot, she moved. Slow and careful. Her cream linen nightgown whispered against her calves as she stepped past the messy trail of Caelan’s dirty dishes on the floor. She caught the dull gleam of metal—a table knife—and snatched it up with trembling fingers.

She eased the door open further and saw hell.

Gillie staggered back with a strangled cry that never made it out of her throat. She choked on bile. Nearly collapsed.

Her nightgown, her feet—splashed in blood. Warm and wet, thick as paint, it seeped into the hem, climbed up her legs like ivy, and sloshed as she moved. The corridor was a river of red over white marble, the raw copper smell hit her like a slap.

And then she saw him…

A tall male figure, half-shadowed in the corridor. Violet eyes, glowing like amethyst fire, locked onto hers. He looked young, but the rage in his stare was ancient. His jaw clenched. His face twisted in frustration and pain. He looked at her belly, then her feet. His massive, membranous, bat-like wings twitched, casting a heavy shadow over the corridor.

The male stepped closer, fingers rising to his lips to shush her, her knees buckled. Her fingers trembled and the knife dropped. Her hand clamped over her mouth before the scream escaped.

He was pleading with her with his sad beautiful eyes in which Gillie could swear she saw the night sky and the stars, all in a deep whimsical gleam of the violet stare of this stranger.

But the stillness shattered when another male stepped out of her in-laws’ chambers. He was older, he was taller, and he was meaner. His features were the same—but this one bore a colder, more calculated malice in every step. His wings were slick with blood, his stare made her flinch.

The second male moved fast, he shoved the first aside like he was nothing more than a branch in his path. The younger male caught his arm, fingers biting into his shoulder.

“No,” he rasped, and his voice was filled with something Gillie didn’t understand.

And then the manor shook.

The door of Tamlin’s bedchambers flung open with a crash.

Bare-chested, golden curls a mess around his face, his eyes burning with pure rage. His feet splashed into the blood, and his entire tall, brutal body carved with muscle was glowing from within, skin pierced with soft rays of yellow light.

He saw the younger male, recognizing him and he immediately  knew what had happened.

Tamlin opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the light hit him harder—a blinding flare from within, as if the very power of Spring answered his pain. His jaw clenched, and he bent slightly, as if he’d been struck. He curled his fists, talons cutting into his own palms, blood dripping onto his sage-colored sleeping trousers. His teeth bared in a snarl.

“Tam—” the younger male began, voice cracking, but—

The older one launched at Gillie.

He didn’t care that she was pregnant. Didn’t care what she’d seen.

He moved so fast, but he never reached her.

The magic exploded.

Gillie tasted it—bitter, like rotten fruit and iron, burning the back of her throat.

And Tamlin shifted into the monster she’d heard whispered about in stories, the beast carved from the earth and wrath and divine vengeance. A great horned creature with spiked fur, antlers that cracked the ceiling, jaws lined with canines long as daggers. His paws—each as wide as her chest—clawed into the marble.

The older male flared his wings, but it was too late.

Tamlin struck.

A single blow. A crushing paw to the skull, slammed down with such force it made the walls crack. The sound was sickening. Wet crushing of the bone, splash of the blood on the floor mixing with another strike of violence.

Gillie stumbled backward, her hand clutching her belly as the headless body collapsed at her feet.

The younger male—Rhysand—fell to his knees beside the corpse. His scream, his broken, feral scream cut through the halls like a dying star. He clutched the body, trembling, shaking, shadow wrapping around him in jagged tendrils. If Tamlin glowed with holy fury, Rhysand was soaked in night and grief.

And Gillie—Gillie stood in her nightgown soaked in blood, belly rising, knife forgotten on the floor, the child inside her kicking against the storm, as the walls of the Spring Court began to crumble.

“Leave.” The beast growled, deep and low, a sound like granite splitting open beneath the earth.

Rhysand rose, breath hitching in pain, his hands trembling as they hovered over the blood-soaked body behind him. His violet eyes, still wet with unshed rage, snapped to Gillie—both of them stared at her, and she couldn’t move. 

Tamlin turned away without another word. His breath came in ragged bursts, nostrils flaring, and with one powerful leap, he bounded down the corridor, through the arch, and disappeared into the storm-slick garden beyond.

Rhysand remained. His chest rose and fell like a drowning male’s. He stepped backward, one slow pace after another, his eyes never leaving Gillie’s, even as shadow curled around his shoulders. His boots slid slightly in the blood as he reached the top of the stairs, then he was gone, vanishing into the night like the last whisper of a terrible memory.

Gillie’s face was burning, her cheeks slick with hot tears she hadn’t even felt fall. She stepped forward on unsteady legs, the wet slap of her bare feet in the blood making her stomach turn. 

The door to Hadrien’s chambers creaked open beneath her hand.

Inside, the air was dead. The heavy drapes were drawn, and the tall candles scattered across the mantle had melted down to ugly stumps, wax dripping over the cold stone like tears.

Hadrien lay across the bed, folded at an unnatural angle, his head hanging limp over the edge. His long, braided golden hair, always immaculate, was now matted and red, strands stuck to his slack face where the blood had dried in crusted streams from the gash along his neck. His silver eyes were open, empty, glassy and locked on Gillie, even though there was no one left behind them.

Her breath cracked as she turned toward the opposite side of the room. There, in the old velvet armchair near the fire, was Caelan. He wore only his deep blue silk sleeping trousers—imported from Summer Court, tailored to his vanity. His body slumped in the chair like a discarded doll, one arm hanging limply over the side. Beneath it lay a silver chalice, still rolling slightly. Wine spilled across the stone and mixed with the blood pooled at his chest, where a gash split him from shoulder to ribs.

Gillie’s hand flew to her mouth. A soft, broken sob rattled out of her.

She crossed the room slowly, like a puppet with tangled strings. Her limbs didn’t feel like hers. Everything smelled of wine, copper, sweat, and lilies—Caelan’s scent beneath the rot.

She crouched beside him, careful not to let her knees slip in the slickness on the floor. His face was eerily untouched. His short golden hair fell across his brow as it always did when he was lost in thought or reading his dusty and boring books, written by old and also boring snobs.

She reached out and brushed the hair from his face, her fingers feather-light. His eyes, those cold, cutting green eyes, stared back lifeless. And finally, Gillie understood.

They were all dead.

Her husband.

Her in-laws.

Her High Lord.

She sank to the floor, sitting in the blood puddle at Caelan’s feet. Her hands trembled as she stared at him. It wasn’t grief, she recognized, but something sour. Something coiled and bitter.

Hatred. Betrayal. The kind that blooms after years of silence and obligation.

She reached for his hand. His long, graceful fingers still wore the obscene collection of rings—gold and opal, glittering even in death. She ran her thumb over the thick band on his left hand, his wedding ring. Gold, carved with tiny emeralds in a perfect circle. 

Gillie gritted her teeth and slipped it off. Her fingers curled around it tightly, and she rose with the weight of a mountain pressing against her spine.

And that’s when she heard the footsteps.

She turned toward the door and saw Tamlin, soaked from the storm. Mud and blood streaked his bare arms and chest, and his sleeping trousers clung to his legs, stained and torn. His shoulders heaved with exhaustion.

Leaves and flower petals clung to his hair, now tangled and wild. His antlers still hadn’t retracted, their mossy points glinting faint green in the low candlelight. His canines gleamed, longer than they should be, and his hands were still dripped red. His knuckles were raw.

Tamlin stopped in the doorway. His gaze moved across the room, over Hadrien’s sprawled corpse, over Caelan’s ruined body, over the blood-streaked stones. He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. 

Then his eyes settled on her and something inside them flickered..

“Clean yourself up. Go rest. I’ll handle this.” His voice was low, rough, barely more than gravel in his throat.

Gillie clutched the wedding ring in one hand and her belly with the other as she lowered her gaze to the floor.

Fear coiled inside her like a serpent. Not exactly of Tamlin, but of everything he now was.
 

Where could she go? Where could she rest in this carnage? The taste of bile rose to the back of her throat. As she stepped past him, her fingers reached for the only anchor she could instinctively find. Gillie gripped Tamlin’s shoulder without thinking, the wet heat of his skin sliding beneath her hand…and then she vomited. Right there, at his feet.

Tamlin stood unmoving.

His hand however—the same hand that had crushed a skull minutes ago—low and careful,  flicked to her belly, steadying her…. He didn’t speak. Didn’t meet her eyes.

When she wiped her mouth with the soaked sleeve of her nightgown, he let her go and gave her just a nudge—a light push, enough to guide Gillie toward the door.

She stumbled out half-blind. The blood drying on her calves, Caelan’s ring burning in her palm.

Gillie was halfway down the stairs when she heard a shatter of glass, somewhere behind her.

Furniture slammed into the marble walls.

The manor howled—Tamlin was tearing his house apart.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, when the wind slid just right through the cracked shutters, Gillie could still hear his voice. That low, coaxing whisper rasped against the shell of her ear like a cruel lullaby. Shh, he’d murmur, his breath hot and sour from wine. His hand clamped down over her mouth, fingers splayed tight, skin calloused and unkind. His body pressed flush against hers, hips snapping forward with a rhythm that made her ribs ache against the mattress, made her eyes blur with hot tears she couldn’t even sob out. And his cock buried inside her, deep and brutal, in pure horrific possession.

Caelan, the oldest son of the High Lord of the Spring Court was a monster. A beast dressed in silk and golden light, wearing beauty like a weapon. His face looked like the Cauldron had carved it just to mock the pain of those who worshipped him—a sculpted jaw, high cheekbones kissed by sunlight, eyes like twilight after a storm. Ladies practically tripped over their hems to fawn over him, flinging glances like confetti. They wanted to drown in his attention, pretending not to gag on the knowledge that he had chosen her —Gillie Vaelaris.

Daughter of traitors. Or so they said. Her parents were diplomats under the High Lord’s emissary, once respected until they got too greedy, too bold. They tried to play puppet master behind the throne, whispering threats with wine-slick tongues and pocketing gold that wasn’t theirs to take. The High Lord didn’t just execute them, he made a damn spectacle of it. Fire Night, the sky torn open with flame and ash, laughter and dancing swirling around the crackle of burning flesh. Gillie had stood there, wrists trembling in the silk sleeves of mourning, watching her parents scream as the fire kissed their bones.

And Caelan… Caelan hadn’t waited.

She was already engaged to him, a pawn sealed into a future she hadn’t chosen, hadn’t even looked at too closely. She didn’t love him. Didn’t even like him. He hadn’t earned an ounce of her respect.

To him, that was permission.

She was his now. His little prize. His fragile, untouchable bride-to-be. What did it matter if he took her before the wedding? No one would care. She’d still wear white.

He found her that night still wearing the same dress she had cried in, skin still smelling faintly of smoke and burnt roses. The celebration of Calanmai was spilling through the halls like poison. Music, drunken laughter, the scent of sweat and spices in the air. And in the quiet corner of his chambers, where no one looked and no one heard, he took her for the first time.

He pressed her into the silk sheets, her limbs stiff and numb as his hands pried her apart like an offering. Her mother’s screams were still ricocheting in her skull, raw and animalistic, and they mixed now with the sound of Caelan's breath, panting against her collarbone.

Her own sobs turned to hiccupping gasps as he kissed her with teeth and tongue, devouring her. Her hot tears fell onto his face, onto his lips, and he moaned like it was some kind of gift . Her voice cracked when she tried to scream, and the moment the shock wore off, the pain swallowed everything else. He didn’t slow, just kept thrusting, grunting, like she was a thing, a vessel, not a girl with a soul, with a heart, with flesh that could be hurt and bruised.

The second time, she fought.

Gillie scratched him, clawed at his face, and left a bright, ugly gash down his cheekbone—a mark that never quite healed right. It puckered, pink and jagged, and people whispered about it like it was some grand war wound.

She left that encounter with more than bruises. The swelling of her belly came like a sick joke from the Mother herself. The baby, unplanned, unwanted, used as an excuse to speed up the wedding she’d prayed to escape.

It was beautiful though, the wedding. Of course it was. Gilded archways, moon-petal garlands. Music that twisted through the air like silver thread. People smiled, clapped, cheered—nobody saw how tightly her hands were clenched in her lap. Nobody noticed that her lips trembled when she spoke her vows .

If only she could have felt it.

Every night, she left tiny offerings in the clay prayer ball by her windowsill—blossoms, seeds, crushed herbs soaked in tears. She begged not for love, but for release. Death. Freedom. A plague on Caelan’s bloodline, a quiet sleep she wouldn’t wake from. If only the Mother had answered her prayers.

Caelan changed with time. He became gentle—not out of guilt, but because there was a child in her now, a thing he suddenly valued. His hands that used to bruise her ribs now traced soft patterns along her belly. His mouth, once full of filthy promises, pressed kisses to her throat. But it was all hollow. His kindness had conditions, if she spoke too sharply, if she turned away, he’d slap her across the face, careful to avoid her stomach. Sometimes slaps weren’t just slaps, sometimes they were punches and face-to-the-wall occurrences. 

She wasn’t allowed out of her bedchamber much, not with bruises blooming like violets under her skin. Caelan was careful—not out of concern for her, but because he didn’t want to anger his father, didn’t want to upset his darling mother. It never occurred to him to just stop. To choose tenderness without the threat of violence.

They said he loved deeply, and that his heart was just “rough,” a firestorm barely leashed.

But Gillie saw his heart. She saw it on the night she stood over his corpse, blood still oozing from the jagged rip across his chest. There was nothing sacred about it, no glowing truth, no warm pulsing, just muscle. Raw, dense, meat… A clump of tissue beneath a membrane.

She lost their child that same night.

It tore something open inside her. She bled in silence, crouched over the edge of the healer’s bed like a broken animal, and she held her belly as if she could still protect what was gone. Grief hollowed her out, but shame filled the cracks. Because under all the heartbreak, there was relief and it sickened her. 

She didn’t go to the funeral. Didn’t watch them lower Caelan into the ground with his dull pompous crown and all his medals and ribbons, the polished casket, the mourning songs sung by voices who never knew the monster he’d been.

She ran instead, took what she could. She found a village tucked near the shoulder of an old temple. The air there smelled like earth and lavender. The people were simple, they didn’t ask questions.

She buried herself in the rhythm of life. Played her fiddle during market hours, slow, aching tunes that made grown males cry. She cooked, taught the children to read, held old hands at the temple when the priestesses sang. She went to every rite, every harvest dance, every prayer night.

She even smiled sometimes.

The High Priestess Ianthe, rotten to her marrow, had a voice like cool syrup, sweet and cloying, poured over sermons that curdled in the belly. Her eyes were pale as frost glass, unblinking, calculating, like she already knew which sinners she'd flay first if given the divine permission. She wore her Priestess pale-blue robes like a second skin, every movement choreographed, every word dipped in thorns.

She preached purity. Discipline. The sanctity of suffering.

Gillie didn’t believe a single fucking word, but she still lit her candles. Her fingers still trembled over the wick, still pressed seeds and petals into her offering bowl, still whispered to the Mother in the thick dark just before sleep. Because something inside her, some fragile splinter of hope too stubborn to die, still believed the Mother might be listening. That perhaps, one day, all the prayers swallowed in silence would land somewhere. That she might, finally, be heard.

And she was.

The Mother’s answer didn’t come as a whisper or a vision.

He came on a black steed.

The horse’s hooves kicked up dust as they thundered down the mossy path leading toward the village temple. The sun caught on the polished leather of the saddle, the silver trim glinting like starlight. And riding that beast—upright, composed, terribly, achingly beautiful—was a copper-haired male with a smile carved to melt defenses and a gaze that could strip secrets clean from bone.

He dismounted smoothly, boots thudding against the soil, the scent of cedar and cold steel clinging to his coat. The people gathered to gawk, curious eyes peeking from behind market stalls and shawls. Gillie stood by the temple’s archway, her hands still sticky with beeswax from helping the candlemaid.

And the male looked at her like he already knew who she was.

“Lady Vaelaris,” he said, voice honeyed with practiced ease. “The High Lord wishes to call on you.”

Gillie blinked. The breeze stirred a strand of hair across her cheek, and she didn’t bother tucking it away. There was something familiar about him. Not just his looks, though they were striking in that Autumn Court way—copper hair lit with embers in the sun, strong jaw, russet eyes that looked like fallen leaves swirling in a river.

She had seen someone like this before. Known someone like this.

The emissary, he called himself, wasted no time. He spoke of Tamlin, the High Lord of Spring, how he was a just ruler, noble-hearted, mourning his past but driven by duty. He spoke of change, of hope. Of refugees seeking asylum, of people fleeing the other Courts with nothing but grief and desperation in their hands.

The Spring Court, he said, was opening its borders, building sanctuaries, celebrating the rites of all peoples, honoring their gods, even involving the temple in governance.

It was a pretty vision, spun with silver thread. And the male? He wove it well.

“I’ve heard of your parents, Lady Vaelaris,” he said, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. “Although their politics weren’t always… to my taste. Still, the network they built for the Spring Court was impressive. Poorly tended, yes. But your name—your kindness —your knowledge… it reaches us even now.”

Gillie couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Of course he knew how to flatter. Of course he knew just how to lace his words with warmth and admiration, how to lean forward slightly when he spoke to her, how to let his voice drop just enough to make her stomach clench. She’d seen that charm before, worn like armor by every smooth-tongued noble male from the Autumn Court.

But that wasn’t what unsettled her.

It was how he’d ended up here, wearing Spring colors, speaking with Tamlin’s voice. Emissaries didn’t grow on trees, and the Autumn Court was not known for letting their sons wander off into other courts alive. She didn’t have to ask what drove him to flee. Didn’t need to hear about the beatings in the dark or the family politics soaked in blood.

She knew .

The male’s name was Lucien Vanserra and that explained everything.

She’d heard the rumors… The lost son, the outcast, the fox with a haunted past and a blade behind his back. He was persuasive, but more than that, he was genuine. There was a weight behind his charm, a grief in his grin that made it feel like he was trying, always, to convince himself as much as the person he was talking to.

And somehow, despite herself, despite everything… she trusted him.

Or at least, she trusted that he wasn’t lying about Tamlin, about the manor, about the invitation.

So she said yes.

Yes, she would go back. Back to the place that had been her prison. Back to the court that had stolen and crushed her and buried her bones under the floorboards of her marital bedchamber.

But this time, she was not the same girl.

This time, she wasn’t walking back with a broken heart and bruises hidden under her lavender and lilac dresses. She was walking as a woman who had clawed her way out of hell and learned how to hold her head high with dirt still under her nails.

And maybe, this time, the Mother would be watching after her.

Chapter Text

Erratic.

Impulsive.

Rude.

Broody.

Gillie mouthed the words silently, each one drawn out on the curve of her tongue like she was tasting poison. Her pen tapped against her bottom lip, leaving a faint smudge of ink on skin already smudged with frustration. Around her, the small study was a war zone of discarded crumpled balls of parchment that had bounced and landed in every far-flung corner of the room, some were stabbed through with ink-blots and aggressive scratch-outs, others balled up tight like she’d wanted to crush the air out of them.

Would it really be so wrong—so offensive —to answer Helion with these exact words? Raw and unfiltered, no diplomacy, no court-speak. Just the honest truth: this is our High Lord, this is the male who won’t address me by my name.

She blew a sharp breath through her nose, “Respected and loved,” she muttered aloud, scoffing at her own draft. The pen clattered against the desk when she dropped it, a dry click against the dark, over-polished wood.

Why was she even appointed in the first place? That question had sunk its teeth into her early on and never let go. Lucien was already there—more than competent, utterly loyal, clever in all the ways she wasn’t allowed to be. He could’ve led Tamlin’s affairs effortlessly, gracefully, with charm and wit and that disarming grin of his. So why her?

Why her , when Tamlin never once offered her an audience? Never so much as called her by name. Not a single conversation since she was appointed Courtier. Not a note of acknowledgement, only cold, impersonal directives delivered in writing. Sharp black ink on parchment that smelled of crisp rain and earth, they always came rolled tight, sealed with wax that never bore his sigil, as if even that was too much of a personal gesture.

So she sat behind this heavy, ancient table that used to belong to Caelan, day after day. She’d found carvings in the underside from where he’d pressed the tip of a knife or dagger too hard, frustrated or bored or drunk. Her fingers had traced them when she first took the room, and she’d known immediately: this cannot stay .

She’d torn the room apart the first year, dragged in sunlight, color, life, her rebellion stitched into every bolt of new fabric, every book she brought in. It still smelled faintly of lillies, the scent clinging stubbornly to the floorboards and furniture polish, and it seemed to her skin sometimes… Even after all these years.

At least Tamlin hadn’t settled her in the same bedchamber, she could give him that. Not that she slept much now, anyway. Sleep was fragile and twitchy, it came and went. Gillie knew that if she had to lay her head on the same mattress where Caelan had once rolled over and muttered her name in that drunken slur , she'd never close her eyes again. Not even for a blink.

And yet, it wasn’t him who haunted her lately. 

The new High Lord was a dim, fractured echo of the boy she’d once watched from a distance. The one who used to exist on the periphery of her life, always hovering just out of reach. He had mystery sewn into his very skin, like threads of dark silk glinting in sunlight. Back then, when he’d give her a flicker of polite smile, it felt like watching lightning split the sky. He’d barely known her when she was engaged to Caelan, and even less when she’d been wed. And she hadn’t expected him to. Tamlin had been swallowed whole by the war camp, knee-deep in mud and strategy, learning the art of killing and commanding under his father’s sharp, cruel eye. He was bred for battle, made for the blood-soaked game of Spring Court politics—military first, always.

Still, he would come for the Spring Equinox, sometimes Calanmai. Always silent, always composed. He never approached her, never shared more than a nod or a glance, but he was there and that mattered.

He would step between her and uneven ground she might trip over. Subtle, wordless. When some sharp-tongued noble tried to pin her in conversation, Tamlin would appear like smoke and silence them with just a stare. He sent trays to her chamber when she was sick from pregnancy, thoughtful and precise: mint tea, flatbread, cool damp cloths. She never saw the servants who brought them, but she knew who had sent them.

When Caelan raged…drunk, red-faced, swinging his sword like a toddler with a stick, Tamlin held the door, held Caelan back. And when that wasn’t enough, he retaliated. Fists and fury, sword thrown into the lake, always just within Gillie’s view from the balcony, a brutal kind of signal, “ I see what’s happening. I don’t agree.” His own quiet rebellion.

But it was never enough. Not enough to stop it. Not enough to save her. And never, not once, enough to bring him closer.

Still, now... now she could admit it. This version of Tamlin—the crowned one, the broken one—he was erratic. Yes. But beneath that chaos, there was intent. He was impulsive, but there was always some driving force—protection, fear, rage,—something real that made his actions more than madness. Rude? Definitely, but only surface-level. Blunt honesty, not cruelty, he didn’t dance around things, he didn’t tolerate wasting time.

Broody , though, that one stuck. Because he was, thoroughly. The male needed silence the way some needed air. He would withdraw, disappear into the woods or his study or the vast stretches of the manor, vanishing into himself to sort through whatever beast clawed at his mind. And when he came back, it was always with some answer, delegated tasks, reorganized strategies, sleeves rolled up like he was ready to dive into the mess himself.

He could charm, when forced. He could dance too, probably still remembered the steps. But he hated the courtly farce of it all, the games, the hollow flirting and endless circling of power. He hated the farce of the masks and politics. Most of all, he hated the eyes, everyone always watching, waiting, weighing him.

So it had been early on that he'd decided: Lucien would accompany Gillie to court events. And later, when Lucien grew tired of that leash, it was Gillie alone. The face of Spring at parties and festivals, hand poised on wine goblets, smile just crooked enough to seem warm. She made deals and charmed nobles while Tamlin stayed behind, hiding behind thorns and shadows and ghosts of his manor.

She took another crumpled parchment and smoothed it out, fingers dragging along the creases. The ink on her fingers had dried, leaving her skin gritty and grey. There was something so painfully lonely about this room now. The light from the windows was soft but pale, the early evening sun trying to break through a layer of high, cold clouds. Even the air felt quiet, like it didn’t want to disturb her.

She picked up the pen again.

Erratic.
Impulsive.
Rude.
Broody.

She stared at the words, then added one more beneath them, almost too softly for even her own eyes to register.

Trying.

***

“There are at least two hundred and thirty-four things I am in urgent need to discuss with you, my Lord, if you’d only—could—”

Gillie was already ruffling the stack of parchments in her arms, fingers twitching at the edges, mouth going dry from anticipation and stress. The words snapped in her mouth like elastic, her tongue clicking against her teeth the moment he —sprawled in velvet and arrogance—lifted his hand. A single, lazy gesture that made her feel like a dog being told to sit.

Tamlin didn’t even look at her.

His emerald silk robes were creased across his abdomen, bunched and slightly skewed like he’d been melting into that armchair for hours. The fabric clung loose enough to reveal the edge of a golden-tanned chest, the slope of a collarbone, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. The sage-colored velvet beneath him was crushed, cushions scattered on the floor like he'd sunk into them carelessly, bare feet brushing one as if it were some idle toy.

Lucien sat across from him in a similar armchair, though his posture was entirely different. One leg slung over the armrest, a bourbon glass balanced on his knee. He wore that sharp, sideways grin she’d come to know too well: part mischief, part admiration, and unmistakably directed at her . His russet eyes gleamed with amusement.

“You!”

Gillie blinked as Tamlin suddenly jabbed a finger at her. The digit was adorned with two thick rings—one agate, the other kyanite—and the weight of them made his hand look more like a weapon than a limb.

“What’s your name… ugh… Lilly ?”
He ruffled his own hair, sending it into a wild disheveled state, as if the name itself had scrambled his brain. His knuckles grazed his temple lazily, like even remembering her name took effort he wasn’t willing to give.

“ Gillie , my Lord,” she murmured, lowering her gaze quickly. The heat that crept into her cheeks had less to do with the humiliation and more to do with the distracting flash of bare skin beneath his open robe. Her eyes had betrayed her, had lingered, and she hated that she noticed.

“Yes. Whatever.”

He waved her off, sloshing the amber liquid in his glass. The sharp crack of ice hitting crystal rang out, loud in the strange silence that had fallen.

“Can you get me… wait… who are you again?” His grin was lopsided, eyes slightly unfocused.

“Gillie Vaelaris, my Lord?” she said again, her tone just barely above a hiss. “I am the daughter of Lord and Lady Vaelaris. Your father’s—ehm—High Lord Voldeir’s diplomats.”

“Huh…” Tamlin let the word tumble lazily from his lips as he blinked at her like she were a particularly uninteresting painting. “And you’re here because?”

Gillie took a sharp breath. She could feel her heart beating in her throat now. The same heartbeat that had been steady only a moment ago, now pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape her body.

“Your Grace appointed me to take the courtier mantle after your Lord Father executed Lord and Lady Vaelaris for abusing their noble privileges and—”

“Yes-yes, I remember now.” He waved her off again with a flick of the wrist, and this time nearly spilled the drink right onto Lucien, who’d gotten close enough in his attempts to wrestle his boots off that water splashed from one onto the carpet.

Lucien cursed under his breath and kicked the boot aside.

Tamlin sipped his bourbon again, made a face of disgust at the taste—clearly too bitter or too strong, but not enough for him to stop drinking it.

“My Lord, if I may —”

Gillie cleared her throat, pulling her eyes away from Lucien, who was now tugging off his damp shirt with little regard for modesty. Her breath caught before she could help it. His dark caramel skin gleamed under the soft golden light pouring in from the tall windows. Freckles dusted across his collarbones and chest like stars, like someone had flicked them onto him with purpose. The most perfect set of nipples, a dusky rose, peaked slightly from the change in air.

She swallowed hard.

“Yes, Lilly ,” Tamlin said, completely missing the storm raging behind her careful mask.

“ Gillie .” She forced her voice level, even polite.

“What?” Tamlin blinked again.

“Gillie, my Lord. My name is Gillie .”

She was smiling now, but it wasn’t kind. Her teeth were clenched behind the expression, her whole face twitched with the effort of not throwing her files at his head. She could already feel the scream bubbling in her chest. She would scream later into a pillow. Loudly. For ten minutes, minimum .

“Ah…” Tamlin gave her a vague, noncommittal finger wiggle, then smacked himself a few times on the forehead.

“My Lord,” she continued before he could derail again. “Since the rumors of Lady Amarantha’s potential visit are circulating once more, and considering our Court is not currently fortified enough to act alone against the forces of Hybern—”

She stopped.

Lucien was loudly snorting into his drink. 

Gillie’s spine went rigid, her fingers squeezed the parchment rolls like she might strangle them. She refused to look at Tamlin, could feel the way his gaze had darkened, pinning her in place like a blade to a wall.

“I would like to propose visiting the seasonal courts,” she continued, voice tighter now, thinner. “To establish diplomatic relationships and solidify our alliances before a potential war. I would also strongly recommend we restore contact with the Day and Dawn Courts, since the Night—”

“That is an interesting and very independent suggestion, Lilly .” Tamlin sighed with theatrical exaggeration, as if the very idea of diplomacy bored him to near death.

“ Gillie ,” Lucien whispered, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Yes, yes, what did I say?” Tamlin blew out his lips, already dismissing the correction.

“Lilly,” Lucien muttered, barely containing his laughter.

“Right.” Tamlin chuckled. “Listen, L—ugh—Gillie. That’s all very inspiring , truly. But I don’t remember appointing you to the war council.”

The room went still.

“So do not burden yourself with initiating any such strategies,” he went on, his voice dipping into condescension, low and firm. “If I ever require advice from a diplomat’s daughter, I shall summon you. Is that clear?”

Gillie’s teeth ached from how hard she clenched her jaw.

“Clear as day, my Lord,” she said through her smile, each syllable bitten off with sharp, crystalline precision. Her entire body was thrumming with rage, that quiet rage that slithered through your blood and made your vision burn.

The audacity of this male, to strip her down to a title of a mere diplomat. To reduce her work, her effort, her hours and sleepless nights and bruised pride—to this .

She didn’t move.

“Anything else?” Tamlin arched a brow, noticing the frozen tilt of her posture. The tremor in her hand. The rage, simmering under her skin like lava under thin glass.

“No, my Lord. I am grateful for your time.” Her voice was honey-sweet and poisoned.

Tamlin nodded. “You are welcome.” And he waved her off like she was dust.

Bullies.
They were bullies. Two dimwitted, arrogant, drunk pigs playing politics like it was a tavern game and not the crumbling skeleton of a court they were dragging behind them.

Gillie slammed the door to her study hard enough to make the windowpanes rattle in their wooden frames. The stack of parchments flew from her hands like startled birds, scattering across her desk in a flutter of ink and wasted effort. Her breath came out hot and furious through her nose as she stormed across the room and grabbed the closest cushion, yanked it from the back of her chair like it had personally offended her, and hurled herself face-first into it.

The scream that left her body was feral , long, guttural, and shuddering out of her lungs like it had been burning a hole in her ribs. It was the kind of scream that left your throat raw, the kind that shook loose your bones. A whole week of careful planning, a dozen sleepless nights, bruised knuckles from writing, rewriting, rewriting again. All for that smug, lazy bastard to call her Lilly . Again. Fucking Lilly !

Gillie threw the pillow across the room, it landed with a dull thud on the edge of the small couch, then tipped off lazily and rolled to the floor like even it couldn’t be bothered to fight her rage.

She flopped down beside it, limbs heavy with the lead of frustration. Her body felt molten and restless all at once, rage buzzing under her skin like a hive of wasps, but her muscles sagging from exhaustion.

Crossing her legs sharply, she yanked up the pale lilac skirt of her dress to her knees. The fabric rustled like dry leaves as it pooled around her thighs. Her calves bounced in fast, irritated kicks, her heel in silk heeled slippers tapping a nervous rhythm against the floor. One hand went straight to her mouth, biting down on the edge of a short, poorly-trimmed nail. It tasted like ink. Her teeth scraped across the ridged edge until she winced and stopped.

A gust of wind swept through the open windows, cutting a golden wall of sunlight right through the middle of the room. It hit her face like a balm, warm and sharp all at once, lifting the scent of lavender sachets and old paper into the air. Her hair danced around her face as if even it didn’t want to stay still.

Gillie froze.

That air. That light. It was like the world reminding her she still had some say.

She jumped to her feet like something had possessed her, already reaching across the desk to grab her pen. She snatched the stiff cream card embossed with the vermilion-red wax seal of the Autumn Court, the gold tassel hanging from the bottom fluttered in the breeze, swaying like it was nodding her forward.

With quick, confident fingers, she unfolded a piece of parchment and bent over her desk. Her script was sharp and elegant, pressed deep into the fibers of the paper with every forceful stroke of her quill pen. Each line felt like reclaiming something. Herself. Her role. Her right to be heard.

“Dear Lord Vanserra,
Holding the authority of a Courtier enforced by the High Lord of the Spring Court, it shall be my honor to represent our Grace in the celebration of the Autumn Equinox. Please ensure the accommodations and audience on behalf of your High Lord in order to discuss the upcoming potential changes in the future of our Courts.

With Warm Regards,
Lady Gillie Vaelaris,
Courtier of the Spring Court.”

She read it over once. Didn’t edit. Didn’t hesitate.

With a breath that puffed out of her lungs like she'd been holding it all day, she folded the letter, pressing the edges down with her palms. Then she struck a match. The candle’s wick hissed before blooming into flame, and the smell of beeswax filled the air.

Gillie picked up the sage green wax stick and let it drip, one heavy molten tear at a time, onto the folds of the parchment. Then, with her seal—an old brass stamp bearing the sigil of her disgraced house—she pressed it into the wax, firm and deliberate.

She reached into the bowl by her writing set and pinched a single lavender bloom, delicate and dry, still fragrant. She nestled it into the cooling wax, sealing the letter not just with authority, but a sign of something only the recipient of the letter would unerstand.

It was done.

Gillie lifted her chin, her heartbeat steady now. She would go to Autumn. She would be s een. And this time, they would listen.

Chapter Text

Gillie released a silent sigh, slow and tight through her nose, careful not to draw attention. Her fingers were clamped around the slender handle of her silk fan so tightly her knuckles ached, joints locked with tension. The ivory ribs of it creaked softly beneath the pressure of her grip. Fuck.

Tamlin would fucking kill her.

Or at least, he would, if he ever noticed she was gone. But the moment he did , the second it registered what she was doing, where she was doing it, who she was doing it with—Mother help her. The High Lord of Spring would burn Gillie's world down out of spite.

Her pulse fluttered against her collarbone. She could feel it, this almost-sick, giddy panic rising in her throat like too-sweet wine. Like she’d already been caught, already been thrown before him. Her lips twitched at the thought. At the fact she wasn't running. She was here .

The skirts of her gown brushed against her ankles in a silken whisper, cool and heavy with layers of soft lilac tulle and satin that glimmered faintly under the chandeliers' flickering light. The color hugged her body in all the places it needed to: a corseted bodice cinched just tightly enough to press her delicate breasts upward, framed by a neckline that teased but didn’t beg. The lightest chiffon sleeves slipped from her shoulders and draped over her arms, falling in soft bells around her hands like flower petals. She had to be careful not to catch them on the fan’s sharp ribs as she raised it again, covering the bottom half of her face like.

She blinked slowly, shook the hesitation from her lashes.

Before her, the ballroom unfurled like something out of a fever dream, Autumn never did anything halfway.

The celebration of the Autumn Equinox always flirted with the rituals of Calanmai—since the Great Rite was performed by every Court in Prythian—but Beron’s Court didn’t do meadows and bonfires and moaning in the dark. No. Autumn dressed the Rite in jewels and gold and arrogance. Their version began with a lavish series of masquerades and balls, a procession of beauty and decadence before Fire Night. They wanted guests to stay. To revel. To be dazzled into submission.

And tonight, they succeeded once again.

The ballroom was nothing short of a forest on fire—beautiful, untouched.

Garlands of ivy, golden leaves, and ripe berries draped from the ceilings like chandeliers of their own, braided with ribbons of russet, copper, and deep wine. Crystal chandeliers swung above the chaos, their delicate pieces chiming with the vibrations of music below. The scent of roasted cinnamon and darkened pine filled the air, mingling with wine, perfume, and something faintly animal underneath it all—magic, it was thrumming low and old like the heartbeat of the Rite itself.

Laughter echoed against the high, arched ceilings—bright, rich, and careless. Crystal glasses clanged in cheers, metal goblets knocked against wood tables, and beneath it all was music: strings, deep drums, and flutes weaving through the sound like a spell meant to keep everyone moving, spinning, wanting .

Gillie’s hand drifted to the hem of her skirt as she bent gracefully, fingers brushing the delicate lace that trimmed her high-heeled slipper. She adjusted it almost absentmindedly, as if grounding herself in the tangible—something small, something she could control. The sharp arch of the heel reminded her she was meant to stand tall tonight, to walk with purpose even as fear slithered inside her belly.

She touched the flower crown resting delicately on her lavender-silver hair. It had slipped just slightly with the wind on her way into the palace, and she took a moment to straighten it. Sprigs of eucalyptus curled around spring blossoms—wild violets, tiny peonies, and pale pink cherry buds. 

Gillie flicked open her fan with a soft snap , the silk catching the chandelier light like moonlight on a pond. A breath. One more breath. She tucked her irritation, her fury, her fear behind a perfectly practiced, sharp little half-smile.

And then she stepped into the ballroom.

The warmth of the room hit her instantly, heat rising from bodies packed too close, from the fires burning low in massive iron hearths, from the slow friction of magic that buzzed against her skin. The crowd swallowed her. Velvets in deep reds and burnt golds swished past her, gowns beaded with flame-like stones, coats embroidered with falling leaves.

Everywhere, the soft scrape of movement—feet shifting, hips swaying, mouths brushing too close to ears. A wine-soaked female in yellow robes and intricate updo laughed against an Autumn male’s throat. Another couple disappeared behind a curtain of vines to do Mother-knew-what.

Gillie scented him before she saw him, wlhich was ridiculous, honestly. The ballroom was stuffed full of an array of different scents like baked sugar, cinnamon-drenched pastries, slow-roasted meats dripping with spice and fat. Red wine sloshing in heavy goblets, clove smoke curling from golden incense dishes. The Autumn Court was a living altar to indulgence, and yet…

Yet somehow, his scent sliced clean through it all.

Over the perfume and mouthwatering dishes, the heat of hundreds of bodies in velvet and gold came a gust of crackling firewood, rain-patted soil brought in on heavy boots… and there it was. Roasted chestnuts. That warm, rich aroma wrapped in just the faintest bite of fire. Familiar, intoxicating, a little wild around the edges. Her heart kicked in her chest like it recognized something before her brain did.

Lucien’s scent had a trace of it too, lighter, sweeter, but Eris… It clung to his skin like it belonged there, curled in the air around him like smoke, like danger. She turned before she even registered moving, gaze lifted—and there he was.

Amber eyes, so sharp they could flay, they locked with hers instantly. They were smiling at her before his mouth ever moved. And fuck, that mouth —thin, elegant, dishonest in the most beautiful way. His lips twitched upward in something between a smile and a warning.

Eris inclined his head with that lazy kind of nobility only a highborn predator could master. His hand moved up to brush the short fur mantle that hung from one shoulder, the motion deliberately slow. The mantle slid slightly to reveal the exquisite tailoring of his burgundy three-piece suit, the velvet and silk catching the light like fresh blood. The shirt beneath was a darker wine, almost black in the shadows, open at the throat just enough to suggest heat beneath the polish. His knee-high boots gleamed like they’d been buffed by servants on their knees.

He said something quickly to the cluster of nobles around him, barely looking at them, before his body shifted toward her, like a magnet pulling him through the noise. He plucked a glass of wine from a passing tray without even glancing at the servant, never breaking eye contact with her.

“Lord Vanserra,” she said, voice even and honey-smooth as she dipped into a slow, deliberate curtsy. Low and controlled. 

Eris smirked. “Blossom.” His voice was silk-wrapped poison, warm and cruel and meant to make her blush. “What a pleasant surprise to find such a cute little flower growing in a field of rot.”

He caught her hand before she could rise, lifted it with a practiced elegance, and brushed his lips lightly over her knuckles. Not long enough to be scandalous, but just enough to let her feel the warmth of his breath, just enough for him to trace her sweet scent.

Gillie narrowed her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek as heat flared across her chest and neck. “Stop it, Eris. We are in public,” she whispered, her voice low enough to hide the slip of breathlessness. “I’m here on a diplomatic mission. It would be extremely vulgar to abuse my position just to return the favor of your charming little nickname.” She winked at him, coy and wicked.

Eris tilted his head with an exaggerated “ come the fuck on ” expression that nearly made her laugh, a soft snort leaving him as he finally released her hand. He offered his arm next, waiting. She took it with a sigh that barely masked her smile, his chin jerking upward in silent command as they began walking the edge of the ballroom like it was theirs.

Eris leaned down as they moved, the height difference tugging him toward her shoulder, loving to invade her space in such delicate gestures. “I was always surprised,” he murmured, his voice brushing her ear, “that even wedded to that piece-of-shit Caelan, you still managed to sneak that nickname in during our little chats over the years.”

Gillie chuckled, tightening her grip on his arm like it steadied her. Or kept her from doing something she’d regret. “Mother bless thy poison tongue with purity, Eris,” she said lightly, though her breath caught a little on the name. Caelan. That shadow still had claws. “Let us not dig up my wretched past on such a warm, sweet night.”

Eris nodded once, serious for a flicker of a second. “Agreed.” Then he added, without missing a beat—voice dripping with molten intent, mouth just inches from her temple: “Since we’ve got plenty of delicious things to remember… before Caelan. And after… And after. And… after.”

That wicked grin stretched his lips wide now, teeth white and sharp and full of promise. His voice had dropped, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

Gillie gave him a sideways look, brows arching with open annoyance. “Do not force my hand on your face in front of the entirety of Prythian nobility, my dear,” she murmured, voice syrupy-sweet and deadly soft as she dug her fingers ever so slightly into the crook of his arm.

Eris only laughed, quietly, deeply, this low sound vibrated beneath her skin. He looked amused, as always. Smug, as always. But behind the grin, his eyes were already scanning the room again, calculating who was watching and who was pretending not to.

“Very well, Blossom,” he said at last, straightening his posture with a fluid, graceful shift. “Let us discuss the matters at hand. What was it that you implied with your letter?”

Gillie tilted her head, her fan now draped at her side like an afterthought. “I thought the lavender was pretty clear.”

“It was,” he admitted with a smirk. “Yet… there is a necessity to clarify when ‘lavender’ occurs.”

He cleared his throat with a theatrical subtlety, and without waiting for her reply, gently guided her away from the edge of the ballroom. His gloved hand barely touched the small of her back as they slipped past laughing couples and murmuring courtiers, through an arched set of glass doors leading into the crisp night air.

The garden was vast and shadowed, speckled with golden lanterns hanging from branches heavy with fruit and flame-tipped blossoms. Moonlight pooled across the mosaic pathways, and the air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and overripe apples. The further they walked, the quieter the music behind them became, until it faded into the sound of whispering trees and the soft crackle of a nearby torch.

“I don’t have many options,” Gillie snapped, the edge in her voice cutting through the hush like a blade. “My High Lord doesn’t listen. And your little brother doesn’t help either, he’s too busy indulging in his light-hearted approach, encouraging parties and occasional drunk shenanigans while the court is in chaos around us.”

Her hand tightened at her side. The soft fabric of her gown crinkled with the motion, her knuckles pale. That old fury, the one she tried to bury beneath diplomacy and grace, began to rise again like bile.

Eris slowed, angling his body toward her. “I see,” he said simply. His eyes flicked to her face, reading every tick of her expression. “By the way you speak of it, it seems that lavender wasn’t a cry for escape this time.”

“Partially it was.” Gillie sighed and moved to sit on the stone bench nestled under a trellis of ivy and dark purple roses, petals heavy with dew. She gathered her skirts, smoothing the fabric over her lap before meeting his gaze. Her silver-gray eyes shimmered with frustration and something more brittle beneath.

“I need your advice,” she said quietly. “And I need your alliance, Eris.” A pause. “Name your price.”

That got his full attention. Eris shifted to sit beside her, the bench groaning under his weight. His shoulder brushed hers. “Please,” he murmured, softer now. “Your company is priceless, Blossom. Why would I ask for more?”

His mouth curled into a slow, maddening grin, and his amber eyes danced with mischief.

Gillie didn't smile. “I’m serious, Eris.” Her voice dropped low, almost a whisper, but every syllable landed like stone. “We’re talking about the war afoot. I doubt Amarantha will bring blessings upon our lands. I can already feel the prickle of rot in our soil.”

She reached for a chrysanthemum that had bloomed late in the season, its rust-colored petals trembling in the breeze. She plucked a single leaf and brought it to her nose, inhaling the dry, bitter scent.

Eris was quiet for a moment. Then: “I have an idea or two,” he said with a shrug. “I’m working on something. But it’s… slow.”

Gillie turned toward him slightly, her interest piqued. “Big?” she asked, voice barely audible over the rustle of leaves.

He nodded once, short and firm.

“May I—?”

“Always,” he interrupted, and something honest sparked behind his grin. “You know I always need someone I can trust. Especially someone with your… skill set. And your network.” He winked, playfully, but there was steel in the words beneath.

“Do not flatter me, Muzzle .” She squinted at him, finally breaking and calling him by the nickname, her lips twitching at the corners. “I can smell your shit from miles away.”

That made him laugh, loud this time. Rich and pleased with her. It vibrated in his chest, warm and open in the cool night.

“I shall keep you updated,” he said at last, shifting to face her completely. One of his hands now rested behind her on the bench, close enough to touch but not quite grazing. “Now… how about we have some fun? Gossip a little, drink until we forget protocol exists?” His mouth curved into a grin that was nothing short of suggestive. “You can stay in my room after.”

Gillie snorted, rolling her eyes. “I thought it was clear from my letter that accommodations were to be made.”

“They were.” Eris lifted his chin, positively smug now. “I’ve made my bed for you, Blossom. All is up to par.” He winked.

Gillie giggled and leaned over to playfully slap his cheek. Eris froze for half a heartbeat before chuckling low in his throat. 

“You are funny, Eris,” she sighed, rising from the bench with the effortless grace. 

Eris stood with a dramatic huff, brushing invisible dust from his gloves as though he were preparing for a duel rather than a waltz. His mantle shifted with him, the fine velvet catching the moonlight and turning near-black where the shadows touched it.

“Whatever my Blossom wishes,” he said with a grin that was far too pleased with itself.

He extended his arm again, and this time Gillie slid her fingers through the crook of his elbow without a second thought. Her touch was light, familiar. She barely realized she was still laughing with that soft, private laughter that warmed the cool air between them.

Eris halted just before the ballroom doors, one bootstep echoing against the tiled threshold. He didn’t push them open yet.

“I have to ask though,” he murmured, voice lower now. There was something curious in it. Not playful, exactly, but close. “Just because I’ve never asked before. Not that I mind, but why… Muzzle? ”

He turned toward her with an arched brow, those enchanting eyes narrowed just slightly in mischief.

Gillie released an utterly unladylike snort and turned her whole body toward him, one hand on her hip. “Because you growl more than you speak sometimes…” she said with mock exasperation, but her tone softened at the end.

And then, without ceremony, her fingers rose to graze the open edge of his collar. Her knuckles brushed the skin just beneath his throat. Slowly, she folded the lapel of his shirt into place, smoothing the edge with a few practiced swipes like she’d done it a hundred times. Like it meant nothing. “And I had to silence you during—”

“ Not another word. ” Eris cut her off in a burst of laughter, blowing air through his lips as his head tilted back with a groan.

Gillie just smiled at him, slow and smug, biting down gently on her bottom lip like she wasn’t finished teasing him.

“You are so staying in my room tonight,” he muttered, pointing a finger at her like it was already decided.

And then, without waiting for her reply, he threw the ballroom doors wide with a sweeping push, and the light spilled out like fire.

The music crashed over them again, blending with the scent of wine and sweat and sweet-spiced air. Gillie stumbled forward half a step from the force of it, and Eris caught her waist with an amused hand, spinning her with a dancer’s ease into the glowing chaos of the ballroom.

The crowd turned toward them like waves.

And Gillie, still smirking, still breathless, let herself be pulled into the center of it all, fingers threaded through his, her pulse dancing as fast as her feet ever would.

Chapter Text

There was no doubt in his mind: Gillie was afraid of him. Not in the way mortals feared monsters or children feared the dark, but subtler, quieter. Like the way a bird stills when a shadow crosses the grass. A frozen tension in her spine, a sidelong glance when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Maybe it was just his perception, maybe it was just the echoes of the silence he wore like a second skin. Or maybe she just knew she’d fucked up.

Majorly.

And while Tamlin was no tyrant—not his father, not any of his dead, blood-hungry brothers—he’d inherited that same damnable stillness. The quiet that swallowed rooms whole, smothered words, churned unease in the guts of every fae stupid enough to think he wasn’t paying attention. He spoke less, moved slower, calculated more and that frightened them. Made them flinch or sweat or lie. They mistook his silence for disapproval, or worse, for a quiet kind of rage waiting to burst through his skin.

But Gillie… Gillie had it all wrong. She thought he didn’t even remember her name. She thought she was just another courtier lost in the shuffle of Spring’s endless politics, another pretty face with thorns tucked behind her lips.

What she didn’t know—what she couldn’t possibly know—was that he clung to her name like it might burn him clean. That it tasted like something sacred on his tongue, and he kept it locked behind his teeth out of sheer fucking fear that saying it out loud too often would betray the way his chest squeezed whenever he looked at her. If she had only known how much protectiveness he stored in that silence. How much respect, yes, but also how much want. How he’d already trusted her with pieces of himself no one else had ever gotten close to. And his trust—that was not something easily earned, not since the war, not since the betrayals, not since her.

But right now? Right now, he was furious with her. Raw, blood-hot, clenched-jaw furious.

Because Gillie—Gillie was annoying as fuck.

Independent to a fault. Willful, reckless, bold in all the wrong ways, especially for someone occupying a sensitive position in his Court. A position under his watch, in his lands, within the fragile ecosystem of his rule.

And yet, despite every expectation placed on her, she'd defied him. She’d gone against his orders. She’d vanished for days, left no trace, not even a damn note. And then she came back, stinking of Eris Vanserra.

That scent—that infernal, oily, perfumed scent of Autumn and arrogance—it had nearly driven Tamlin mad. It coated her skin like she’d rolled in it, and for a split second, his instincts didn’t just flare, they howled. She was free, yes. Mother knew he would never cage her, but Caelan was still in that fucking chair blodied and breathless in Tamlin’s eyes, and there she was, wearing another male’s scent.

He shouldn’t care. But fuck, he did. Because the only scent he ever wanted to linger on her skin—long after she’d left his presence, long after dusk had turned to dawn—was his own.

“Explain yourself.” Tamlin’s voice cracked the silence like a whip, low and rough. He was sprawled out in the armchair in her study, his broad shoulders drowning the worn leather, his legs spread in that way that reeked of quiet power, coiled tension, and territorial rage barely kept in check.

Gillie sat across from him, tense and tucked behind her desk like it might shield her from what was coming. Her fingers—those long, elegant fingers that had once brushed against his wrist during a council meeting and left him reeling for a full hour—fidgeted with the pen that had started this entire mess. That godsdamned pen. Its ink had carried words—plans—betrayals—to people who had no business knowing them. A black stain that had seeped into his Court like rot.

She wasn’t just his courtier. She was something else entirely. Something she thought he didn’t see, but he did.

“My Lord—”

“No.” He shook his head slowly, eyes locked on hers, already predicting her path. She’d offer a polite half-apology, something stiff and performative. Then she’d dress up a weak excuse, expecting him to nod and feel like the fool in the end. No.

“Explain yourself, Lady Vaelaris.” His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t need to. Just the title, spoken like a slap, made her shoulders stiffen.

“I—” Her voice faltered. Like the lie had started forming but hit a wall on her tongue. She tucked a soft strand of hair behind her ear, and Tamlin—fuck him—his eyes followed the movement. The moonlight, sneaking in through the tall window, caught the shimmer in her hair. That odd, starlit lavender that looked like something spun from dream.

“I’ve done what I felt best for the Spring Court,” she said quietly, but firmly, “by striking an alliance with a person I trust with my life.”

Tamlin’s knuckles tightened against the armrest. “Your life means nothing on the scale of the entire Court.” The words were dark and bitter, not meant to cut her down, but they did. Her mouth opened like he’d slapped her, then tightened. Her wide, storm-silver eyes shimmered wth frustration, fury, hurt.

“You’re an important part of my circle,” he added, softer but still sharp, “but that doesn’t mean you can act on your own without consulting me.”

And that—that—set her off.

“I’ve tried, My Lord,” she hissed, through clenched teeth. Her voice had dropped to something razor-sharp. Controlled. Deadly. She adjusted in her chair, practically squaring off with him across the desk. Then she flung the pen down hard, and it bounced once before settling like a guillotine had dropped.

“But every time I address anything to you, you ignore me. You ignore my suggestions like I’m an inconvinience.”

Tamlin didn’t flinch. Just leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk, eyes boring into her. “Did it never occur to you that perhaps I needed time to think through them? To weigh possibilities before granting you permission to act?” His brow arched slightly, the only sign of his irritation leaking through. His voice didn’t waver, didn’t rise. But it pressed. It pressed.

Gillie’s eyes narrowed. Her breath came fast, chest rising under the pale lilac silk of her blouse, and she lifted a single finger in front of her as if to scold a child.

“My Lord,” she said tightly, the sarcasm nearly curdling the air, “forgive me for my frivolous approach, but—”

“I will stop you right there, Lady Vaelaris.” He stood slowly and the whole study seemed to shrink under his height, under the weight of his anger finally unfurling. “Do not take me for a fool,” he said, voice low and venomous. “That—I can survive. But deciding the fate of my lands beyond my reach? Beyond my permission?” His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking beneath his golden skin. “That shall be punished accordingly.”

He adjusted the baldric strapped across his chest, the weight of the Illyrian blades resting against his ribs as if they too hungered for judgment.

“There will not be another time.”
His voice landed heavy, final—like a slammed door that might never open again.

He turned on his heel, the fabric of his jacket rustling against the silence, ready to leave her in the echo of his disappointment. But then—he paused. Just for a breath. Just enough for her to taste hope.

He glanced back, gaze flicking over his shoulder, and when he spoke again, it was softer. A quiet thunder. “There will not be another conversation like this one.”

Gillie released a defeated breath. It came out shaky, hollow in her chest. Her shoulders sagged, the resistance in them bleeding out as her head dipped low.

“Yes, My Lord.” The submission in her voice hit him like a fucking punch.

Tamlin sat back down without thinking, the legs of the chair creaking under his weight. Fuck. He held his breath for a second longer than he needed to. Let it burn in his chest. Let it make him feel something more than anger.

“Lady Vaelaris,” he said, voice noticeably softer. He leaned forward, just enough to catch her eyes, but her face was still hidden behind that silvery curtain of hair, her chin almost touching her chest.

He tilted his head, angling to find her gaze beneath the shame that pinned her down.

“I am no enemy of yours,” he murmured. “We chase the same interests. In the light of that, I would greatly appreciate your cooperation.”

Gillie blinked. Once. Twice. Then slowly raised her eyes to meet his. The regret in them was sharp, silvered like the storms of early spring. Her voice barely cracked through her throat.

“I understand, my Lord.”

And just like that, it was his turn to feel shame crawl under his skin.

Something heavy lodged in his chest. That tone in her voice, the quiet apology of it… it felt like too much. Like the guilt he’d buried under politics and appearances was clawing its way up to the surface.

“I was unavailable earlier,” he said, straightening, grounding himself. “But now I’m open for a discussion. So, please—” he gestured toward her gently, hand open, “tell me. What is it that you did these past days that was so important you lost your judgment… and forgot to address it with me?”

He watched her closely. The way her shoulders rose a little, defensively. How her lips parted on an exhale not quite calm. Her cheeks colored slightly, just a soft flush blooming high on her cheekbones. She was angry, frustrated, embarrassed. All of it beneath the surface like magma under ice.

Her hand moved to the stack of letters on her desk, fingers spreading over the parchment like a claim.

“I had suggested you ally with the Seasonal Courts, my Lord.” Her voice had that edge again—controlled, clipped. “It was a great opportunity with the Autumn Equinox approaching, since…” 

She hesitated, because Tamlin was watching her. Completely. Fully. The weight of his attention startled her, it made her mouth go dry.

“Since…” she repeated, swallowing. Her lip caught between her teeth, and Tamlin’s eyes dropped to the motion, traitorous and burning.

A slow, almost broken smile tugged at his mouth. “You struck a deal with Eris,” he finished for her.

Her breath hitched. “I did.” And the tension thickened. It curled between them like smoke in a sealed room. “He’s building a network through the other courts, but since none of them favor Beron—or Eris—at this point, he suggested that someone like you, who is favored and respected, could get involved. And gain more leverage… in case war breaks out.”

Tamlin’s face twisted in something close to disdain. Tired. Frustrated. Jealous. Wounded.

“Should I travel through their sheets as well?” he muttered, the bitterness leaping out before he could shove it back down. It was petty, he knew it was petty. But the image of Gillie—his Gillie—laughing into Eris Vanserra’s mouth made his fists clench.

She gasped, the sound sharp like glass hitting stone, her whole body bristled.

“Eris and I go back,” she bit out, voice going cold, clipped at the edges like a blade. She sat straighter, chin high. Every inch of her vibrating with restraint. “Not that it should concern you, my Lord.”

Tamlin grimaced, swallowed and nodded, slow. “Forgive me, Lady Vaelaris. It’s natural I’m… fussed about it, considering you were my brother’s wife—”

Her eyes snapped to him like arrows loosed from a string.

“Caelan is long dead,” she snapped, her voice suddenly fierce. “I will not chain myself to a grave just because the memory of your brother still coils under your skin.”

His mouth slammed shut. She’d struck something deep.

Tamlin’s brows drew tight. He had crossed a line. He knew it—but Mother help him, he couldn’t stop the bitterness in his veins. The old guilt. The old resentment. The what-ifs of it all.

“You weren’t at the funeral.” The accusation was quiet. Too quiet. Like a wound whispering with dull pain beneath a bandage.

Gillie winced, her mouth opened, then shut again, her jaw working through the heat rising in her throat.

“Why would I be there?” she whispered. No venom, just disbelief.

“We were your family.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

Tamlin leaned back, trying to catch himself. Trying not to let the words crack open the history they never dared speak aloud.

But Gillie leaned forward.

“You were never my family, My Lord.” The title was spat like poison.

Her hands dropped to the desk, palms flat. She hung her head for a moment, as if gathering courage from the wood beneath her. Her voice came fast, raw, like a wound breaking open:

“Your brother was my abuser. Your father was my executioner. Your mother enabled it all. Hadrien never batted an eye. And you—” her voice cracked, just slightly, “you weren’t ever around.”

The air shifted.

Tamlin froze. All sound disappeared except her breathing. And for a moment, he was young again. Powerless. Ashamed. A ghost in his own halls.

“I’m sorry, Gillie.” The words left his mouth before he could calculate them. He didn’t know if they were enough—hell, he knew they weren’t. But he meant them.

He looked at her, open for the first time in too long.

“I should have done better.”

Gillie didn’t speak. Her whole body had gone stiff, as if she didn’t know how to receive that. As if her nerves were bracing for a blow that never came.

He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat, trying to break the heaviness in the room.

“Now…” he began again, the edge gone from his voice, replaced with something almost too human. “Tell me about this deal of yours with that prick—Vanserra.”

He rolled his neck, working out the tension. A poor distraction, but it was something.

Gillie let out a long, exhaled breath, almost a laugh. Almost a sob. Something between relief and fatigue. She blinked at him, the fire dimming just slightly in her eyes.

And for the first time since Tamlin had walked into her study, she felt like she could breathe again.

Chapter Text

Gillie sat cross-legged on the soft, sun-warmed bank of the lake, just a few meters away from the sprawling manor and its blooming, overgrown gardens. The grass beneath her was plush and wild, prickling her calves through the thin fabric of her trousers. 

Orange blossoms swayed lazily in the breeze around her, their scent heady—ripe citrus tangled with something spicy and golden, like warmed cinnamon bark or clove rubbed between fingers. It clung to her skin, sank into her lungs, made her feel languid and sticky in the best way.

She reached for a wild strawberry, round and ruby-bright, still clinging to the last kiss of morning dew. She snapped it from its stem with a satisfying pop and sank her teeth into the flesh. Sweet, sunburst red juice ran down her tongue. She licked her lips and sighed through her nose, then dipped her bare feet into the lake, its coolness a sharp contrast that sent a little shiver crawling up her thighs. It felt like glass at first, smooth and biting, and then like velvet fluid silk running between her toes.

Birdsong fluttered above, soft and curious, a background hush of wings and whistling calls from birds tucked deep in the foliage of the tree behind her. The branches arched protectively over her, casting shifting shadows on her skin, dappling her forearms and collarbones in light and dark.

It was quiet. Peaceful. Almost dreamlike—if not for the soft, persistent rustle of papers beside her. Lucien was sprawled on his stomach in the grass, one elbow crooked under his chest, the other hand flipping through his own annotated report, muttering and occasionally clicking his tongue in displeasure. He had one of those furrowed-brow looks on, the kind he always wore when he read something that Gillie had dared to edit.

Sometimes, when the weather offered mercy and the palace politics weren’t biting at their heels, they stole days like this—working outside instead of pacing those endless, echoing corridors, always marching from one wing to another, from one meeting to the next. Today was one of those rare stolen hours, the kind that tasted sweeter just because they knew it would be over too soon.

Across the lake, on the opposite shore, came the metallic rhythm of steel on steel—Tamlin and his sentries training in the open field. The clangs rang out like steady heartbeats, spaced almost rhythmically between bursts of deep-throated laughter and thuds of bodies hitting packed earth. Gillie glanced in that direction, careful to do so from under her lashes, as if watching too openly might burn her.

She caught sight of him almost instantly—golden and broad and stupidly shirtless, because apparently, he too had decided the heat was too much. Barely ten minutes into the session, he had stripped off his tunic and tied his loose hair, braids and all, into a messy, knotted bun at the nape of his neck. The sight of it… Mother above, it stirred something low and hot in her chest. Something entirely inconvenient.

The sun caught on the sheen of sweat at his collarbone, glinting off his shoulder blades as he moved, and she had to look away before she embarrassed herself.

Lucien sighed beside her, loud and theatrical. She looked over just in time to catch him unbuttoning the top of his shirt, peeling it open to fan himself with the stack of papers in his hand. His red hair was sticking a little to his neck. Even he looked like he was melting at the edges.

“That’s about right,” he said, tapping one of the pages with two fingers like it had personally offended him. Then, with a triumphant little grin, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together like a fox about to pounce. “Now—the break. Finally.”

Before she could react, he pushed himself up onto all fours and crawled across the grass toward her feet. Gillie startled, jerking her foot back with a small squeak, but Lucien just gave her ankle a casual pat-pat, mischief in his grin. Then he plunged his hand into the lake.

She blinked. “Lucien, what—”

His arm reappeared from the water a second later holding a bottle. A long-necked green glass bottle, slick with lake water, beaded with chill, droplets racing down the curves. He held it up like a prize.

Cold. Cold enough to fog slightly in the sun.

Her eyes widened. Her throat involuntarily flexed. A soft sound, half surprise, half pleasure escaped her before she could bite it back.

“Oh my—”

Lucien grinned like the devil himself. “Thought we deserved some encouragement for our efforts,” he said, biting into the cork with his teeth and wrenching it free with an audible pop . He spat it onto the grass and extended the bottle toward her.

“Seriously?” she asked, trying not to laugh, but her fingers were already curling around the cold glass, already tipping it toward her lips.

Her shoulders dropped, tension melting away. The wine kissed her tongue—crisp, slightly dry, with a smooth citrus aftertaste that made her hum in satisfaction. She took another, longer sip before passing it back.

“Nice, huh?” Lucien said, raising a brow. He took a swig and exhaled like it had just saved his life. “I keep a stash in every corner of the manor too. Just in case.”

He winked at her over the rim, then laid back on the grass, bottle resting against his stomach, shirt still half open and wet at the collar from where the cold wine had dripped down his chest. The breeze played with the edges of the paper strewn around them, the scent of orange blossoms thickening as the sun climbed higher. Somewhere across the lake, steel clanged again.

“In case of what?” Gillie giggled, the sound light and wine-warmed, like ringing bells. She tugged at the puffed sleeves of her powder-pink blouse, sliding them back up her freckled shoulders, then bent to roll the hems of her loose, lilac-purple trousers to mid-calf. The fabric fluttered around her thighs like soft petals, catching the breeze. The lake lapped gently at her ankles, cool and teasing.

Lucien arched a brow at her in exaggerated mockery, lips curled into a fox-like grin. Without ceremony, he peeled off his shirt completely and flopped back onto the grass with the fluidity of a lazy feline. His smooth, dark caramel skin practically glowed in the sun, golden undertones catching on every dip and curve of his lean chest. Sweat gleamed faintly at his collarbone. His hair, copper-red and messy, was pushed back from his face as he squinted up at the sky like it was speaking directly to him.

“In case I have a spontaneous work break, what else?” he snorted, taking another long sip from the bottle.

Gillie side-eyed him with an expression that screamed really? —her mouth curled into a smirk full of sarcastic disbelief. Lucien met her gaze and flashed a grin, lazy and dangerous, all teeth and mischief.

And then, just as she leaned back on her hands, soaking in the heat and the citrus-drenched breeze, he threw the question out like a dagger:

“So what is it with you and my brother, anyway?”

Her breath caught mid-inhale. Just a little too sharp.

The air around her suddenly felt warmer, thicker, like the sun was leaning a bit too close. She snatched the bottle from his hand before answering, dragging a long sip that coated her tongue in chilled white wine and gave her a heartbeat’s worth of distraction. Her eyes fluttered shut as the alcohol slipped down her throat like silk.

She wiped her mouth lazily with the back of her hand and said, “Ladies do not kiss and tell.”

Lucien let out a low, teasing hum. “Ah... I see.” His grin cracked wide with laughter, but there was something in his eyes now. Something calculating. A pause. Then a flicker of thought pulled his gaze downward, and he took a short sip of the wine, almost contemplative, watching the neck of the bottle like it might offer answers.

He looked back up through his lashes—long, copper-tinged and catching light like flame. “Didn’t you have a major crush on Tam?” he asked, voice dipping lower, toeing the line between curiosity and provocation.

“What? No!” Gillie barked, her whole face going hot in an instant. Her blush bloomed across her cheeks like spilled ink. She shot him a glare and turned her face to the lake, suddenly very interested in the ripples at her feet.

Lucien chuckled, far too pleased. “I wouldn’t blame you… who doesn’t?” he sighed, stretching like a satisfied cat, arms spread wide in the grass. “Powerful, handsome, rich…” He ticked off each word with a finger, smug as hell.

Gillie narrowed her eyes. “That isn’t ever the case,” she said sharply, cutting in before he could add more. Her voice was cooler now, harder. “Caelan was all those things, and yet, he was the worst match ever made for anyone.”

Lucien’s smirk faded into something more subdued. He sat up slightly, elbows propped behind him, and tilted his head as he took in her words.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “So are my parents. But here we are.”

The silence hit like a sudden cold wind, slicing clean through the heat, all playfulness sucked right out of the moment. It settled between them like a weight. Neither of them looked at the lake now.

Lucien turned his head slowly, and when his eyes met hers again, the glint of amusement was gone. Something steadier had replaced it. He looked at her like he saw her, like maybe he always had.

Gillie’s nose scrunched instinctively, her heart tightening in her chest. Then she leaned forward, reaching for him without thinking. Her fingers brushed the curve of his shoulder, his skin hot from the sun, firm and smooth beneath her touch. There was a tenderness to it, a need to anchor herself to something real, someone warm.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and she meant it. Not just for what he said, but for what sat behind it, unspoken.

“Me too,” Lucien murmured. The smile that tugged at his lips was faint, crooked at the corners, like it had to fight through too many memories to surface. His hand drifted down and settled gently over hers, still resting on his shoulder. The contact was soft, a quiet thank-you without words.

He lifted the bottle and passed it to her with a small tilt of his head, and Gillie took it with a flicker of gratitude across her face. The sunlight gleamed off the glass between them, casting a green shimmer across her arm as she raised it to her mouth and sipped.

“He’s a tinge too broody for my taste, though,” Lucien said suddenly, his gaze sliding sideways across the lake.

Gillie followed it.

Across the still water, Tamlin stood with his sword, spinning it absently in his hand by the hilt, muscles glinting with sweat and sun. The movement was elegant in its laziness, like the blade was simply an extension of him—no effort, just rhythm, focus and control.

“Really?” she breathed, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “I find it… annoyingly charming.”

“Aha!” Lucien’s voice cracked out with the glee of someone catching a secret midair. He pointed at her like a child discovering a hidden jar of sweets. “I knew you had a thing for him!”

Gillie rolled her eyes and let her shoulders rise in an exaggerated shrug, the bare curve of them gleaming under the dappled light. Her feet wriggled in the lake, sending up little ripples that glittered and danced around her ankles.

“As you said yourself, Lucien—who doesn’t?”

Lucien chuckled and dragged a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than usual. “And… how long,” he said slowly, drawing it out with a theatrical sort of tease, “have you been dragging your poor, pining heart after that towering, golden mountain of chastity over there?”

He pointed with his chin toward Tamlin, who was now sparring again—this time with Andras. Gillie’s eyes flicked to them. Tamlin’s stance was fluid but powerful, all coiled strength and precision. He was coaching Andras, correcting his footing, guiding him through counters. There was something reverent in the way he moved mentoring his best soldiers.

Gillie exhaled, long and wistful. “As long as I can remember, I guess.”

Lucien side-eyed her with an amused grin. “I thought you had a past with Eris…”

Gillie snorted, the sound sharp and unexpectedly warm. “Well…”

She shifted, sitting cross-legged again, her fingers brushing against his knee as she reached for the wine. “Eris was… my first everything.” She raised the bottle, took a bold gulp this time, and sighed again, her head tipping back so the sky filled her eyes. “Since we’re talking already.” She winced a little. “He was my first real friend. My first real kiss. My first… well… not really my first real—ugh, damn it.” She laughed, face flushing, voice cracking around the edge of memory.

“Yes?” Lucien’s smile widened with open delight, eyebrows raised like he’d just been handed the best gossip of the week.

Gillie gave him a look, but her blush deepened anyway. “Well… Caelan was my first male in the more traditional sense.” Her voice grew quiet, more thoughtful. “But Eris… oh my .”

She licked her lips, cheeks flaming, and the way she lowered her gaze made the air between them spark.

“Eris showed me… other things. Things I could look forward to before marriage.”

Lucien sputtered a laugh, choking slightly on his own delight. “Mother’s tits,” he swore, pressing a hand to his heart like she’d just scandalized him. “And then she says she doesn’t kiss and tell!”

Gillie punched him, sharp knuckles right to the shoulder. Lucien let himself fall back dramatically into the grass, grinning up at the sky, his laughter trailing into a soft huff.

Then he asked, quieter this time, eyes on the blue cloudless sky above them: “So, why didn’t you marry my brother?”

The question dropped heavy between them, but not cruel, not even accusatory, just really curious. Something in his voice shifted, slid past the teasing into something older, sadder.

Gillie didn’t answer right away. She leaned back on her palms, feeling the grass tickle her fingers, the breeze comb her collarbones. The lake whispered quietly at her toes and under all that… her heartbeat pulsed slow and steady, caught somewhere between laughter and memory and something she hadn’t quite named yet.

She looked at Lucien, his face soft now, open.

“We wanted to, actually,” she admitted, her voice warm. “But he was afraid the Autumn Court wouldn’t suit me… for obvious reasons.”

Her eyes flicked to Lucien’s, a quiet sadness moving between them, unspoken but thick in the air. He didn’t need her to explain. He knew . Of course he did. Lucien gave a single, slow nod. The motion felt like it hurt to do.

Gillie looked out over the lake, watching how the wind danced over the surface, catching bits of sun. “He was concerned for my safety. He thought it would be better to wait. So we waited… held it off… until it wasn’t meant to be anymore.”

She let out a slow breath, the kind that scraped on the way out. Then she gave a short, bitter laugh with no humor behind it. “Besides, my parents would never have allowed it. They’d never give me to wed Eris or anyone else outside of Spring, for that matter. They were obsessed with the purity of the bloodline. With court politics. With what marrying me off could mean. ” Her jaw tightened. “Caelan was a golden ticket to them. A promise of something grand . Everybody thought he would become a High Lord next, he was prepared his entire life for it and our sons would be the heirs of Spring…”

Lucien didn’t speak. He just listened. Still, quiet, bracing.

“They were thrilled that he found me ‘cute,’” she spat the word like it tasted sour. “It was awful. Humiliating. Like I was a prize pig they’d fattened up for market. And then…” Her voice cracked on the edge of memory. “It was just devastating. And painful. And… I was alone in all of it.”

She took the bottle again. This time, the sip was less of a sip and more of a gulp, sharp and fast, like it might burn something clean inside her. The wine was warm now. Less crisp. But still enough to numb the edges of her throat.

Lucien broke the silence first, but gently. “You never loved him,” he said, not quite a question.

Gillie shook her head slowly, her mouth pulling into a thin, bitter line. “Fortunately, I wasn’t that stupid, no.” Her voice had lost its softness, now it was edged like chipped glass, every word catching. “I didn’t love him. Not one bit. There were moments where I… I wanted to believe we could still build something functional. Not love, but at least a life. An alliance. Maybe even a kind of strange, sad friendship.”

She laughed again, but it came out dry, brittle. “But he made it impossible. Every year, every day , it got harder not to hate him. And then it became this slow-burning, rotting thing inside me. Like… if I didn’t get out, I’d become someone I didn’t recognize.”

She drew in a sharp breath—too fast—and it caught. Her eyes were glassy now. She blinked hard.

“When I saw him dead… Mother above, Lucien.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I was so relieved. At one point, I wanted to punch more blood out of his body. I wanted to take his corpse and—” She bit the words off, swallowing them down like poison. “I would’ve done something I’d regret, probably. If Tamlin hadn’t shown up… if he hadn’t sent me away . ”

Lucien stared at her. Really stared. His jaw was slightly slack, and something twisted behind his eyes—anger or guilt, it was hard to tell.

“Did he…” Lucien hesitated. The question barely made it out of his mouth, caught between caution and the need to know . “Did he know what Caelan did to you?”

Gillie was silent for a long moment. The lake sighed in the background. Somewhere, a bird took off with a loud rush of wings.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, voice hollow. “Not exactly. Not the full truth, I think. But… when he was around, it was easier.”

Her fingers curled around the neck of the bottle. Her other hand slid over her stomach like she was trying to hold something in.

“He kept him busy. Distracted. Sometimes he’d even… hurt him back. Small things. Cuts during sparring. A blow that looked like an accident. Nothing too obvious, but I noticed.”

Lucien’s lips parted.

“I think Tamlin did it because Caelan used to beat him when they were kids,” she added quietly. “He bragged about it. At every family gathering. Like it was a sport. He’d make jokes about it in front of everyone—how he made Tamlin cry, how Hadrien had to hold him back from ‘disciplining the runt’ too hard.”

Lucien’s hand had balled into a fist against the grass.

Gillie’s voice was barely a whisper now, her throat raw. “They’d all laugh, like it was funny, like Tamlin was just the weakest link in a long line of strong, violent bastards. And Tamlin would just… sit there. Staring at his plate. Not saying a word.”

The silence that followed was full of heat, tension, history. With things that had never been said aloud before.

Lucien closed his eyes. His chest rose once, slow and deliberate.

And Gillie just sat there, legs half-curled beneath her, hair sticking to the back of her neck, eyes fixed on the water like it might wash it all away. But the lake was still. Reflective. It held everything.

“What about his parents?” Lucien asked, low and tentative.

Gillie’s face changed instantly, something dark curled in her expression, and when she spoke, her voice had teeth.

“High Lord Voldeir was a cunt ,” she snapped, venom sharp and unfiltered on her tongue. “Cruel, sadistic, disgusting in his manners behind closed doors, but in public?” She gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Pristine. Perfect. A textbook High Lord—dignified, poetic, full of calculated charm. But inside these walls…” She glanced toward the manor, its ivory stone glowing bright in the hot sun. “He was the worst kind of monster.”

She looked across the lake again. Her gaze landed on Tamlin, still sparring, his bare back gleaming under the sweat and sunlight, muscles coiling with every movement. She didn’t look away this time.

“His mother… Gaia…” Gillie’s voice softened, but it trembled. “She was kind, in the delicate, nurturing way you’d expect from someone named after the nature itself. She smiled easily. She smelled like warm bread. But she was… ignorant in a way. Blind, maybe willfully. She stood by and let everything happen without raising a hand to stop it. Never stood between Voldeir and their sons.”

She paused, jaw tight, breath heavy.

“But… I don’t blame her. I don’t think she had any power. Not really. Not over him. She was outnumbered and outmatched by monsters.”

Silence settled over them again, heavier this time. It pooled in the spaces between their bodies, hummed under the sound of the water lapping against the shore. Lucien took the bottle again. He splashed his feet into the lake with a muted plop , water slapping against his ankles and darkening the hem of his trousers. He lifted the bottle and took a long, thoughtful gulp, the glass cool and slick in his fingers. Then, without a word, he reached it out toward Gillie.

He didn’t have to say anything. He didn’t need to. His silence said it all— I know . Maybe better than anyone else could.

She took the bottle, brushed her fingers lightly over his, and looked at him with something raw and grateful flickering in her eyes.

He looked back, smiling that warm, steady smile, the kind that stretched beneath the surface, deep-rooted like old vines. Then, slow and careful, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek, his palm cupping the side of her face. His hands were broad and hot from the sun, the skin rough at the edges, but gentle where it counted.

Gillie exhaled.

The breath trembled out of her chest like it had been held too long, like it had been waiting for a soft place to land. Her eyes slipped closed, her shoulders loosened, and for a moment she just leaned into it. Into him. Into the quiet comfort he offered without question.

When she opened her eyes again, he was still there, smiling, gaze locked with hers. She gave him a smile back and then wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close.

Lucien embraced her without hesitation. His body was warm and familiar, solid and real in that way very few people ever were. His chin rested lightly on her shoulder, and she let her face fall into the crook of his neck. It felt like… home. 

Then he murmured into her ear, soft enough that she almost missed it: “As much as it’s worth… I think Tam is also crushing on you.”

Gillie froze.

She pulled away immediately, heart thumping like it had tripped on itself. Her eyes were wide, but not from a sheer mental disarray. And just as she opened her mouth to respond— of course , Lucien —a shadow fell over them.

Tamlin stepped into the clearing.

Tall, shirtless, sweat-slicked, golden. His hair was still tied back messily, a few tendrils clinging to his neck and temples. His chest heaved from exertion, and the sun lit every cut and angle of his torso like a sculpture kissed by flame.

Lucien, unbothered, wiggled the wine bottle in the air with a devilish grin. “Hey!” he called cheerfully, voice too bright. “We saved you some!”

Tamlin raised a brow, lips twitching upward. But he was watching the two of them closely, especially Gillie.

And Gillie… her face had twisted into a complicated knot of frustration. Her silver-gray eyes—storm-bright and visibly flustered—shot daggers at Lucien as if she could rewind time and shove his comment back down his throat.

She instinctively moved to tug her puffed sleeves low again and started to reach for her trousers, to unroll them over her calves, but stopped mid-motion. Lucien caught her eye with a knowing look. The very picture of stop being odd .

She stiffened, then straightened her spine and gave Tamlin a breezy, clueless sort of smile. It felt unnatural on her face, but it was better than nothing.

Her eyes accidentally dropped lower though and somehow stayed there.

Tamlin’s abdomen glistened with sweat, the thick trail of blond hair down his stomach catching the light. It disappeared into the waistband of his trousers—hung slightly lower than usual. Barely clinging to decency. Her gaze stuck there a second too long before she caught herself.

Tamlin cleared his throat, deep and pointed, and sat down beside Lucien with the kind of quiet, unbothered grace that made her want to scream. He took the bottle with a nod of thanks, tilted it to his mouth, and took a long drink.

No one said a word.

“No worries, I have another,” Lucien laughed, noticing there was barely enough left in the bottle for a couple of polite sips— definitely not enough for the emotional depth of this particular lakeside gathering. He stood with an exaggerated grunt, stretching his limbs dramatically before crouching once more near Gillie’s feet.

Her pulse jumped. She shifted slightly, the warmth of him so close again coiling around her like a second sun. She wasn’t sure where to look, but unfortunately, her gaze made the mistake of flicking toward Tamlin.

And there it was.

That look . That nearly imperceptible furrow in his brow. His jaw didn’t clench, but something shifted in the tension of it, subtle but unmistakable. Like watching a thundercloud form slowly, building in silence. His expression didn’t betray much, but she saw it. Caught him watching.

Her face flushed hot as Lucien’s shoulder bumped hers.

Then, with all the grace of a trickster fox, Lucien plunged his arm back into the lake with a dramatic flair, sending a spray of cool water arcing into the grass. Two more bottles appeared in his grasp, dripping with lake water, glass gleaming in the afternoon sun like emeralds plucked from the depths. He tossed them onto the grass between the three of them with a self-satisfied grin.

Tamlin sat upright, wiping the back of his arm across his brow. “Hot day,” he rasped.

His voice was low, roughened from training, it slithered up Gillie’s spine like the ghost of a touch.

“Indeed,” Gillie murmured, eyes darting downward, suddenly very interested in the blades of grass brushing her fingers. One, in particular, was curling just slightly at the tip. She focused on it like it might save her life.

Lucien glanced between them and rolled his eyes hard enough to tilt the planet. He huffed out a snort. “Mother’s tits , if this is how you two communicate, no wonder I have to spice up the reports and external correspondence,” he muttered with a flourish of his wrist, like he was dismissing the entire Court’s political structure.

He popped the cork of the new bottle without fanfare and immediately handed it to Gillie, who took it with a grateful smile and a little hum of thanks, trying to ignore the way Tamlin’s amused eyes lingered on her as she raised it to her lips. Her cheeks warmed under that gaze, again.

Lucien leaned toward Tamlin, dropping his voice just enough for Gillie to barely catch: “I bet you had no idea Gillie is quite laid back, Tam.”

He leaned back and turned to Gillie, grinning like the cat who’d just kicked over a bucket of secrets. “And I bet you didn’t know Tam is quite laid back, Gil.”

He said it loud.

Too loud.

And Gillie promptly choked.

She sputtered and coughed, a bit of wine hitting the back of her throat the wrong way. Her hand flew to her chest, face flushed with laughter and mortification as she gasped, “Lucien!”

Lucien just clapped his hands, looking proud of himself. “I love being right.”

Gillie, breath recovered, narrowed her eyes with mock fury. “Oh, I know he’s fun,” she said, voice still hitching from the near-choke. “Just like I know you’re fun. And when the two of you decide to get up to something, there’s no stopping it. But never when I’m around.”

She pointed a finger at both of them, dramatic and indignant.

“Because nooo, obviously you both save your chaotic joy for the exact moment I come looking for either of you with urgent political matters to discuss with my High Lord—”

Her mouth snapped shut mid-sentence. Her body stiffened like someone had just cast a freeze spell on her bones. She heard it. Heard it the moment it left her lips.

Lucien’s eyes lit up like a firework show. “She called you ‘my High Lord!’” he crowed, turning gleefully toward Tamlin and immediately getting a splash of lake water to the face for his enthusiasm.

Gillie, scarlet-faced and still frozen in the same cursed pose, had grabbed a handful of water and flung it at him without thinking. She blinked like she'd short-circuited.

Tamlin had already reclined again, elbows in the grass, golden hair still sticking to the back of his neck. Water glistened on his skin like rivulets of light. 

He smirked. “I’ve heard,” he said simply, his gaze locked on Gillie’s. “Let her.”

That was it. Two words. Two quiet, unassuming, breath-stealing words. Gillie’s lips parted. Her breath caught somewhere in her throat, stuck and hot and impossible to hide. She stared at him.

And Tamlin, ever so subtle, winked… A slow, deliberate, confident-as-hell wink. Then a nod.

Like he was sealing something. Approving it. Claiming it .

Gillie’s brain short-circuited completely. She made a sound—small and utterly helpless—then smacked Lucien’s arm with the back of her hand, as if blaming him for the entire catastrophic, earth-tilting moment. 

Lucien yelped, rubbed his bicep dramatically, and let out a laugh that shook the grass.

And Gillie, still reeling, gulped down another mouthful of wine like it was the only thing keeping her from combusting. Her eyes stayed fixed on Tamlin, wide and dazed, like she’d just watched him swallow the sun and still look effortlessly composed.

He, meanwhile, seemed entirely unaffected. Tamlin tipped his head back and turned his face to the sky, the sun catching the golden line of his throat as he closed his eyes and stretched out onto the grass. His broad chest rose with a deep inhale, muscles relaxing in slow ripples, like a great cat after a hunt. 

Gillie exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for a decade, then finally let her spine sink into the earth. She lowered herself, her feet still dipped in the lake, water curling over her toes in little warm waves. The scent of orange blossoms hovered above them, mingling with sun-warmed skin and lake-wet wine.

For a brief moment, there was silence.

Then, predictably—Lucien.

“We should have a ball,” he announced grandly, throwing one arm wide with theatrical flair before flopping it across Gillie’s belly like it was a drum. His hand landed on the bare skin that had peeked out when she stretched, and she let out a sharp hiss through her teeth before swatting his ribs.

“Lucien,” she growled, half-annoyed, half-laughing.

He wheezed at the impact but only grinned wider.

Tamlin cracked open one eye at the sound and tilted his head just enough to catch the sight of Gillie’s body next to Lucien, wine bottle resting between them, the curve of her waist bare under her blouse, her fingers curled like she was still deciding whether to slap Lucien again. Tamlin didn’t say a word, but he looked. Briefly. Thoroughly. And then closed his eye again like it hadn’t happened.

Lucien, always watching, always clocking , caught the glance and smiled with teeth.

“Tam, how about Gillie and I craft some fancy invitations and organize a massive soiree for your name day?” he said, resting his elbows on his knees like he was already imagining the dance floor. “It’s only a week away.”

Tamlin, still reclined, made a face. “How about I swallow a hot pan instead?” he said with a lazy, ironic smile. His voice was thick with sunlight and sarcasm.

Lucien frowned like Tamlin had kicked a puppy. “Drop it, you like parties.”

Tamlin didn’t answer. He just let the silence stretch, that smile still lazily stitched across his mouth, as if humoring the thought but not committing to it.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Lucien muttered, rolling his eyes. “You never say no outright .”

He popped up onto his feet with an easy push, dirt brushing off his pants, and extended a hand down to Gillie. “Come on, Gil. Let’s go draft the guest list. We’ve got so much work to do. Seventy percent of the Night Court is just dying for another excuse to dress like it’s the end of the world.”

Gillie squinted up at him, sunlight spilling across her face, washing everything gold. Lucien’s silhouette towered above her, skin still damp with lake water, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Actually…” she began, shielding her eyes with one hand. “Can we do it after lunch? I’d love to stay and rest a bit more.” Her voice was soft, lilting, almost sleepy.

Lucien’s mouth twitched. He turned slowly toward Tamlin, who still had his eyes shut but—clearly—hadn’t missed a thing.

“Sure,” Lucien said, a bit too smoothly. “My study. After lunch.”

There was a beat.

Then Tamlin, without moving, said quietly, “We should have lunch together.”

His voice slipped into the quiet like it belonged there. And yet it startled both Gillie and Lucien, like the heat behind it had just registered.

Gillie blinked, heart stuttering. She turned her head toward him.

Tamlin cracked one eye open again. This time, he was looking right at her. Not just glancing. Looking.

“It’s about time Gillie joins us in the dining room,” he added, lips curling into something quieter than a smile but more than neutral. “Instead of stockpiling plates and fruit in her study like a reclusive forest witch.”

Gillie’s mouth twitched, caught between being offended and flattered. She opened it, closed it, and then gave a reluctant, bashful nod.

Lucien bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Right,” he muttered, lips twitching. “I’ll leave you two fully normal people to it.”

He began to stroll away, shirt slung lazily over his shoulder, whistling something that sounded suspiciously like a tavern love song.

Gillie remained stretched out on the grass, feet still submerged, stomach still bare, wine still warm in her hands.

Tamlin had closed his eyes again, but the smile remained.

And for a second, she thought if she reached out and touched his wrist, he might let her. Maybe even hold on.

Gillie remained laid back down on the sun-drenched grass instead, folding her arms beneath her head as she stared up through the flickering canopy of the orange tree. The blossoms shifted with the breeze, little bursts of white and gold tangled against the deep green leaves, and she found herself counting them slowly—one, two, five, eleven—trying not to think about how close Tamlin was, how the shared silence between them buzzed louder than words.

And that quiet, the simple, sacred act of sharing space with Tamlin, curled low in her belly. A flickering heat that settled deep and slow, like wine spreading through her limbs. They didn’t talk, they just existed, her lying half in the sun, feet still cooling in the water, and him just barely an arm’s reach away, his breathing the only sound she could really hear anymore.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. His lashes were still, long and golden against the bronze of his cheek. His mouth slackened in sleep, lips parted just slightly. His chest rose and fell with a different rhythm now—slower, more vulnerable. His fingers had stopped moving over his abdomen, resting still now, twitching only when a bird flapped somewhere above them.

Gillie couldn’t help the small smile that slipped onto her mouth. She turned on her side, cheek pressing into her arm, and let herself look. Just for a moment let her gaze skim the curve of his jaw, the dark golden line of his brows, the unruly hair tied back in that loose bun. Mother’s tits, even asleep, he looked like something out of a painting.

His eyes suddenly opened and he turned his head toward her.

Gillie flinched, caught in the act, and let out a sharp, startled sound like a breath half-swallowed. Her body froze instinctively—mortified—but he only smiled, slow and amused.

“The trees are too chatty today,” he murmured, his voice low and gravel-warm, still soaked with sleep but touched by humor.

“I… wouldn’t know,” she managed, trying to keep her voice from cracking as she straightened a little, adjusting her blouse like it might hide how flushed she suddenly felt.

Tamlin stretched one arm toward her lazily, the motion sending a ripple down the muscles of his shoulder and bicep. His fingers opened and curled again in a soft beckon, wiggling like an invitation. 

Gillie stared at his hand for a breath too long, then reached out, brushing her fingers to his.

The moment they touched—skin on skin, light and tentative—something shifted.

It wasn’t a sound, exactly, not at first. More like a ripple in the air. A pressure change. Then, a rumble. Soft, whimsical, like laughter trapped in wind. And then a melody, faint, but crystalline, like someone singing from the inside of a tree trunk, voice carried by sap and leaf and root. A chorus joined it. High and strange and sweet.

Gillie’s breath caught.

“The trees,” she whispered, eyes wide. “You hear this all the time?”

Tamlin nodded, lips barely moving, eyes still on her. “Always.”

Her fingers twitched against his… then slipped away.

Suddenly that distance felt necessary. Like the world had turned a shade too intimate, too transparent, and she needed to fold herself back up before she unraveled.

Tamlin didn’t stop her. He only rolled onto his back again, hand disappearing behind his head, his chest rising with a long, contented breath.

Gillie sat up slowly. Her limbs felt heavy with drowsy sun and strange magic. She pulled her feet from the water, wet toes curling into the warm grass and froze.

All along the stretch of earth between her and Tamlin, a path of violets that hadn’t existed before just had bloomed. Tiny, delicate, velvet-petaled violets, their purples deep as bruises, speckled with lighter dustings like flecks of moonstone. They spread out gently in a perfect, winding trail—from the spot where her hand had rested when their fingers laced together to the exact point where Tamlin’s head lay. The flowers curled around him like a crown.

She blinked, stunned.

Tamlin didn’t look at her, but his lips twitched in a slow, private smile. Like he knew. Like he’d done it on purpose.

Like it was nothing.
 

Like it was everything .

Chapter Text

Gillie tensed the moment the human stepped over the threshold.

She moved like a shadow that didn’t quite belong in the golden afternoon light pouring in from the tall windows—long-limbed, delicate, almost brittle. Slender to the point of sharpness, her figure was barely more than bone wrapped in fabric, nearly translucent skin. Her golden-brown hair fell in limp waves around her face. And those blue-grey eyes tilted just enough to make Gillie pause. Tilted just enough to make her think of sirens in old songs, of cold seas and haunted winds.

She was lovely, yes, but in a way that spoke of hunger. A beautiful thing stretched too thin.

Gillie’s body remained rigid, coiled, like the stem of a snapped flower still holding shape through sheer memory. Her fingers drifted instinctively to her mask—soft velvet stitched with the blossoms of Spring, their once-lively colors dulled from decades of wear. She stroked a petal, worn, slightly frayed at the edge, but it still pricked, it always pricked. A reminder, every damn time, of how long she had worn it. Fifty years of pretending at life, of swallowing grief like ash and wearing pageantry over a wound that never stopped bleeding underneath.

Her eyes blurred, lashes damp. Glassy with the weight of it all.

The fall of Andras still throbbed in her chest like a bruise that never settled. The weight of Tamlin’s body, how he had crumpled in her arms, voice shredded, trying to be silent as he wept… She felt it again like it was happening now. His hand had clutched her cloak like a child, like someone lost in a storm without a name for it. Andras had been more than a sentry. He had been the fourth in their strange, tight little knot of life and love, their family. Something closer to that. Something feral and chosen.

Gillie’s lips twitched, the crack of sorrow visible for a breath.

Without looking up, she reached for her glass. Her fingers trembled, just a little. The goblet was cool against her skin, the deep red wine catching the light like melted rubies. She took a few long gulps.

A strand of hair slipped from behind her ear, brushing her cheek, and she tucked it back absently. The color had changed over time—from silver-lavender to something duskier, more bruised. The glow had faded when Amarantha’s curse had sunk its claws into their court. When it had drained her powers until even the light in her hair forgot what it once was. 

The human lingered in the doorway, unmoving. She stared at the food laid out before her— an almost violently generous feast. Steam curled from honey-roasted chicken and glistening fruits, from spiced root vegetables and golden loaves of bread. Gillie had watched Tamlin barking orders to the servants moments before leaving for the human, gruff and almost irritated in his beast form. He’d shoved himself into a chair, the massive thing groaning under his weight, and in the flash of white light, he became him again. Not beast. Not High Lord. Just Tamlin. Flesh and face and barely concealed weariness under his golden mask.

The human had stifled a cry, hand flying to her mouth, and had slammed herself against the paneled wall like she expected it to open and swallow her whole. Her eyes went wild, Gillie caught the frantic flick of them, measuring distance—door to hallway to freedom to Mother-above-know-where. She looked ready to bolt. Like a deer not sure if the grass was safe to eat.

“You should eat something,” Gillie said softly, her voice worn and rough, like someone who hadn’t spoken in a while.

But the human didn’t answer. She just inched sideways, one hand brushing the wood behind her, fingertips dragging along the grooves like she might find a hidden switch to vanish through.

Gillie let her watch, let her breathe in the room, the scent of baked peaches and woodsmoke and fresh bread floating in the air. She didn’t move, didn’t press. Just sat there, the wine warm in her stomach, the ghost of Andras still sitting somewhere at her shoulder.

“Who are you?” the human asked, her voice small but sharp, cutting through the heavy silence.

The words were directed at Tamlin, but it was Gillie who reacted, her head snapping toward him with almost physical force. Her eyes locked with his, catching him off-guard in the bare truth of it: the pain was still there, flickering behind his high cheekbones and beneath the golden gleam of his lashes. That bone-deep ache that hadn’t yet learned how to hide.

Tamlin’s hair caught the light like spun sunlight—light golden, tousled, familiar. Too familiar. The same shade as the pelt of his beast form. She could still feel the memory of it bristling near her skin, the raw, living heat of him barely restrained. The claws that had nearly split the arms of his chair earlier… they hadn’t retreated. Just curled inward, waiting. Gillie knew how close he always was to breaking apart.

He didn’t answer her question. Not directly.

“Sit,” Tamlin said, the word thick and gruff as gravel. He gestured with a broad, calloused hand toward the food-laden table. “Eat.” His voice scraped the air, low and edged with something primal. Then, with a curl of his lip and the quiet threat of teeth, he added, “Unless you’d rather faint?”

The human stiffened at that. Her eyes darted to the dishes as if they might leap off the table and bite her.

“It’s not safe for humans,” she said quietly. Her fingers flexed against the wood panel behind her, nails grazing it like she might splinter it apart and slip through.

Tamlin let out a huff that didn’t carry even a sliver of warmth. “The food is fine for you to eat, human,” he said, his tone brittle and sharp, like it could snap if he pushed it harder. Then he added, too casually, “Leave, if you want.” A flash of his teeth followed. “I’m not your jailer. The gates are open—you can live anywhere in Prythian.”

Gillie exhaled slowly, dragging her gaze to him again. “Be gentle,” She whispered.

Her hand found his, broad and still trembling where it rested on the table’s edge. Her palm settled over it. She felt the tremor underneath, the tight coil of whatever beast still stirred beneath his skin.

Tamlin swallowed hard. His throat moved like he was forcing down more than just emotion. He pulled his hand away, almost flinching, and set it stiffly on his knee instead.

The human hadn’t moved. Not even a flicker toward the table. Her shoulders still pressed against the wall like it was the only solid thing in the room.

“Fine,” Tamlin said, and the word came out laced with a growl, clipped and cold. He reached for a serving spoon, metal scraping ceramic, and began piling food onto his plate without looking at either of them.

That was when Lucien walked in, striding past the human like she was a breeze he hadn’t noticed—his boots thudding softly against the floorboards. His steps were practiced, fluid, as though he were already deep in conversation with himself.

He didn’t look at the girl at all. Didn’t seem to register her as he moved toward the head of the table, coat swishing faintly with his movement, hair a streak of copper fire in the sunlight.

“Well?” he said, his voice a crack of brightness in the dimming tension of the room.

He bowed to Tamlin with just enough grace to call it formal, then folded his arms. His golden mechanical eye whirred faintly as it adjusted.

“Well, what?” Tamlin asked. He tilted his head at Lucien, and the gesture that wasn’t entirely human. 

Lucien’s brow arched. “Is Andras dead, then?”

The air thickened like honey. Gillie didn’t breathe for a second, but she nodded.

Her heart didn’t just ache, it curled into itself. There wasn’t even time to speak the name again before grief surged up, a silent tide dragging her under. Not just hers, the whole room shifted under the weight of that unspoken mourning. She looked at Tamlin again, at the tight set of his jaw, at the way his hands shook slightly as he ladled food onto his plate but didn’t eat.

And the human just stood there, frozen, watching all of it unfold.

“I’m sorry,” Tamlin said quietly.

The words landed soft, but burning all the same. Guilt, half-swallowed, soothed with wine and silence and too many years of enduring.

Of course Lucien wouldn’t know. Couldn’t know. Not the way Gillie did. Not the trembling mess Tamlin had been on her lap, curled like a boy stripped of title and terror alike. She’d held him as he quietly wept, the wet of his tears soaking into her thigh through silk. Held him as he confessed the helplessness—the total fuckery —of wearing a crown when your hands were always tied behind your back. The crushing impotence of his “lordship,” of pretending to rule when Amarantha still puppeted them all from her filthy throne Under the Mountain.

Gillie’s heart lurched then went cold, stilling in her chest like something dead. She could feel it— really feel it—like her body was turning to wax. Even the tiny velvet roses and peonies embroidered onto her mask seemed to wilt, as if they, too, were wilting under the weight of this festering scene, this poisoned meal, this mockery of a court.

“How?” Lucien demanded. His voice was hard, but the grief beneath it was unmistakable. His knuckles were bloodless where they gripped his own biceps, arms corded with muscle, barely leashed.

“An ash arrow,” Gillie said, swallowing as if the words were thorns. Lucien hissed between his teeth, the sound more beast than male. “The Treaty’s summons led Tamlin to the mortal—”

“I gave her safe haven,” Tamlin cut in, sharp, just a stone-cold declaration.

“A girl—a mortal girl actually killed Andras.” Lucien didn’t even try to mask the venom threading through each word. His eyes slid toward the empty chair at Gillie’s right—Andras’s place. Untouched, sacred, never to be filled. 

“And the summons found the girl responsible.”

Tamlin gave a laugh then, but it wasn’t warm. It wasn’t even bitter—it was hollow. He pointed across the room at the human girl, who flinched under the sudden attention.

“The Treaty’s magic brought me right to her doorstep.”

Lucien spun with the grace of a dancer, but the heat in his face betrayed the fury boiling beneath the surface. “You’re joking,” he said, low, almost disbelieving. “ That —that scrawny thing brought down Andras with a single ash arrow?”

“She admitted to it,” Tamlin said tightly. His voice was dry, brittle, like glass about to crack. One hand rested on the stem of his goblet, his fingertip slowly circling the rim. A claw slid out from beneath the skin, gleaming in the sun, and scraped across the metal with a sound that set Gillie’s teeth on edge.

“She didn’t try to deny it.”

Lucien staggered back a step, then slumped onto the edge of the table, as if all the rage had drained from his spine, leaving only the ache behind. His red hair, thick and bright as spilled blood, caught the sun and glowed like fire.

“Well,” he seethed, “now we’re stuck with that, thanks to your useless mercy, and you’ve ruined—”

The human stepped forward, just one step and Lucien’s eyes snapped to her.

“Did you enjoy killing my friend, human?” he asked, voice dangerously clipped. His tone slid under the skin like a burn. “Did you hesitate, or was the hatred in your heart riding you too hard to consider sparing him? It must’ve been so satisfying, for a small mortal thing like you, to take him down.”

“Lucien!” Gillie snapped. Her hand slapped the table hard enough to rattle the goblets. Wine sloshed over the edge of her cup like blood.

Tamlin said nothing. His jaw was locked tight, temples tense, and for some reason, he couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t meet her gaze, like he felt every ounce of her fury brimming just beneath her skin, hot and sharp and righteous.

“Anyway,” Lucien said, turning to face Gillie now, face twisted in something like a sneer—but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. There was hurt there. And maybe even something more dangerous. “Perhaps there’s a way to—”

“Lucien,” Tamlin said, his voice low and cold as the grave, a snarl hiding behind syllables. “Behave.” A final warning.

Lucien stilled. His spine went rigid, but he slid off the table with feline grace and pivoted toward the girl. Then—an elegant, mocking bow. Too low to be respectful. Too smooth to be sincere.

“My apologies, lady ,” he said, voice syrup-thick with sarcasm. “I’m Lucien. The emissary,” he added, gesturing to himself with a dramatic wave of his hand. Then he turned, presenting Gillie like a statue in a museum. “And the courtier—Lady Gillie Vaelaris.”

Gillie gave a faint nod, lips barely curving in a smile. Her head dipped in acknowledgment, not submission. Just enough to register. To show this human girl—this murderer, this pawn of the Treaty, this new problem —that she was being seen.

Lucien turned back to the girl, his smirk softening into something almost pleasant. 

“Your eyes are like stars,” he murmured. “And your hair like burnished gold.”

His head cocked to the side, curious, appraising. Waiting.

Waiting for her name.

“Her name is Feyre,” Tamlin said, his voice low and firm, cutting through the air like the snap of a taut bowstring.

His striking green eyes met the human’s again—sharp and clear as fresh leaves after a storm—and then flicked toward the door, the barest tilt of his head betraying something like discomfort. Or maybe regret.

“Alis will take you to your room,” he added. “You could use a bath and fresh clothes.”

There was no softness in the words, no kindness. It was just a cold offering made from duty, from some gnawing sense of guilt that had carved a permanent home beneath his ribs.

Alis stepped forward, silent and swift, her small frame wrapped in pale linen, a simple brass bird mask sitting elegantly on the bridge of her nose. Her hand, rough with labor and stained slightly with lavender oil and lemon soap, curled gently but insistently around Feyre’s arm. She inclined her head toward the open door behind them with an almost imperceptible nod.

Feyre blinked, stiff as ice cracking on a river, and took the first steps away from the wall. Her boots, still stained with forest dirt and blood, left faint smudges on the pale marble floor. She didn’t look back.

She’d barely made it three steps when Lucien’s voice sliced through the tension.

“That’s the hand the Cauldron thought to deal us?” he snarled.

Lucien’s voice was a bitter growl, like he’d been holding this back for hours, days, years.

“She brought Andras down?” His voice cracked on the name. “We never should have sent him out there—none of them should have been out there. It was a fool’s mission.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, claws threatening at the tips of his fingers, jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched beneath his freckled skin.

“Maybe we should just take a stand—maybe it’s time to say enough. Dump the girl somewhere, kill her, I don’t care—she’s nothing but a burden here. She’d sooner put a knife in your back than talk to you—or any of us.”

“No,” Gillie bit out, her voice like snapped wire, hot and sharp and merciless. “Not until we know for certain that there is no other way will we make a move!”

The words punched the air between them, and even Tamlin flinched slightly at the venom in her tone.

“The girl stays,” Tamlin said flatly, voice deep and final. “Unharmed. End of discussion. Her life in that hovel was Hell enough.”

His gaze didn’t waver, he didn’t blink. But there was something in it—like a male teetering on the edge of a crumbling ledge, knowing full well there’s no way back up.

Lucien scoffed.

“Then you’ve got your work cut out for you, old son.” His tone dripped with acid sweetness. “I’m sure her life will be a fine replacement for Andras’s—maybe she can even train with the others on the border.”

The air vibrated with the sound of Tamlin’s growl, low and guttural, rattling the goblets on the table, a sound that crawled down Gillie’s spine and coiled low in her stomach.

She rolled her eyes so hard it physically hurt. The weight of all their idiocy, all the repressed grief and power dynamics at play, snapped something loose in her.

“Both of you are insufferable pigs,” she muttered, voice low but slicing. Then louder, cutting across Tamlin’s tension: “I’ve had enough of your dimwitted court games that had put us in this position in the first place!”

She shoved her chair back with a screech of wood on stone, stood, and flicked her hair over her shoulder. Her fork clattered to her plate with finality.

She made it past Tamlin’s shoulder when his hand shot out like a striking viper—fast, precise, strong. His fingers closed around her wrist, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to hold her on her place .

Gillie turned her head slowly, venom in her eyes, lips twisted.

“Release me,” she hissed, each syllable soaked in fire. Then, with a mocking little bow, “ My Lord. ”

“Gillie,” Tamlin growled, warning laced in every letter. His fingers tight, his eyes flared too intense, the beast in him clawing just beneath the surface.

“You are hurting me,” Gillie sighed, biting into her tears. 

He loosened his grip, rubbing her soft reddening skin with his thumb. “You shall not talk to me like this,” he whispered, voice barely audible but pulsing with restraint.

He looked her in the eyes then, and whatever storm lived behind his face dimmed for a heartbeat. His gaze softened just enough to see the tears frozen in hers—unshed, unspoken, glimmering in her glassy stare like little shards of mourning.

“We shall discuss the matters later,” he said, gentler now. “I need to know your mind is where it should be right now.”

He tilted his head slightly, golden mask catching a beam of light that refracted over her collarbone—bare where her lavender gown dipped in a soft V, skin flushed from fury and wine.

Gillie swallowed hard. Rage sat at the back of her throat like a pit, and she tasted iron from his magic. She gave a jagged nod, ripped out of her like it cost her blood.

“I need your enthusiastic little voice to confirm we are ought to discuss the matters later, Gillie,” Tamlin said, voice firm but laced with quiet steel.

Gillie’s jaw clenched so tight it ached.

“Yes, my Lord ,” she spat through gritted teeth, biting back the urge to slap the stupid, brooding, smug expression off his face.

She yanked her wrist free, the motion sharp, snapping. Tamlin let her go, and his hand fell heavily to the table like it weighed a hundred pounds.

“Gillie,” Lucien called after her, tone unreadable.

She didn’t even glance back.

“Get fucked , Lucien,” she sighed with all the weariness of fifty cursed years, and stomped out of the dining room without another word.

Chapter Text

“You really think so?” Tamlin asked, voice low, pleading as if the answer could split him in two. His eyes, veiled by the delicate curve of his golden mask, searched her face like he was trying to read her answer without her voicing it.

Gillie stood barefoot in the threshold of her study, the heel of one hand braced against the doorframe, the other still resting on the half-turned knob. Her knuckles were white from how tightly she gripped it. She hadn’t wanted to open the door. Not after the dinner. Not after the girl’s arrival and her wide-eyed fear. Not after all that weight slammed down onto her when he returned from the Mortal Lands.

She was exhausted. Overworked herself until her fingers had cramped around her quill-pen, until her eyes stung from ink-fumes and candlelight, until the soft pull of sleep almost swallowed her whole, but then he knocked.

He knocked twelve times. Each one softer than the last.

“‘I’ve had enough of your dimwitted court games that had put us in this position in the first place,’ you said…” Tamlin inhaled sharply, his shoulders rising with the breath. “Do you truly think so?”

Gillie blinked. Her face betrayed nothing, but her chest was tight, every breath dragging through her.

“Are you certain you need my answer, my Lord?” she asked, gaze flicking away from his. The title came out smooth, almost gentle, but the sting was in the distance she wrapped around it.

Tamlin hesitated. Then he gestured toward the study behind her, voice quiet. “May I?”

She didn’t answer right away, just nodded once, curt, and stepped aside. The scent of parchment and lilac ink followed her in as she made room for him.

He moved past her in silence, brushing her shoulder, crossed the room and settled near the window, sinking into the old velvet sofa like the weight of his court finally pulled his spine into a curve. Elbows on knees, shoulders hunched, that stupid golden mask hiding half the face she knew too well.

“There isn’t a single day I—”

“I know,” Gillie interrupted, arms folded tightly across her ribs. She didn’t soften it. Didn’t sugarcoat. She leaned against the edge of the doorway still, like she couldn’t commit to being in the room with him yet.

“We all know that you’re knee-deep in guilt, my Lord.”

He let out a half-huff, half-bitter laugh. “All these years, and you still refuse to call me by my name,” he murmured, and the pain tucked under the words made her stomach twist.

“All these years,” Gillie shot back, “I’m still your courtier and our relationship demands the formality that follows my title.” Her voice curled at the edges, just a little smug, just a little cruel. Like her tongue didn’t trust itself with softness.

“Gillie,” Tamlin said, tilting his head toward her, tone somewhere between a warning and a plea.

But she cut him off again, clicking her tongue as she pushed off the doorframe and finally stepped in.

“We both know why,” she said quietly, and there it was— the ache. It crept into her voice like a shadow. “We both know how much meaning your name would carry.”

Her body sank down beside him, slow and tense, putting just enough space between them to feel like a canyon. The fire in the hearth crackled softly behind them, throwing flickering golden light across his hands. Her own were still ink-stained, thumb smudged purple.

“You are my family, Gillie. You know that,” he said, voice soft now, almost reverent. “You know how I care about you.”

“And soon, you will have a new family, my Lord,” she murmured, smiling like it hurt. Her hand reached out and patted his knee—soft, brief, familiar. “Time isn't particularly generous... nor is it kind to us.”

Tamlin snorted, looking away. “That is a pile of horseshit, Gillie,” he muttered. “I would never—”

“Andras is dead, my Lord,” she said sharply. His words collapsed in his throat. “Andras, Colin, Gordie, Levi, Caelis…” She listed the names like prayers turned to curses, like scars carved into her heart. “All of them. The entire garrison of your trusted sentries died for you to have a chance with that scrawny little mortal. For you to break the curse and pretend it never happened.”

She swallowed, and it tasted like bile. Like rot. Like grief too old to cry about.

“I love you, my Lord. I do .” The words barely made it out, coated in rust. “But the clock is ticking. And Amarantha shall not show mercy if you hesitate—if you hold on to something that shall never be.”

The silence between them was hard and awful.

Tamlin’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tensing. His hands gripped each other between his knees. He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at her.

“I have always been honest with you,” Gillie said, her voice steady now, painfully so. “As your friend, as your courtier. As your— family , as you call it. And now is not the time to choose kindness over truth.”

She rose to her feet, suddenly too warm, too close to him, too full of things that couldn’t be said without ruining them both.

“You either bed the human and squeeze love out of her lips,” she said with a kind of tired cruelty, “or you may as well go beg Amarantha for mercy at this instance.”

Her gown whispered as she crossed the room to the side table. A bottle of rich, dark wine stood waiting beside two crystal goblets untouched, since the last time she couldn’t sleep. She poured a generous amount into one and handed it to Tamlin. He stared up at her, frustration painted across his face like old bruises.

She met his gaze. Then lifted the bottle to her lips and drank directly, a long sip burning down her throat before she slid back down into the sofa beside him.

“Gillie,” Tamlin said hoarsely, the glass putting the glass away untouched. “I’m so sorry.”

She blinked at him, confused. That wasn’t the response she expected.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you,” he continued, and his voice cracked now. “From my brother. From my family. And then from… from her .”

Gillie sat there, frozen in the flicker of the firelight. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. The wine on her tongue suddenly tasted too sweet. Too wrong. Somewhere deep in her chest, something fragile trembled, like a string pulled too tight, begging not to snap.

Of course Tamlin had to say it— that , of all things—at that very moment.

Gillie snorted, quick and nervous, and reached for the wine again, clinging to it like it could anchor her. She took a long, burning sip under his shattered stare, the taste of berries and aged wood crashing across her tongue, but doing nothing to numb the ache in her chest.

He had no idea. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the worst part.

She’d spent twenty years Under the Mountain. Serving Amarantha like a docile, chained pet—her once-clever hands pouring goblets of wine and arranging sweetmeats for a monster. She’d worn that iron collar for years, heavy, rusted, stained with the smell of old blood and witch’s bitter magic. She could still feel it sometimes, ghosting around her throat when she was too tired to resist memory. She had knelt on corn kernels until her knees bled, dismissed like an afterthought whenever Amarantha grew bored of parading her around like a Spring Court’s prized possession.

Tamlin had begged for her release more than once.

Lucien had lost an eye for it.

And Eris had been beaten to a pulp when Amarantha caught him sneaking food into her cell at night. Just enough to keep her power from flickering out. Just enough to keep her healing and survive. To keep her magic humming, however faintly, in her bones, like a thread that refused to snap.

And when she was finally released—discarded like an old toy—it wasn’t out of mercy. It was because her beauty wasn’t threatening enough. Because Amarantha had taken one look at Gillie’s freckled skin and purplish hair and decided she wasn’t competition. That Tamlin would never fall in love with her.

She’d spent a week healing after that, wrapped in silence and Tamlin’s hovering presence. He’d barely left her side, offering her water with those trembling hands, whispering things she didn’t want to hear. His gaze had trailed constantly to the bandages on her knees, to the faint bruises around her neck where the collar had chafed her raw. He’d watched her every breath like it was some kind of penance.

But still, it hadn’t been enough to erase what she’d endured. He still looked at her like he’d failed her.

He still looked at her like this .

“You did what you could,” she said at last, voice like ice.

Tamlin visibly trembled, like the words had sliced straight through his ribcage.

“You still have enough ahead of you, my Lord,” Gillie added, quieter now, and Mother help her, despite everything, despite the bile rising in her throat, she set down the bottle and reached for him.

She tugged him into her arms.

His body was stiff, uncertain, unsure if this was a comfort he was allowed to accept. But after a breath, his hands found her shoulders, large palms warm and trembling as they pulled her closer. His forehead dropped to her collarbone, the soft weight of his golden mask pressing to her skin.

“You’re not alone in this,” she whispered against the crown of his hair. “We’re here. I am here. Lucien is. Your people, my Lord. No one is blaming you.”

Tamlin let out a long, hollow breath. He closed his eyes, let his head rest fully against her. And for a moment, just a moment, they weren’t High Lord and courtier. They weren’t fractured people trying to hold a broken court together.

They were just them .

Gillie let her fingers drift into his hair—messy, gold like new wheat—and brushed it gently, slowly, until his breath slowed. He inhaled her deeply, buried his nose against her neck, breathing her in like it was his saving grace.

Crushed lavender and rain-drenched soil. The scent of wild gardens after a storm. Earthy and sharp-sweet and warm, like memory. Like home.

Like everything he’d loved and lost and buried under his armor.

She smelled like Spring. Not the court— his Spring . The one with muddy boots and first wine and Calanmai fires burning old herbs into the night sky. She was bare feet in grass, fiddle music in the distance, someone laughing while they ran between trees. She was all of that.

And Tamlin broke.

He pulled back just enough to press his nose along her throat, his lips brushing the curve of her collarbone. A kiss so soft it was barely there, feather-light and desperate.

Gillie flinched like he’d struck her.

Her hands flew to his face, cupping him, holding him still. His breath hitched, but he let her.

“It’s late,” she whispered, voice too calm, too fragile.

“Gillie—” he tilted his head in her palms, mask glinting. He looked at her like she was the last thing tethering him to the world.

“You should go to bed, my Lord .” She inhaled sharply, dropping her hands as she turned away.

“Gillie,” he tried again, smiling, but it was a smile made of pain. “Please, I—”

“The human, my Lord.” The words came out like a wound reopening.

She didn’t look at him. Just pointed toward the door.

But he stood anyway. But then he suddnely dropped to his knees in front of her.

Gillie froze. Her body didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t remember how to breathe.

Tamlin lowered his head to her lap, one trembling breath and he nearly flinched when his cheek touched her.

“Gillie, I—” he rasped, like speaking burned. “Since the first time I saw you, with your eyes and your hair… the way you held yourself. All that court etiquette. Your offerings to the Mother. Your rules. Your restraint. You were like a perfect painting of a female who...”

He wrapped his arms around her thighs, desperate, tight. His voice broke entirely.

“Gillie, I failed you. I failed you so many times. I was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to keep you safe. I— I lo—”

“ Don’t! ” she cried, a raw sound wrenched from deep in her chest.

Tamlin’s head shot up, his face tear-streaked and stricken, lips parted in shock.

Gillie’s eyes were wide, wet, her chest heaving.

“Please…” Her voice cracked again. “ Don’t say it. ”

She gripped his shoulders, not pushing him away, but grounding him.

“I beg you, my Lord,” she gasped, tears finally spilling, sliding down her cheeks unchecked. “If you say what you’re about to say… it will never be possible for me to survive what is coming.”

Her breath hitched, ragged and desperate. Her chest burned.

“If you say it , and then you go and court someone else—if I have to watch that, live through that, while knowing… While knowing what could have been…”

She broke off, panting, trying to hold herself together. Her nails dug into his tunic.

“I won’t survive it,” she whispered. “I won’t.”

“I am sorry, Gillie,” Tamlin shook his head, voice thick, breaking. “I am sorry I ever let you think I didn’t care. That I don’t care for you as much as I do.”

Gillie gasped, and it wasn’t just from the weight of his words, it was the sound of her own name on his tongue, wrapped in something too close to reverence, too close to love. It cracked something open inside her.

“Tamlin, please —stop,” she choked, a sob surging out of her, catching in her throat. Her face crumpled under the pressure of it all, tears slipping hot and fast down her cheeks like they’d been waiting years to fall. “For the Mother’s sake, please —I cannot—I cannot withstand this torture.”

His name on her lips tasted foreign and familiar all at once, like the memory of a word from a prayer once whispered in the dark. She’d mouthed it a thousand nights into her pillow, her hand clutched against her own chest, trembling under the weight of what she could never say aloud. And now it sat there, raw between them.

Tamlin exhaled raggedly and pulled her in, not with force but with need, his arms shaking as they wrapped around her. She grabbed his face in both hands, her palms trembling as they framed him, fingers trailing along the line of his jaw.

He let go of her waist only to take her wrists in his hands, guiding them to his mouth. He kissed the inside of each one, adoring, lips soft against the thrum of her pulse. His tears were hot against her skin, salt slipping over her bones like he was trying to weep out what centuries of guilt hadn’t undone.

Gillie’s fingers threaded into his hair again, softer this time, brushing through the loosened strands tangled around the edges of his mask. She gently tucked the golden threads behind his ears, her breath catching every time her fingertips brushed bare skin.

“You shall be the death of me,” she murmured, sniffling, voice breathy and broken. “Why… why wouldn’t you tell me all of this earlier?”

Tamlin lowered himself back onto his heels, gaze dropping to the carpet under her feet, as if the answer were somewhere in the silence between the fibers. His voice was quiet when it came. “Would it have changed anything?”

But Gillie didn’t hesitate. She unfurled one hand from his and reached for the other, gathering his long fingers into hers, holding them tightly.

“Everything,” she said softly. Then firmer, as she pulled his gaze up to meet hers: “ Everything. ”

There was something in his expression then—hope sharpened by grief. That soft agony that always haunted his striking green eyes, something lost behind them that never quite left. He looked at her like she was both salvation and damnation, and maybe she was.

Tamlin slid his hands down, palms wide and warm over her calves. His thumbs traced the curve of her legs, the movement unhurried, almost worshipful. Her breath stilled in her chest as he brushed higher, lifting the soft folds of her gown with the motion, exposing skin he hadn’t seen in years. Maybe ever.

And then he stilled staring at the scars that stopped him.

Thin pale lines stretched across the backs of her thighs and the soft skin of her knees, pinked by age, nearly silver in the firelight. Each one a mark left behind by Amarantha’s punishments. Each one a story in blood and endurance.

Tamlin’s throat worked around a hard swallow. His hand hovered just above one line before he leaned in, lips brushing it in the softest, most bittersweet kiss.

Gillie exhaled shakily, her entire body leaning, tilting toward his touch. She didn’t mean to. Her muscles just gave in.

Another kiss. Then another. His lips moved slowly over her skin like he was retracing time, mapping out the history he hadn’t stopped. He moved up, pressing kiss after kiss higher, past her knees, the inside of her thigh.

Her gown slid further, the silk puddling around her hips like water, until he found the lace. White, delicate, patterned in swirls that trembled against her skin with every brush of his breath.

He looked up at her, undone in his hands, chest rising and falling too fast, skin flushed, lips parted—shattered what little restraint he had left.

He leaned in and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss over the lace. The sound Gillie made was hardly human—half-moan, half-broken sob. Her skin erupted in goosebumps, a shiver racing up her spine like wind through frost-covered grass.

Tamlin breathed her in deeply, like her scent alone could ever be enough . Her thighs trembled under his hands, and he pressed another kiss, then another, until he nipped at her gently with his teeth.

Gillie clutched at his shoulders, her hands fisting in the soft green of his tunic. She arched forward slightly, her lips parted around another sound that died somewhere in her throat.

Tamlin grunted in desperation, and the next moment happened in a blur, his talon slipped free slicing through the lace at her hip in one precise, clean stroke.

She gasped as the delicate fabric fell away like mist.

He paused, looked at her, his hands still cradling her thighs, his mouth trembling with the need to kiss her again, his green eyes wide with awe and grief and love. 

She met his gaze, breath caught in her throat, her whole body burning, every nerve lit like fireflies in the dark. And in that charged silence between them, Tamlin lowered himself back to her, awed and hungry. His mouth opened against her, lips parting around her with heat and intention, and he sucked gently on the delicate bud nestled between her folds.

Gillie whimpered—high, breathless—as her fingers clawed at the sofa, velvet crumpling beneath her nails. The sound that left her was half-sob, half-plea. Every flick of his tongue sent shivers tearing up her spine, like he was undoing her from the inside out. Her legs parted wider for him, instinctive and open, more eager now than she'd even known she could be.

And Tamlin looked up at her from between her thighs, breathless, undone. His lips were parted and glistening, hair falling into his eyes, his expression wrecked and adoring all at once. Like he had just bitten into something ripe and forbidden… and now couldn’t stop tasting it.

Gillie sat still, spine curved against the sofa’s armrest, the room around them swimming in soft candlelight and shadow. Her chest rose and fell in shallow pulls, each breath tugging the scent of rain and rain-soaked soil of the lavender field. Her hands—trembling and ink-stained—were tangled in his hair, fisted in the golden mess of it like she might drown if she let go.

He licked her like she was something wild and soft and just-picked. Like fruit warmed by the sun and finally torn open. His tongue moved slow, dragging upward, savoring her like she was summer held between his teeth.

Gillie’s eyes fluttered shut, her head falling back, a soft, breathless whimper slipping past her lips before she could stop it. His tongue was a sweet heat, and the sound he made—low and guttural—vibrated right through her. Her thighs tensed around his shoulders, and his hands squeezed tighter, anchoring her in place.

He moaned again against her, and the sound buzzed across her skin, coiling low in her belly. Tamlin wasn’t just tasting her, he was devouring her. Like she was a peach in peak season, juices dripping, delicate and plush and impossibly sweet. He drank her in like he was afraid someone might steal the moment from him, like every flick of his tongue was a prayer and a confession.

She could feel his breath—hot and damp—ghosting over the slick heat of her, feel every slow drag of his tongue, every eager, savoring lap. And when he sucked softly, just beneath the sensitive bundle of nerves, her legs jerked, hips lifting from the sofa cushion with a strangled gasp.

“Tamlin—”

But he just hummed into her, eyes fluttering closed, like this was the only place he could bear to exist. His tongue slid again, and again, languid, loving. Worshipful. He held her open with his mouth and hands and kissed her like her body held the answers to every fucking thing that had ever gone wrong.

He shifted slightly, tilting his head to get deeper, and his nose nudged against her as he licked again, slower this time, the way one might lick syrup from their fingers. Her taste lingered on his tongue, and he let it, savoring it.

Her fingers slipped down to his cheeks, her nails grazing his jaw. She felt the faint scrape of stubble against her thighs, a delicious contrast to the velvet of his mouth.

He paused only to press a kiss—firm, slow—against the center of her. A kiss that made her shiver and ache in the same breath.

And then he did it again. Again.

She whimpered something that might have been his name. Or might’ve just been sound. Her voice was wrecked now, her chest heaving. Sweat prickled at her temples, between her breasts. Her skin was flushed, glowing in the firelight.

Tamlin looked up once, eyes blown wide, pupils dilated, jaw slick with her. His tongue flicked out to taste her again and then he groaned, deep in his chest, like he couldn’t believe what he was tasting. Like he was drunk on her.

She was trembling now, legs starting to shake, her fingers desperately gripping his shoulders, his mask, his hair—anything to keep her from melting completely. Her moan came in a gasp, her voice thin, raw, cracking at the edges.

He kissed her again, tongue sliding deeper this time, and it was too much.

Gillie shattered.

The climax ripped through her with a sudden, violent grace, her body seized, thighs trembling around his face, heartbeat crashing in her ears.

Tamlin didn’t stop until she’d ridden out every last wave, until her hips dropped back against the cushion and her fingers loosened in his hair. He stayed there a moment longer, pressing one more soft, lingering kiss to the tender skin, like sealing it. Like giving her one final breath of worship before he finally pulled away.

He looked up at her, flushed, panting, glowing like the golden hour had kissed him.

“You taste like the Spring itself,” he rasped.

Gillie could only stare back, her body trembling, her voice lost, her chest heaving like she’d just run through wild fields barefoot and free.

The silence that followed was thick andhoney-slow presence that hung in the room like the heavy golden dusk after a storm. It dripped down the walls and pooled in the corners, in the space between the couch cushions, in the hollow of her throat. It filled the air between them with something beautiful, something fragile and devastating. Like something holy had passed through their bodies and now the world tilted, forever askew. Nothing would be what it was before. Not the shape of the night, not the feeling of skin, not the breath between words.

“This shall never happen again,” Gillie rasped, her voice raw, still shaped by him. She gathered her skirts like armor, the thin fabric rumpled, the creases soft and crumpled from fingers and knees and heat. Her fingers trembled just slightly as she tucked them beneath her thighs, crossing her legs on the edge of the sofa with a practiced grace that was betrayed only in her exhale.

The scent of him still clung to her skin, clung to the air sharp and deep and wrong. A note of moss and crushed pine needles tangled with the sticky sweetness of her own lavender-drenched slick. It curled in her lungs and made her want to weep or laugh or scream. She didn't know which.

Tamlin stood there like something gutted. The gold of his hair was disheveled, the tips dark with sweat, his chest rising too fast beneath his tunic. He swallowed hard and nodded. The muscle in his jaw ticked once, twice. Then, abruptly, like he had to flee from the weight of her words, he turned.

His hand reached down, and he picked up her panties, the silk damp and nearly see-through now, the lace delicate and soft. He ran the smooth fabric between his calloused fingers, a slow drag, like he couldn’t quite help it, like he was still trying to memorize the shape of her even in this. Then, wordlessly, he handed them back to her, his fingertips brushing hers for a moment too long.

“No, it shall not,” he said, voice colder now, distant. Like he was locking himself back up, rib by rib. “Lady Vaelaris.” He inclined his head, the motion stiff, almost ceremonial. But there was so much desperation and pain underneath it, it blooming across his features for just a moment before he buried it beneath the mask of civility.

The name— Lady Vaelaris —landed like a slap. Formal. Final. And it made Gillie’s heart hitch with a sick twist.

“My Lord,” she answered, matching his tone, matching the gesture, her voice a perfect echo. Hollow and measured, almost deadly calm.

Tamlin blinked, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t open his eyes again. He held them shut like he could still see the shape of her there in the dark—could still taste her name, her moan, the way she’d said his…

He turned and crossed her study, his boots whispering over the rug like regret. He reached for the door, pulled it open—and nearly collided with Lucien.

Lucien stood frozen, his fist suspended midair, knuckles curled in a loose intention to knock. His russet eye flicked between Tamlin’s face and the inside of the room, and the expression he wore was half amusement, half confusion. Tamlin didn’t even pause. He just gathered himself like armor and pushed past.

“Good night, Gil—” Tamlin caught himself, the name lodged in his throat like a thorn. He swallowed it down, coughed it out in a corrected, clipped voice. “Good night, Lady Vaelaris.”

Lucien’s gaze tracked him down the hall for a moment, then slowly turned toward Gillie. His mouth curved up.

“I came to pick up the correspondence and offer you a drink, but I am definitely going to ask for the details on why Tamlin smells like a pussy dipped in lavender,” he said, grinning like a bastard.

Chapter Text

It was early, the kind of morning that hung in that silvery quiet before the world fully exhaled. The sun had only just begun to stretch its gold-limned fingers over the horizon, spilling warm light into Gillie’s study in soft, syrupy stripes. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams that filtered through sheer cream-colored curtains, half-pulled aside. The windows were cracked open, letting in the cool breath of spring and the fresh scent of lakewater mixed with distant wisteria. 

Gillie sat cross-legged on the thick sage rug, its woven floral patterns soft under her bare legs. Her fiddle tucked into her neck, bow dancing along strings with a whispery, mournful resonance. The music was slow this morning. A lullaby made for no one, made for nothing, maybe just to help her feel herself again. Notes floated out aching, rich, slightly uneven in a way that made it feel alive.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps. Bare, soft, hesitant. The shift of weight outside the door, a breath, too close to the wood. She froze mid-note, bow paused in the air, her jaw ticked with annoyance.

"You may enter," Gillie called out, not turning. The bow touched strings again with a sharp, impatient flick. "No need to eavesdrop."

There was a beat of awkward silence, and then the door creaked open. Feyre stepped inside, barefoot in one of those clumsy male shirts she'd probably begged Alis to leave for her at some point, her hair loosely braided over one shoulder, like she'd tried to tame it and given up halfway.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said quickly, sheepish. “Followed the music… it’s beautiful.”

Gillie lowered the fiddle to her lap, fingers still resting on the fingerboard, warm from the vibration of the strings. She offered a small nod. “Thank you.”

Their eyes met. Something oddly human flickered through Feyre’s expression—tiredness, yes, but also a kind of childlike curiosity, like she was relearning the world and unsure where the edges were anymore. It amused Gillie to a point. 

“How are you holding up today?” Gillie asked, voice softer this time.

Feyre didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let her gaze drift around the room, as though looking for the right words somewhere in the corners.

The study was spacious in that effortless, not-quite-curated way that spoke of someone who lived in it rather than just used it. Morning light pooled against pale sage walls, kissed the warm tones of aged wood and burnished copper. A velvet sage-colored sofa sprawled under the tall windows, cushions slouched like they’d been napped on often. A small round coffee table with uneven legs sat in front of it, half-covered in books, a cracked mug with something herbal long gone cold, and what looked like an unfinished embroidery hoop with pale blue threads.

To the right: a wall full of books and potted greenery—ferns, succulents, a vining plant that had grown rebellious and tangled itself over the shelf corners and walls. To the left: a large desk in utter chaos. Parchments rolled and unrolled, ink stains, candle stubs, a carved wooden hair comb, half a peeled orange drying in a bowl. A plush chair tucked under it, the kind that one could fall asleep in while pretending to read. And in the middle of the room, a thick, sprawling rug—sage again, but mottled with intricate florals in shades of plum, cream, and faded rose. The ceilings arched high above them, crowned with beams and little hooks where she sometimes hung new plants that she ahd to eventually give to Tamlin to “fix.”

The open windows gave a framed view of the front yard—a tangle of green, dew-spangled and wild in a way that told you it was intentional—and beyond it, the glimmer of the lake, pale and still like melted pearl in the morning sun. The air was cool, alive. It carried in scents of wet earth, citrus, old wood.

And near the corner, by the window where the light was best, stood a striking pomegranate tree—stunted but sturdy, its branches heavy with small, dark-red fruits, their skins taut and glistening. The roots curled into a large pot made of polished copper and dark wood. Eris had sent it as a wedding gift. The only one Gillie had kept. Everything else had been burned, bartered, or left to rot.

“It’s all still… loopy,” Feyre said at last. Her voice sounded like it had been peeled from somewhere deeper than her throat.

She kept walking as she spoke, her fingers trailing across the backs of chairs, over the edge of a ceramic dish full of sea-glass and trinkets from other Courts—a pin from the Day Court, a woven bracelet from Summer, a tiny sun-carved charm from Autumn. She touched things like they might vanish if she held on too hard, like maybe they weren’t quite real yet. Like maybe she wasn’t.

Her feet were silent on the rug as she wandered, reaching out with delicate fingers, brushing against a hanging ribbon, tapping the rim of an old ink jar. Then she paused.

On the far wall, above the fireplace, hung a sword. 

Feyre’s fingers hovered near it, its blade was silver matte, like the metal itself had been bled dry of shine. It caught the light, revealing the faintest sheen like moonlight on old bone. Along the flat of the blade, vines curled in elegant, barbed spirals, etched deep into the steel. Roses bloomed among them— wild , thorn-heavy , rendered in brutal detail, each petal precise, almost too perfect, too cold. Some roses looked like they’d been caught mid-decay. Others had thorns that curled back into the vines like talons.

If you looked closely, you could see tiny words hidden in the vinework, carved in archaic script that only shimmered red when blood touched it:

“Mercy is a lie. Beauty is in death.”

The hilt was wrapped in deep crimson leather, worn soft from years of use, the color dark as drying blood. At its base, silver flared out in a guard shaped like curling rose stems—elegant, yes, but designed to cut the hand of anyone who held it carelessly. A single ruby glinted in the pommel, caged in silver thorns.

“You like it?” Gillie asked, voice low and amused as she stepped up beside Feyre. Her bare feet made no sound against the thick rug, her movement unhurried, predatory in that calm etherial way. She stopped just shy of Feyre’s shoulder, arching a brow with quiet curiosity.

Feyre slightly flinched, like something inside her was still raw and wired too tight. Her eyes flicked up to Gillie, then back to the sword. “It is beautiful…” she breathed in awe. Her voice dropped on the word, as if beauty in a blade was a dangerous thing to admire too openly.

“Yes,” Gillie said, though the word landed heavily in her mouth. She winced a little, the kind of expression that carried too many stories behind it. “The Bloody Mistress,” she exhaled, the name sounding worn from use, like it had been said too many times in too many tones.

Feyre blinked, brows drawing in. “What?”

“The sword,” Gillie said, nodding toward it. “Her name is The Bloody Mistress .” She smiled, but there was a glint of grief in her eyes.

Feyre tilted her head. “Why would you call it that?”

“I didn’t,” Gillie said, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear with the flick of a wrist. “It was my husband’s. He called it that.”

“Oh,” Feyre murmured, caught off guard. “You’re… married?”

“No,” Gillie said simply, the word clipped. “He’s long dead.”

“Oh. My condolences,” Feyre said softly, voice dipping.

“No need, thank you.” Gillie waved the sentiment off, though not unkindly. She looked at the sword instead, as if the apology belonged to it more than her. Her mouth twitched with a kind of tired grace, but her eyes had that same thousand-yard shadow that people wore after loss had had enough time to hollow them out quietly.

The air between them stilled. Feyre shifted, unsure, and her attention returned to the blade.

“What is it made of?” she asked, tone a little cautious now, like she was afraid the answer would taste worse than it sounded.

Gillie let out a slow sigh, rubbing her fingers together thoughtfully. “Silver, mostly,” she said. “Steel. Rubies.” She hesitated, then, without ceremony, added, “Human bone.”

Feyre paled. “A jest?” she asked, voice thin.

“A fact,” Gillie replied with a nod, unbothered, watching her. “Would you like to hold it?” she asked, a small smile tugging at her lips. There was mischief there, but also a genuine invitation.

Feyre’s eyes widened, and she shook her head once, clearly thrown.

Gillie didn’t press. Instead, she moved toward a low side table near the window, where the wine sat in a crystal decanter, catching the morning light like blood. She poured it slowly, its tart sweet strawberry scent blooming into the air.

“It was in the hilt, but Tamlin remade it for me,” she said casually over her shoulder, as if it were a story she’d told before. “Got rid of the bone, now it’s just skin and wood.”

She handed a glass to Feyre, but paused when she saw her still flushed and frozen halfway to taking it.

Gillie blinked, then laughed softly—gently, not cruelly—and clarified, “Fish skin. Not human.”

Feyre visibly exhaled, color rushing back into her cheeks. Her grip steadied as she took the glass.

“And willow tree,” Gillie added, curling her fingers around her own glass and swirling the wine idly. “From the grove near my family’s old estate. The tree of my House.”

She gave her a smile then, faint and worn but edged with pride. It was the kind of smile that lived in the cracks people only let show when they forgot to guard themselves.

Feyre held the glass close, eyes flicking back to the sword. “Then I would love to hold it,” she said after a pause. “If you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest,” Gillie said simply, already lowering herself into the armchair beside the hearth, the cushions giving with a slow exhale beneath her. She sipped her wine, eyes watching Feyre over the rim.

Feyre rested her glass on the coffee table and stepped closer to the sword. She hesitated, then reached up and pulled it from the hooks on the wall. Her grip was clumsy, fingertips grazing the hilt like it might bite and she turned it slowly in both hands, unsure how to hold it, how to balance the weight. The heavy yet graceful blade caught the sunlight filtering in from the tall windows, throwing a jagged beam of light onto the ceiling. It glinted like it remembered all the blood it absorbed over the centuries. Caelan’s beloved sword…

Gillie frowned at Feyre, shifting in her chair. “Stick it with the pointy end?” she muttered. She let out a cough then that barely disguised her laugh.

Feyre snorted and tilted the blade again toward the light. “Do you wield it?” she asked over her shoulder.

A bark of laughter cut through the air before Gillie could answer. “Fuck no, she’s a lady ,” Lucien drawled from the doorway.

Both women turned at once.

Lucien leaned against the frame with his arms folded across his chest, his red hair catching the golden morning light like fire about to lick the floor. His grin was sharp and lazy, eyes flicking between them like he’d just caught them doing something scandalous.

“How cute,” Gillie muttered, squinting at him, her voice heavy with judgment and amusement.

“Yes, you are, Lady Courtier,” he winked, one brow arched. “Anyway. Tam and I decided to grace you lovely ladies with some actual joy today—so we’re dragging your ravishing asses out for a picnic. You’ve got exactly five minutes to look decent.”

Gillie didn’t even flinch. She waved him off with a dismissive flutter of her fingers. “Mmm, no can do.” She clicked her tongue. “I’ve got too much work planned. Scrolls to read. Crises to fix. Plants to talk to.”

Feyre opened her mouth, probably to ask something, but her words fizzled out as Gillie’s eyes flicked past Lucien’s shoulder.

Tamlin had stopped just behind his emissary, tall and silent, half in shadow. The golden flush of the morning caught on his mask and the edge of his jaw.

Gillie stood fluidly, her limbs long and loose like she wasn’t in a rush. She dipped into a short bow, polished and razor-edged. “My Lord.”

Feyre, caught off guard, scrambled to reposition the sword. She tried to return it to the wall with something resembling grace, but the hilt slipped from her hand. The blade hit the carpet with a soft but sickening thunk, muted only by the thickness of the weave.

Only Lucien flinched, glancing over his shoulder. The others didn’t move.

Gillie and Tamlin were still locked in some silent conversation that didn’t require words, just long looks and longer silences.

Then finally, Tamlin smiled, slow and careful. “Lady Vaelaris,” he said, voice low but full of restrained warmth, “It would bring me peace of heart if you would join us for the picnic.”

Gillie tilted her head, lips pulling into a pristine, courtly smile, but her eyes were hard with amusement. “It will bring you more unfortunate delays on the extremely important reports you’re awaiting, my Lord, if I shall join you.”

Lucien blew out a breath so dramatic it could’ve put out a candle. “Alright, mortal girl,” he muttered, glancing at Feyre with an exaggerated sigh, “let’s get the horses ready before she starts listing budget reports and council memos.”

He jerked his head toward the corridor and started walking without waiting. Feyre blinked, shot a quick glance at Tamlin, who didn’t look at her, but followed Lucien out.

Gillie let out a sharp exhale, annoyance flashing in her eyes. She bent to pick up the fallen sword. Her fingers curled around the hilt, and for a moment she just… held it. The cold of it seeped through her palm, metal biting at her skin like it remembered another hand, a different grip. Her breath hitched, barely audible, but she stood and tightened her hold.

The point of the sword lowered to the floor.

“I’ve always wanted to teach you how to wield it,” Tamlin said quietly. “After I’ve remade it.” 

He hadn’t moved from the doorway. His silhouette cut a strong line against the light. She didn’t turn to look at him, didn’t give him the satisfaction, but the sword did twitch slightly in her hand, like it heard something in his voice she wouldn’t want to know.

Gillie smiled to herself. Bitter. Crooked. All teeth and ache.

She stepped forward and returned the sword to its hooks with practiced ease, smoothing her fingers once along the worn leather of the hilt like she was tucking a child into bed. Then she turned and crossed the room toward her desk, her stride sharp and definite.

“Take her to the glen, my Lord,” she said airily, plucking a fresh piece of parchment from the clutter. She could almost feel his grimace.

“Which one?”

She glanced over her shoulder, lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile. “The one, my Lord.”

Tamlin’s brow lifted. He stared at her for a moment, calculating.

“She will shit her britches,” Gillie added sweetly, then winked at him, all teeth, no shame.

Tamlin gave her a look that said very plainly: if we were alone, I’d have you bent over that desk.

Gillie tilted her head innocently and dipped the quill in ink.

The tip scratched paper like claws.

***

She dreamt of the pool of starlight.

It shimmered like liquid moonlight around her, cool and thick, lapping at her skin like it missed her. Stars melted down her shoulders, slow and gooey, cascading in silvery trails over her collarbones and dripping languidly between the soft bell of her breasts. They clung to her, to the curves of her abdomen, to the dip of her navel, each drop burning cold as it slid lower. The pool embraced her like a veil of slik silk, cool hands cupping the heat that bloomed from within.

Tamlin’s lips found those falling stars, caught them before they could vanish into the water. His mouth soft and warm as he kissed them from her skin. He pressed into her, wet heat and breath and muscle all at once, squeezing her thighs as though he was holding onto something fragile, something already slipping away. His hands moved underwater, a shadow of heat against her inner legs, gliding up, slow and sinful. Her breath caught, her body arching slightly, starlight beading in her lashes.

Gillie smiled.

That tender and aching kind of smile that came from deep in the belly. She cupped his face with both hands, fingers weaving into the soaked strands of his hair, starlight dripping down his cheeks. She leaned in, heart open and exposed, drowning in the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing he could see. Those green eyes, rich as moss, sunlit by those molten gold specks, held her there. She sank into his arms in surrender.

Their kiss was sweet and slow, she pulled at his lips, moaning softly into his mouth, the sound slipping out of her before she could stop it. His muscles—those devastating planes of him, all corded strength and velvet skin—pressed so close her ribs ached from the tension. Every inch of him against her was a prayer, a hunger, a punishment and a plea.

And the world… stopped. Just like that. The trees held their breath. The breeze went still. The sky above was nothing but utter blackness, glittering with the same stars now wrapped around her like a second skin. Silence fell, eerie and dense, like fog. It wasn't empty. It cradled them.

Gillie smiled again, wide this time, giddy with the kind of joy that left her aching and pulled back. She looked into his eyes again and froze.

A reflection blinked back at her in that gaze…

“Feyre,” Tamlin grunted. His voice was thick, hoarse. Hands already bracing between her legs.

Everything shattered.

Gillie woke with a violent start, breath tearing out of her in broken gasps. Her hand flew to her chest, gripping at her racing heart like it might leap from her ribs. The room was dark, the kind of shadowed quiet that made even time feel hollow. Sweat clung to her skin, glistening on her collarbones, soaking the backs of her knees. 

She stumbled out of bed, too fast, heart a war drum in her chest.

In the bathing room, she splashed water over her face, her fingers trembled as she brought it to her mouth, slurping from her cupped palms like she hadn't tasted anything real in days. It dripped down her chin, onto her breasts, shocking her body further awake. She let out a sharp exhale, the kind that stung on the way out. Her belly was still warm, her thighs sticky with the lingering wetness of a dream that had tasted like worship and ended like betrayal.

She sagged over the sink, elbows buckling under the weight of her own body. Her face dropped into her palms. A sound tore out of her—ugly and wet, something between a sob and a growl. Her shoulders shook. She pressed her face deeper into her hands, trying to press it all out of her—his voice, that fucking name, the feeling of his mouth.

But then— thud.

She flinched, shoulders going taut, breath snatched from her lungs.

Another thud. Sharp, precise. It sounded like… rain, but heavier. More deliberate. She froze, listening and it came again.

Thup.

Thup.

She blinked hard and lifted her head, eyes red and stinging. Her bare feet padded across the wooden floor, smooth and warm beneath her toes, though she barely felt it. The sound kept going, soft cracks against the glass of her window.

She reached it, still damp and trembling. Her fingers curled around the window latch.

Another pebble hit, softer this time.

Gillie pushed the panes open with a sharp clatter, almost slamming them in her urgency. Cold night air rushed in, brushing against her flushed skin like a reprimand, raising goosebumps along her arms and neck. Her breath came in shallow whimpers, chest heaving, heart still stumbling in her ribcage.

And there, beneath her window, bathed in moonlight like he belonged to it, stood Eris.

His flame-red hair was tousled like he’d flown through a storm, a crooked smirk curling at his lips. He looked up at her, casually tossing another pebble in his hand before dropping it. Around his feet, six smokehounds sat in obedient silence, the haze of their forms licking at his ankles like fog. Their glowing eyes blinked at her in the dark, eerie and patient.

When he saw her, something in his smirk softened.

Eris inclined his head with a kind of reverence that made her throat close. 

Gillie let out a half gasp, half broken laugh, laced with something raw and desperate. Her hands gripped the windowsill so tight her knuckles went pale. Her eyes stung, still wet from tears that hadn’t even fallen yet. Her body leaned out like she might fall, like she might jump just to reach him faster.

Eris smiled—an edge of concern in his sharp teeth this time—and lifted one elegant finger. He curled it once, beckoning her.

“Come down,” Eris whispered, voice barely louder than the breeze curling through the trees. “I will catch you.” He winked, arms stretched out beneath her window like he had all the time in the world.

Gillie snorted nervously. Her breath caught in her throat, heart tripping on the edge of impulse and recklessness. Her hands gripped the windowsill. The stone was cool beneath her fingers, dew-kissed and slick, as though even the manor itself was trying to talk her out of this madness.

But there was something in his face, in the way he waited, in the way his eyes never left hers. A steady certainty, perhaps.

She stepped up onto the sill, barefoot and trembling, every nerve in her body bristling with cold night air. Her nightgown clung to her thighs, light as fog. She exhaled, sharp and thin, chest rising high as she braced herself to leap blind into the arms of this male with nothing but foolish trust to catch her.

The ground rushed up before she could even count to two.

And then—warmth.

Strong arms closed around her with a force that stole the wind from her lungs, like slamming into fire that chose not to burn her. Her eyes flew open.

Smug smile. So close it made her want to smack it off his face and kiss it at the same time.

“You’re such an asshole,” she breathed out, stunned.

Eris chuckled, low and rough in his chest as he lowered her to the earth like she was something precious. Gravel bit pleasantly at the soles of her feet, but the moment she met his eyes again, the look shifted.

“Did you cry, Gills?” he asked, voice suddenly gentle—too gentle for his usual demeanor. His brow furrowed with a crease of concern, the smugness vanishing like smoke in the dark. He reached up, brushing his knuckles along her cheekbone, and something tightened in her chest.

Gillie looked away. Shook her head, more to dismiss the question than deny it. “That is irrelevant,” she said with a sigh, then swung her fist into his shoulder, not hard, but enough to make the contact felt.

Eris smirked again, rubbing the spot exaggeratedly.

“What are you doing here? How did you get out?” she asked, stepping just slightly closer, eyes scanning him like she expected shackles to appear at any second.

“That,” he said, shrugging with that maddening elegance of his, “is irrelevant.”

But then he flicked his chin toward the ground, to the ring of smokehounds curled like living shadows around his feet, their ghost-like tendrils licking over the stones. “I was given a couple days to spy on your dear High Lord,” he said. But the words came out bitter, like they tasted wrong in his mouth, like they scraped his tongue on the way out.

Gillie blinked. “Since when are you—”

“Gillie, please .” He cut her off sharply, his voice dropped to a hush that sent goosebumps up her arms. “Don’t ask me questions I cannot answer. It pains me more than I can say. Tamlin’s time is ticking. Did he find the girl?”

The question hit her like a splash of cold water. She squinted at him, something about his tone... off. There was too much weight behind it. And then— Gillie. He’d called her Gillie.

Her stomach turned.

He never used her name like in private. Not when they were alone. That was reserved for courtrooms, for strategy meetings, for sharp smiles and controlled conversation. Not this. Not the dark garden under moonlight, with nothing but smokehounds and secrets between them.

She stepped one careful pace back. 

The air felt tighter suddenly. Pressed in. The night, once cool and safe, now seemed to hum with something darker, something watching.

She glanced to the hounds. The one on the right—too still. Too perfect. Her gaze narrowed. “Very well,” she murmured, tone casual but laced with steel.

She swept her gaze across them all, deliberately, watching for a flicker, a tell. Something that didn’t belong.

“Otto was never a strong shadowcaster,” she said coolly, eyes locking on the one farthest to the right. “You should be careful on your way back, if you want to dull your scent.”

She watched Eris closely.

He huffed a laugh—but it was thin, strained. “Well, the rest of them are locked in the dungeon. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

And that’s when it hit her. That sharp, sick twist in her gut, like the bottom had dropped out.

Gillie went still.

Her breath stuck halfway in her throat.

“You don’t have a hound by the name of Otto, Eris,” she whispered.

Eris’s lips twitched. The smile cracked. Then he laughed, but it wasn’t his laugh. It didn’t curl like smoke. It didn’t linger like fire.

“ Gillie ,” he said, waving his hand with dismissive charm. “You can’t expect me to remember every name—”

Her eyes narrowed. The fire in her belly turned cold.

“But you do ,” she said, voice steady and cutting. “You remember each of their names. All twenty three hounds you’ve had over the years.”

Her stare pinned him where he stood, and something in his face cracked. First confusion. Then that flicker of nervousness—too fast. Like a mask slipping.

Then came the anger. Not the sharp, wicked kind Eris wore like a second skin, but something forceful and… horrifying.

Gillie took a step forward, she lifted her chin, as if she had a dagger tucked into her gown or a wall of fae soldiers behind her. But all she had was her voice. 

“Who are you?” she asked softly. “And what did you do to my friend?”

The creature in Eris’s skin smiled like a cat stretching after slaughtering something small.

“ Fine, ” he spat, the charm bleeding out of him.

He dropped the act. The way his shoulders shifted—like a puppet cut from its strings. His eyes changed. That autumn gold bled away, revealing a violet darkness, bottomless and too sharp at the edges. 

“Wake up, Gillie,” he said with a grin, slow and dripping with cruelty.

A sharp flick of fingers, somewhere near her feet, followed as if the earth itself cracked its knuckles.

Everything shattered.

She gasped, body arching, limbs flailing for something to grip as she was ripped from that haunted garden.

Gillie jolted awake in her bed, drenched in sweat, breath heaving like she’d just surfaced from deep water. Her fingers scrambled in the dark, knocking over a book, a candle, the cool bottle of water—

She grabbed it and raised it over her head, her hand shaking violently, ready to throw it like a blade if she had to.

The shadows in her room shifted.

Someone was sitting there. In her chair.

The reading nook by the window, where she’d curled up too many nights with a book and a blanket, now cradled the shape of a male, legs crossed like he owned the place.

The High Lord of the Night Court lounged in her chair like it was a throne, shadows pooling around him like ink spilled on stone. The soft violet of his magic gleamed faintly in the dark, casting her room in an eerie glow, just enough to see his eyes watching her.

“Apologies for that,” Rhysand purred, voice low and infuriatingly calm. “I reckoned you’re rather fond of the bastard. Thought it would be easier to talk if I wore a familiar face.”

He pointed casually at the bottle she was still holding above her head. “No need for violence, truly. I came in peace.”

Gillie’s mouth twisted, fury catching fire in her chest like dry leaves to flame.

“In peace?” she hissed, lowering the bottle but gripping it tighter. “Like the last time you bathed the hall in the blood of my husband and his family?”

Rhysand adjusted himself in the chair with the slow, measured grace of someone who had all night and no real need to rush. He leaned back just enough to lounge, arms draped, then tilted his head slightly, regarding her like she was covered in mud.

“ Caelan was a cunt, ” he huffed, the words slicing through the air. “All of them were. Although…” He paused, eyes flicking toward the window as if the past lingered just beyond the glass. “Gaia didn’t deserve such a brutal death. But then—neither did my mother. Or my sister.”

His eyes returned to her, darker now. Colder. “Don’t you think?”

Gillie swallowed. The sting of his words made the room feel smaller. Thicker. Like the walls were pressing in.

“You knew my sister, right?” Rhysand asked. “Reina. I’m certain she was very fond of you.”

The sound of her name—a ghost dragged into the room like she’d been sleeping in the corners all along—hit Gillie like a slap across the chest. She lowered the bottle slowly, her hand still wrapped tightly around it, fingertips gone numb.

“She was…” Gillie’s voice caught, lips dry. “Reina was a kind and beautiful soul.” Her voice softened, warmed briefly. “But I do not understand how any of that is relevant to you being here. In my chamber. Prying into my head, apparently.”

Her gaze cut into him now, sharp as a blade dulled by grief and polished by rage.

Rhysand smiled. All teeth this time. A flash of white under the shadows. He shifted back with feline ease, crossing his long legs at the knee. His boots were knee-high, polished obsidian leather, the kind with a slightly taller heel than most males in the Spring Court dared wear. One foot dangled in the air. He wiggled the toe idly, inspecting it like this whole interaction bored him.

A soft tsk fell from his tongue.

“You see, Gillie,” he said, “you are a beautiful and kind soul as well , just like Reina was—as you so generously mentioned.” He tilted his head again, just a fraction. Calculating. “Talking to you requires a gentle approach. That’s why I thought it’d be nice to let you chat with a friend instead of a foe. A familiar face.”

The words settled like poison mist between them.

Gillie sat straighter, the knots in her stomach tightening. Her eyes flicked back to the chair, to the shadows crawling around him like living things, and something in her chest curled in on itself.

“Did you—” she started, then stopped herself. Her throat was tight. She forced the next words out like she was coughing up something foul. “Were you also responsible for my—” She swallowed. “My nightmare. Did you… create it ?”

Rhysand’s expression didn’t shift. Not even a flicker.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said smoothly, already bored with the question. “What I do know…” His smile returned, wicked and bright, “...is that you are a perfect bridge for me to pry into Tamlin’s secrets.”

He leaned forward again, hands clasped loosely between his knees, that easy grace now honed into something sharper. 

“Since your mind wall is, well— literally inexistent. ”

He squeezed his fingers together for emphasis, letting out a soft, delighted laugh at her expense. “Such an intelligent, strong-willed female,” he murmured, “but so fractured. So soft. So… breakable. ”

His leathers creaked as he shifted again, the sound small but tense, like something coiling to strike.

“Gillie,” he said, voice like silk, “my darling. Just tell me everything I need to know, and we’ll part our ways peacefully.”

The silence that followed was not silence at all. It buzzed. It breathed. It waited.

Gillie’s hands were slick with sweat now, but her jaw locked. Something inside her lit up, cold and clean and defiant.

“Or I can just scream,” Gillie said through her teeth, her throat already tightening with panic, “and let Tamlin rip you into pieces.”

She shrugged, a tremor running down her arms despite herself, and winced at the movement—like even the idea of crying for help hurt. But she squared her spine, clenched the bottle tighter in her hand, and dared to believe for a heartbeat that Rhysand might flinch.

He didn’t.

“You can try,” he said, smiling like a cat with one paw already on the throat of the bird.

Gillie inhaled sharply, pulling her lungs full of breath, and opened her mouth to scream—

Nothing.

Not even a whisper. Not even a rasp.

Her mouth stayed open, throat working, but her voice had vanished. Like it had been scooped out of her body. Her eyes widened—glistening with panic now—her breath sharp and fast through her nose. She reached for her throat, the absence of sound more suffocating than a scream ever could’ve been.

Rhysand’s grip over her mind was no longer gentle, no longer sly.

It was iron.

Gillie’s entire body went still, rigid, trembling from the inside out.

“Now,” Rhysand said, voice silked with satisfaction. He rubbed his gloved fingers together with calculated grace. “Since we’ve had our little bit of fun…”

He leaned forward again, slow and deliberate, his eyes gleaming with charm that felt like venom.

“Tell me,” he murmured. “Are you sheltering a human in these walls?”

His eyebrow arched delicately, like it would be impolite of her to lie. As he spoke, the shadows that had slithered harmlessly across the floor began to move— crawl —their shape shifting, curling like smoke with too many fingers.

They climbed onto her bed.

Cold tendrils licked at her ankles, tasting her skin.

Gillie gasped soundlessly as the darkness swept up her calves, her thighs, her hips, winding up her stomach like some sentient fog made of ink and fear. Her limbs were ice. Her body trembled, breath wheezing through her nose. Paralyzed. The shadows wrapped around her like a noose—tighter with every heartbeat—coiling up her ribs, her chest, her throat.

She shook her head, violently, desperate.

No. The answer was written in her eyes, screamed in the jerk of her neck.

“No?” Rhysand echoed, mouth twisting into a pout. He clicked his tongue like a disappointed parent. “Hm… Gillie, that wouldn’t do!”

He sang it, each syllable a cruel little lullaby.

“I am not happy with your answer.” He rose slowly from the chair, shadows licking his legs like loyal pets. “And I’m most certain my Lady wouldn’t be either.” His voice dipped—mocking, sly. “She misses you, by the way. Do you miss her?”

He tilted his head, studying her like a broken doll. Gillie whimpered, barely audible, barely alive. Her mouth was now sealed with shadow, the pressure against her jaw bruising. The darkness wrapped around her lungs, her ribs, crushing strength from her muscles.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

She was drowning in her own bed.

Rhysand sighed, as if this was all becoming tiresome. “Alright,” he said softly. “I guess there’ll have to be… another way.”

He pulled off one of his gloves with his teeth, the leather clamped between his canines. His bare palm—cool and impossibly soft—pressed against her forehead.

“Forget,” he whispered, voice smooth as wine sliding down her throat.

Her body tried to jerk away, her mind screamed.

“Forget I was here,” he said again, quieter now. His breath touched her cheek.

And then—

Darkness.

A roaring void swallowed her whole.

She jolted awake, sweat-drenched and shaking.

Her room was awash in sunlight. Birds chirped distantly. The hearth was dead and cold, but the air had the faint scent of herbs and warmed stone.

Her chest rose and fell, too fast. Her heart galloped, throat dry and raw like she’d been screaming into nothing.

Why was she panicking?

She couldn’t remember.

Only the edges of something… a dream? The stars… Tamlin… the pool of starlight…

The sharp, impatient knock that apparently awakened her, came again.

Gillie flung herself out of bed, fumbling for the door. Her feet stumbled over something—her book, the bottle of water, the blanket on the floor—and she yanked the door open with hands that barely obeyed her.

Lucien stood there, brows drawn low. His golden eye blinked with quiet disapproval.

“You’re late,” he said, already turning away. “And he is mad.”

Gillie stared at him, blinking hard. Her nightgown clung to her. Her pulse was still racing.

Lucien looked over his shoulder. “Five minutes. Come on, Gil.”

Then he was gone.

Gillie stood frozen, heart hammering. Her skin felt… touched. Her lips were sore. Her lungs burned.

She had no idea what she was scared of.

Only the faint memory of something stupid.

The pool of starlight.

Tamlin’s lips…

And a mouth full of shadows.

Chapter Text

When Gillie finally stepped out of her room, approaching dusk was dragging itself slow and honey-thick across the windows of the Spring Court halls, smearing the world in liquid gold and long, warm shadows. The air still held that humid heat from earlier and her soft, flowy trousers clung around her calves with every lazy step. The fabric was a deep plum, heavy and rustling as it moved, paired with a light cream blouse with wide bell sleeves that swung around her wrists like petals. The blouse was tucked neatly under the cinch of a belt corset, pale brown leather creaking faintly as she moved, hugging her waist.

Lucien was already waiting for her, leaning against the wall across from her door, arms crossed, jaw tense, his gaze tracking the movement of her fingers as she twisted her hair up. The corridor was quiet, lined with climbing ivy and bathed in the fading citrus glow of the setting sun, serene, if not for the tightly wound tension in his body. He looked like he'd been waiting a while, like something was sitting heavy in his chest.

“Yes?” she asked flatly, catching the storm brewing behind his russet eye. She frowned as she tied off the ribbon high on her head, leaving her lavender hair in a messy pile that still spilled down in waves. Her pointed ears, slightly lopped, peeked through the strands like curved petals. The contrast made her silvery-gray eyes seem even bigger, glassy almost, her expression unreadable but sharp-edged.

Lucien let out a sigh that sounded scraped from the bottom of his lungs. He stepped off the wall without a word, motioning with a tilt of his head for her to follow. The gesture was brief but urgent.

By the time they reached the dining room, Lucien had already spoken in hushed tones about the Attor’s unexpected visit, about Tamlin’s delightful progress in reeling Feyre in, and the fact that Gillie had slept through the entire fucking day.

She hadn't even meant to. She remembered lying down when the light was still bright, intending to rest her eyes, and then—blackness. Her limbs were still loose with it, her stomach empty.

Alis gave them a sharp look as they crossed into the room but said nothing, just dipped her chin and vanished down a side hallway, likely to snap at the kitchen staff to plate the hot meal. The scent of roasts and spice hung in the air, mixing with the faint floral musk that always clung to the room—roses and gardenia, too sweet and suffocating.

Gillie slipped into the seat beside Lucien with barely concealed irritation. The chair to Tamlin’s left—her seat—was already filled, Feyre sitting there like a misplaced sculpture. She didn’t look up.

Already, Gillie was exhausted by the prospect of the next couple of years.

“Exciting night ahead,” she murmured, the corners of her lips tugging up just enough to imply venom. Her eyes met Tamlin’s across the table—his jaw rigid, his eyes like green glass under pressure. “I shall urge the staff to prepare your crown and paints shortly after dinner, my Lord,” she added with a delicate bow of her head, her voice syrup-smooth, almost mocking. Her fingers reached toward the wine, like it was the only tolerable thing on this entire Cauldron-damned table.

But before her fingertips even brushed the bottle, Tamlin’s hand moved fast.

“You surely mean breakfast, since you’ve slumbered over the day,” he said, voice clipped and cold. He slid the wine away from her grasp with infuriating grace, replacing it with a jug of cool, sweating water, then met her eyes with a tight smile that didn’t even pretend to be kind.

Gillie stared at the jug like it had slapped her.

Something sharp twisted under her ribs, not rage exactly, but something adjacent, like humiliation. This petty little power play, this carefully controlled rudeness dressed up as etiquette. She didn’t show it on her face, but her hand tightened slightly around the goblet she filled with water. Her rings clicked faintly against the stem, the air around her seemed to still, just slightly.

She brought the cup to her lips slowly, almost theatrically, and drank the water like it was wine anyway, her gaze never breaking from his.

“Do you feel well, Gillie?” Feyre’s voice slid across the dinner table, laced with that manufactured concern Gillie recognized all too easily. 

Gillie didn’t answer right away. Her fork hovered in the air, and her gaze snapped to Feyre’s, holding it, steady and unblinking. For a heartbeat too long, she just looked at her—past her carefully arranged posture and the delicate chain at her throat, past the nervous glance Feyre tossed toward Tamlin.

What Gillie saw, however, wasn’t Feyre at all—it was the reflection in Tamlin’s eyes from her dream the night before. That strange, dizzying echo of something dark blooming behind his irises. A flicker of something primal. Out of control. Unfastened. Something she wasn’t sure she’d even really dreamed at all.

She blinked, once, her throat felt too tight. She cleared it with a faint cough, then pulled a neutral smile over her mouth like a curtain she didn’t really want to draw.

“Very well, thank you,” she said finally, her voice silkier than it felt inside her chest. “There was a lot of work lately.”

She dropped her eyes to the plate before her as if that could end the conversation, but her gaze flicked back up when Tamlin reached across the table, when he lowered a slice of strawberry pie onto her plate.

The scent hit her first—ripe fruit, warm pastry, that faint dusting of sugar that always stuck to her fingers when she was a child. Her chest gave a strange little pinch. Strawberry pie was her breakfast. It had been since she was old enough to reach the kitchen counter. She hadn't asked for it tonight, hadn’t mentioned it, but there it was. Apparently Tamlin had gone out of his way to make sure it appeared again for dinner. For her.

She didn’t know if it made her want to scream or cry.

Lucien, across from her, snorted into his wine. No words, just that sardonic little huff he did when the absurdity of a moment was too much even for him.

“I shall be ready for the ceremony after a short run,” Tamlin said, the words clipped and formal, almost pointed.

Gillie nodded, the movement stiff. “Duly noted.”

Then she shifted her gaze across the table, locking eyes with Feyre again. Her voice came quieter this time, smoother. Dangerous in its calm.

“I hope you have been warned to stay in your room tonight, Miss Archeron.”

Feyre straightened slightly. “I was, although—”

“Fantastic,” Gillie cut in, all teeth behind her smile, sliding a bite of pie into her mouth like punctuation. She chewed it slowly, making a show of it, the crust flaking between her teeth, the syrup-slick strawberry melting into her tongue. “Then it makes my evening one problem less.”

And with that, she winked. A small, lazy wink that was dismissive and calculated. 

Feyre’s mouth closed. 

The rest of dinner dragged under a wet blanket of tension. No one spoke much. Even the clatter of silverware on porcelain felt too loud in the room, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Gillie didn’t look at Tamlin again. 

Later, in her study, she kicked off her heeled shoes with more force than grace—one landing with a dull thud beneath the armchair, the other spinning and knocking into a stack of books. Her feet ached, her shoulders were stiff from being too composed all dinner.

She shoved her feet into a pair of light boots, worn soft and loose, then grabbed her notebook and all but stormed out to find Lucien again. The click of her boots echoed down the hall, swallowed eventually by the noise of activity outside.

The Fire Night was blooming across the fields like it had been waiting all year just to breathe . Bonfires already roared into the darkening sky, tall and hungry, casting flickering light over everything. Smoke curled sweet and woody through the air, blending with the scent of roasted meat, honeyed wine, crushed grass, and something faintly floral. Music hadn't started yet, but voices carried laughter, chatter, anticipation. It was alive, the whole place alive, like it had a pulse of its own.

Young fae were scattered across the lush green fields, sitting in soft clusters, some weaving flower crowns in laps, others already sipping from sweating goblets of something gold and heady. Staff darted between tents, carrying trays, adjusting lanterns, fluffing pillows arranged in low, intimate seating areas.

Gillie stood at the center of it all—her list in one hand, her boots already stained green from grass—and tried not to let the tightness in her chest get in the way of her job. This was her event, her responsibility. She would not break  tonight.

“I am in a reluctant need to ask you for a favor,” Tamlin’s voice came from beside her, low and strangely vulnerable.

She didn’t look at him at first. Just... registered the scent of him. She turned her head slowly and blinked.

He was shirtless, bare, except for the dark leather baldric slicing diagonally across his chest, catching against dark blue-and-green-and-golden-painted runes that swirled over his skin. His mask glinted in the firelight, and the pommel of his sword gleamed like it had been dipped in starlight. The tips of his arrows—fletched in red and black—peeked over his shoulder like a warning.

He didn’t meet her eyes however.

“You are my High Lord,” Gillie said finally, her voice cool, as she crossed her arms and hugged the notebook to her chest. “If you ask me for a favor, I see it as an order.”

Tamlin inhaled sharply. “Stay in your room. As well as Feyre. There is no prediction on what I shall do when—” He stopped, exhaling hard, finally turning to her. His eyes burned.

She froze, speechless.

“My Lord,” she said softly, mouth dry, “you know I have to be here to—”

“Gillie,” he cut her off gently, his voice cracking around the edges. He tilted his head and stepped closer. “Cut it out. I beg you.”

Something in her stomach flipped. The way he said it. Beg. Tamlin didn’t beg.

“For many years,” he said, quieter now, “I’ve avoided this happening. And tonight isn’t an exception.”

His muscles flexed, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out and then remembered why he shouldn’t. And just like that, he turned—his bare back catching the firelight, the paint across his skin shimmering like something of a dream—and stalked away across the field toward the tree line.

Gillie stood frozen, completely startled. Her lungs felt caught mid-breath, her hand tightened around the leather spine of her notebook. Her pulse thudded in her ears like drums before a storm.

Then she blinked once… Twice, and turned away, dragging herself back into motion, letting her eyes land on the buffet tables now blooming under weight of roasted meats, fruit glistening under sugar syrup, lined up wine goblets, bread warm and crackling. She focused on the details, the logistics, the checklist. Anything but the fading scent of Tamlin’s skin in the air beside her.

***

She had heard him before she ever saw him—those heavy, sharp steps cutting through the distant thrum of laughter and music and drunken shouts outside, slicing through the buzzing of the Calanmai celebrations. Even with the wind curling through her open windows, bringing with it the sticky-sweet scent of crushed rose petals and smoke from the bonfires, his presence made itself known. It filled the space before his body even crossed the threshold.

The candles on the mantel trembled as the draft followed him in, flames flickering like startled breaths. The door opened not with the force she might have expected, given the way the magic still clung to his soul, but with something slower, stranger… A hesitation. 

Tamlin stood there, framed by the soft golden light spilling from the hallway behind him. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Just froze, caught in the doorway like a beast remembering its cage. His eyes met hers, and Gillie’s breath caught, stuck sharp and dry in her throat. His limbs were pulled taut, every muscle bunched beneath the paint and sweat and magic worked into his skin, like he was holding something barely contained inside.

Without a word, he reached for the buckle of his belt, fingers trembling only slightly. The quiet click of metal slipping loose rang louder than it should have in the hush between them. His sword dropped with a dull thud onto the polished wood floors, then the baldric followed when he yanked it off and tossed it aside like it burned.

He didn’t bother with the crown of leaves and berries tangled in his golden hair. It fell as he moved, petals scattering across the floor. His boots crushed them, left prints in red and green as he crossed the room toward her.

Gillie stood frozen near the bed, every nerve in her body buzzing. Her mouth was dry, her fingers dug into the loose, soft fabric of her nightgown, clenching the hem like it could save her. But nothing could prepare her for the way he reached for her—

Slow and careful.

Tamlin brushed aside a long strand of her hair, his fingers grazing the warm skin of her shoulder. The simple touch was enough to make her flinch from the sudden clarity of it, the way her body responded before her mind could.

He pulled at the loose collar of her nightgown, tugging the fabric down with maddening slowness, until it slipped off her shoulder completely. The cool air rushed over her skin, chasing goosebumps down her arms, and he leaned in.

His nose pressed into the crook of her neck, breathing her in. A low sound left him, deep and rough and primal, almost a growl. He dragged his nose along her shoulder, up to her throat, then to the shell of her ear, his breath hot and heavy and laced with the faintest, heady trace of wine, stag blood and bonfire smoke.

Gillie didn’t dare move.

Every instinct in her screamed to stay perfectly still, like she was in the presence of something sacred and feral and barely reined in. She didn’t know what would happen if she reached for him, the tension between them pulsed, twisting and alive.

Tamlin’s fingers found the thin, frayed laces at her collarbone and pulled again—this time more decisively. The gown slid down her arms, pooling around her feet like spilled water.

And as he silently stared at her, his eyes dragged over every inch of exposed skin, slow and loving and a little unhinged. His chest rose and fell in uneven heaves, and the paint on him—vivid swirls of blue and gold and green—smeared with every movement, like a living canvas unravelling before her eyes.

He tilted his head, studying her like he wasn’t entirely sure if she was real. The heat pouring off him was unreal, searing, thick, magical. It clung to her skin, soaked into her bones.

And still, she didn’t move. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to stop him or beg him to keep going. But she knew, somewhere deep, in the oldest part of her spirit—that something was breaking open between them.

Something dangerous. Something sacred. Something neither of them could ever put back.

Tamlin lowered his hands to her waist, slow and almost conscious, like he already knew every bone beneath her skin. His fingers traced the curve of her hips, dragging heat with them, and tugged her closer, then upward in one smooth pull.

Gillie gasped, her breath catching sharp in her throat. Her fingers gripped his shoulders without thinking, nails digging into the tense muscle beneath his painted skin. He was hot, like he'd been basking in the sun too long, or burning from the inside out and when he lifted her, settling her onto him with her legs wrapped tight around his waist, that heat seared into her as well.

Her breasts, bare and aching, pressed flush to the hard plane of his chest, and the smear of paint on his skin branded her. Colors streaked her body where his touch had dragged across her, she could feel it painting her in him.

Gillie looked into his eyes then and it wasn’t the Tamlin she had known—not the High Lord who stood with courtly detachment, not the broken male haunted by choices and power. This was something else entirely. His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing the verdant green of his irises. Magic hummed under his skin like static, crackling, feral. As if he was utterly drunk on it .

But it wasn’t the drunkenness that made her heart jolt, it was the focus. The hunger. Not magic-addled. Him.

This wasn’t a creature moved by ritual or rite, this was Tamlin choosing her, wanting her. And that realization cracked something deep in her chest, split it open, raw and bleeding. Because if he was sober, if this wasn’t a fever-dream or spell—but something real, wanted—then what in Mother’s mercy would happen when morning came? Where would that leave them?

Her lips trembled. She leaned her forehead against his, as if anchoring them both to the moment, to this fire that could devour everything. A soft kiss brushed his mouth, just a breath at first. He kissed her back like it hurt. His hands slid down her back, possessive, greedy, fingers squeezing the soft curve of her ass, pulling her tighter against him until there was no space left between their bodies.

The kiss deepened, his tongue desperately swept into her mouth, tasting her, and her thighs clenched around him as molten heat surged low in her belly. She was already slick, wetness pooling between them, throbbing with need that made her head spin.

He carried her to the bed, lips never leaving hers until she hit the mattress in a cloud of warmth and candle-glow. She barely had time to gasp before his mouth found her throat, biting just enough to make her hips jump. He kissed lower, wet and hot along her collarbone, then closed his lips around one of her nipples, sucking hard enough to make her back arch. Her hands threaded into his hair, tugging.

His free hand fumbled at the buttons of his breeches, his breath ragged against her skin. She heard the metallic clink, the hiss of fabric, and then felt the thick, burning press of him against her thigh.

Her breath stuttered. A sharp, needy sound left her throat.

And when he pushed inside—slow, deep—her world shattered. She didn’t know where her body ended and his began. 

Darkness and honey. Smoke and skin. Her mind drifted to the deepest, sweetest place, where only sensation lived. He was so big inside her, stretching her open, filling every part of her that had ever felt empty.

Their mouths tangled again, his breath hot against hers, her moans rising with every thrust. Gillie clung to him like he was the only real thing left in the world, her nails dragging lines down his back, her legs shaking around his waist. Their skin slapped together, sticky with sweat, their bodies slick and shining in the candlelight.

He held her by the thigh, gripping her like he never wanted to let go, and drove into her harder, deeper. She was breaking under him, breath by breath, gasp by gasp, a trembling wreck of nerves and fire.

Each thrust tore another moan from her, raw and rasping. She was panting, dizzy, tears clinging to her lashes from how good it was. From how utterly unprepared she was for this kind of euphoria. She didn’t want it to end. She was chasing the high of it like it was the only thing she’d ever needed.

Tamlin grunted above her, low and rough, and she felt the scrape of his claws gliding over the soft skin below her navel, just enough to make her gasp again, her muscles tightening around him.

He trembled. His body went rigid. Then he spilled into her with a an almost-animal groan muffled against her throat that vibrated through her bones. The hot rush of him inside her sent her spiraling. A last violent wave crashed over her, her body spasming around his as she cried out, the pleasure suffocating. A lump formed in her throat as her orgasm gripped her.

He collapsed onto her with a soft grunt, his weight comforting and unbearable all at once. Their bodies were shaking, limbs tangled, slick with sweat and paint and each other.

Their ragged and shallow breaths synced, lips barely touching. She could feel his heart hammering against hers, like it was trying to break through and crawl into her chest.

Tamlin looked up at her, golden eyes half-lidded, the flickering candlelight caught on his mask gleaming where it sat tight on his face. Gillie sighed. Her chest hurt with it.

Her smile was sharp, carried sadness, because somehow, in the stillness after all the noise, she knew: this was the first time. The last time. The only time.

Paint from his body stained her sheets, smudged across her arms, her thighs, her stomach. His scent, earthy and wild, soaked into her skin. He rested his head on her shoulder, and her world faded.

Sleep dragged her under, heavy and thick, and the last thing she remembered was the way his arm wrapped around her like he was still holding on.

And when she woke—

Her bed was cold.

Messy.

And utterly empty.

Chapter Text

The next day, Gillie caught Feyre halfway down the stairs, the girl practically bouncing in her step like she hadn’t been moody and hollow-eyed just days ago. Her cheeks were flushed pink, like she’d been out in the sun too long—or maybe just basking in Tamlin’s presence too much. She was talking , fast, loud. Something about painting again. The way colors bled together when they were still wet, the way sunlight hit the canvas through her bedroom window. Gillie let her ramble, offering soft hums and the occasional interested nod, trying to mask how badly she wanted the conversation to drop dead before they even hit the hallway.

It would. It always did,right around the time food touched the table and Lucien commandeered the conversation like it was a battlefield. Feyre usually slipped into her Tamlin-focused haze then, and Gillie could tune the whole room out like static.

But when Feyre flung the double doors to the dining room open with a cheerier-than-usual, the scene on the other side was... strange. Tamlin and Lucien were already seated, limbs splayed, as if they’d both melted into the chairs out of pure exhaustion. Gillie swore Lucien had actually dozed off sitting upright—fork midair, mouth slack, the faintest snore escaping before he blinked awake at the sound of their entrance.

“Good afternoon,” Feyre chirped, her voice pitched so sweet it bordered on mocking. That smile she threw at Tamlin… sticky, saccharine, almost smug. He blinked up at her, as if still waking his brain up, and both males gave their low murmurs of greeting. Feyre didn't take her usual spot she stole from Gillie, but crossed the room to sit directly across from Lucien, squarely in Tamlin’s line of sight.

Gillie faltered a single step, a flicker of movement catching her eye, and then she saw it—the bruise. Dark, tender-looking, blooming fucking bruise over Feyre’s neck like some sick kind of lover’s claim.

Her stomach went cold, her skin prickled like she’d walked straight into icy water. She moved again, automatic, crossing the space to sit by Lucien, trying not to let the weight of what she just saw crush her ribs in.

“Lucien. My Lord,” she murmured, dipping her chin in a practiced, half-hearted bow.

Tamlin swallowed hard. Didn’t speak, just nodded stiffly, as if it cost him something to look her in the eye. Lucien gave her that half-lidded smile he always wore when something felt off but he hadn’t put his finger on it yet .

Feyre took a long, greedy gulp of water, then she piled her plate like she was trying to make up for days of missed meals. Gillie took her time with her own, choosing only a couple of roasted potatoes and bright slices of charred vegetables. She chewed slow. Let the silence stretch. Let it settle over the room, hopefully for the entirety of this meal.

Lucien, however, broke it soon. “You look… refreshed,” he said, his russet eye flicking between Feyre and Tamlin, one brow barely arched.

Feyre just shrugged, her lips twitching. 

“Sleep well?”

“Like a babe.” She smiled at him, a slow, then took another dainty bite. Gillie caught the flick of Lucien’s gaze. The slow, unintentional drift to Feyre’s neck.

There it was again—that bruise, like a fingerprint burned into her skin.

“What is that bruise?” Lucien asked suddenly, voice too sharp to be casual.

Feyre didn’t flinch. Just stabbed her fork at Tamlin with lazy precision. “Ask him. He did it.”

Lucien blinked, then turned his full attention to Tamlin, more amused than shocked. “Why does Feyre have a bruise on her neck from you?”

Gillie stopped breathing for a moment.

Tamlin didn’t even pause as he sliced through his steak. “I bit her,” he said flatly, like it was no more significant than saying he'd stubbed his toe. “We ran into each other in the hall after the Rite.”

The air in Gillie’s lungs vanished completely.

Feyre sat up straighter, chin tilted with that same unreadable confidence. Gillie’s fork dropped from her hand and hit her plate with a metallic clatter that echoed through the space like a bell toll. Tamlin’s eyes snapped to her, and for just a breath, his face crumpled. The mask slipped, guilt leaking out in the barest twitch of his lips, the way his jaw clenched like he wanted to take it all back.

But then it was gone, replaced by that stoic, impassive expression she was starting to loathe. The one that made Gillie feel like she was talking to a wall. She stared at him, eyes wide, but not surprised. Just hurt… Devastated in that slow, creeping way that didn’t even feel like pain anymore.

“She seems to have a death wish,” he added, tone still flat, still infuriatingly calm, like he wasn’t spinning the knife deeper into both of them. He carved off another piece of meat. Claws didn’t slip out, but Gillie could see them press just beneath the surface of his skin, straining.

He wasn’t just irritated—he was furious. Incandescent rage, barely sheathed beneath his skin, all of it aimed at Feyre for disobeying him and then outing him after.

But he should’ve been mad at himself . He should’ve been on his knees, begging Gillie to forgive the way he’d fucked her over . Literally .

Her throat tightened so hard it burned.

“So if Feyre can’t be bothered to listen to orders,” he went on, calm as glass cracking under heat, “then I can’t be held accountable for the consequences.”

Gillie’s heart thudded violently in her chest. There was a moment where everything blurred—Feyre’s plate, the golden light spilling from the windows, the soft clinking of silverware—and then Feyre slammed her hands on the table.

“Accountable?” she snapped, eyes flashing. “You cornered me in the hall like a wolf with a rabbit!”

Gillie’s fork fell again, her hand trembling. Her skin was burning and freezing at once, her whole body wound too tight. Lucien, wide-eyed, propped his elbow on the table and pressed a hand over his mouth—half in disbelief, half trying not to burst out laughing.

He noticed her then. Really noticed. Saw the way her hands shook. The wild, unfocused look in her eyes. So, he reached for the bottle without a word, poured a generous amount of wine into her goblet and slid it over, then pushed the whole bottle toward her in silent solidarity.

“While I might not have been myself,” Tamlin continued, his voice like sugar, “Lucien and I both told you to stay in your room.”

So calm. So measured. 

Gillie’s fingers clenched tight around the velvet mask that sat oh her face. The petals were soft, delicate. She ran her fingers along the ridges like they were prayer beads, anchoring herself in something that still made sense.

Feyre stood with a screech of her chair, rage blooming bright on her face. “Faerie pig ! ” she shouted, voice cracking with fury.

Lucien cackled, throwing his head back and almost toppling from his chair. The whole room tilted on its axis—between Feyre’s fire and Tamlin’s quiet storm, between Gillie’s shaking hands and the taste of wine too bitter on her tongue.

Tamlin didn’t even look surprised. Just grinned—slow, wolfish, delighted in a way that made Gillie want to smash her goblet against the nearest wall.

And just like that, Feyre stormed out, the doors slamming shut behind her with a final, echoing bang .

Gillie didn’t move. Not for a long, long moment. She sat there in the heavy silence, fingers still curled around her glass, not sure whether to drink or throw it straight into Tamlin’s face.

“So you two fucked,” Lucien muttered, clearing his throat like he’d swallowed something jagged. The edge of amusement vanished from his face in a blink. He looked between them, something too serious flickering behind his eyes. “Should we discuss this or—”

“Nothing to discuss,” Gillie cut him off, voice sharp and bitter. Her gaze locked onto Tamlin’s with ruthless precision. “As my Lord said himself—‘he can’t be held accountable for the consequences.’” She smiled then. Her face might’ve looked polite to anyone not paying attention, but there was so much disgust swimming behind her mask, so thick you could taste it in the air. If not for that ridiculous, cursed thing glued to her skin—soft petals of peonies and roses curled against her cheeks like a joke—Tamlin would’ve seen all of it. The betrayal. The humiliation. The absolute wreckage of her.

And still, he flinched. Just barely. She saw it however and she hoped it hurt.

“Gillie,” Tamlin sighed, his voice slumped with guilt, like it was too heavy to carry in his throat.

“Oh, I understand,” she said lightly, like they were trading gossip over tea. “It’s perfectly natural for my Lord to slip into the habits of his lineage.” Her voice dipped, each word pulled like teeth. “It’s tradition. Isn’t it?”

Lucien shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m his property. Just like I was his brother’s. Just like I was Amarantha’s,” she continued, the name falling from her lips like acid. “She made it perfectly clear—I’m a tool, a trinket, a pretty little asset passed around with titles and bloodlines. I’m used to it by now.”

She let out a breathless, humorless laugh, tipping her wine to her lips with shaking fingers.

“But do be careful, my Lord,” she added, not breaking eye contact. “Because even though I belong to you, Lady Amarantha may still call in her claim. Technically, that would make you just the... renter.” A pause, a snort that twisted into something too close to a sob. “No return date on that lease, is there?”

“Damn, Gillie…” Lucien whispered, barely audible over the ringing silence.

Tamlin’s face darkened. “Are you done?” he asked, arching a brow, voice clipped, his anger boiling beneath the surface.

Gillie cocked her head, playing casual. “With the meal? This conversation? The report you asked for?” She tossed back another sip of wine, this one leaving a sting in her throat she didn't bother to hide. Her voice cracked as she swallowed. “Sure. I’m done.”

Silence collapsed over the room like a storm.

Tamlin then stood so abruptly that his chair screeched backward and slammed to the floor behind him with a thud that echoed like thunder. He didn’t look back. He didn’t say another word.

The doors practically exploded with his swing, smashed against the walls with enough force to rattle the windows as he stomped out.

Gillie didn’t move.

Lucien let out a slow, careful breath, then turned toward her. She was slouched in her seat now, limp, as if someone had cut the string that held her spine upright. Her fingers fumbled for the bottle and filled her goblet to the brim, wine sloshing over the edge.

Lucien placed a hand on her shoulder—warm, grounding. “Would you like me to take a load of your work today? You could rest. Just... breathe.”

Gillie let out a long, shaking sigh. Tears started to spill without warning, thin streaks of them ran hot down her cheeks, curling beneath the petals of her cursed mask like melted wax. But she shook her head.

“I know,” Lucien murmured, exhaling hard, and opened his arms for her.

And that was enough. She fell into him like she’d been shoved off a cliff. His chest was warm and solid beneath her cheek, and the way he patted her back—gentle, unsure, real—made her dissolve completely. The sobs ripped through her like they’d been waiting for permission, loud and broken and so deeply tired. She clutched at his tunic, not caring if she soaked it through with her grief.

He didn’t say a word. Just held her while she crumbled.

***

She skipped dinner. Buried herself in work instead, drowning in parchment and ink and numbers, anything that kept her thoughts in a straight line. But even that couldn’t numb it entirely. Not when her hands still trembled, not when her stomach twisted at every sound of footsteps near her door.

She was on her way to a staff meeting when she caught sight of him again.

Tamlin was walking down the long west corridor, golden hair catching the dying light like it was spun from flame. In his hands—white roses, fresh and dewy, from his mother’s garden. The same ones he used to leave at Gillie’s study on the first day of the Spring’s bloom.

Her feet stuttered. Her chest turned molten with rage, her gut searing from the heat of it, but she didn’t let it show, not even a flicker.

Instead, she offered him a soft, polite smile, something hollow and practiced that didn’t touch her eyes. Tamlin glanced at her, hesitated, but she was already moving again, head high, steps graceful.

She clutched her notebook tighter to her chest, nails digging into the cover. A small breath hitched in her throat, but she swallowed it like poison and kept walking.

No one saw her duck into the servants’ wing. No one saw her lean against the cool stone wall once she turned the corner, out of sight. No one saw her tears spill again, quiet this time.

She wiped her face on her sleeve, squared her shoulders, and disappeared into the darkened hall.

***

A couple of days bled past in a blur of missed meals, hushed halls, and back-to-back meetings Gillie didn’t remember volunteering for. Official business, they said—diplomatic this, security that, although she was indeed grateful with the distraction all of this provided to her. From that cursed Calanmai night. From him .

Because even though the drums had beat and the rites had called, Tamlin—stone-cold sober and fully capable—had walked right past her door. Past her . No drunken haze to blame it on, no primal frenzy, no excuse other than deliberate avoidance. He didn’t choose her.

And fuck, that made things simpler—didn’t it? It should’ve. 

Every hour since had been a tug-of-war between professionalism and that gnawing, acidic ache under her ribs. The shrinking distance between Tamlin and Feyre, made it all even worse. So Gillie threw herself into work with obsessive precision, burying herself in whatever she could get her hands on. Thankfully, there was no shortage of tasks, they multiplied like roaches. She was up before dawn, still awake when the moon hung pale and heavy in the sky, ink-stained fingers and a headache that bloomed behind her eyes like a migraine from the Mother herself.

Lucien had been pulled into endless patrols, gone more often than not. Tamlin, as always, was being summoned here, there, everywhere, like a blade being worn dull from overuse. And Gillie—well, she’d been left behind to pick up the pieces. She felt less like a courtier and more like a glorified wet-nurse, tending to Feyre’s every need while also running triage on the whole damned court.

Thankfully, Tamlin had finally removed the glamour that blinded Feyre to the servants, the guards, the sentries that padded through these walls like ghosts. Now, at least, Gillie could work in the gardens and while Feyre sketched, or host her quiet, awkward meetings in the gallery.

But peace never lasted long in the Spring Court.

It was one of those stifling, hot days where the air clung to skin like wet silk when the garden turned into something else. Gillie had just stepped into the hallway when Feyre’s scream pierced the calm—sharp and raw and utterly human.

The scent of blood hit before the sight did.

Gillie had run through the dew-wet grass and tangled rose bushes. Feyre stood frozen near the edge of the fountain, her face white as bone, eyes wide and empty.

On the statue at the fountain’s center—marble once carved to resemble the Mother herself—sat a severed head impaled on a pike, cocked at an obscene angle. On its forehead, burned into gray-blue flesh, was the sigil of the Night Court.

Lucien arrived first, blade drawn, eyes burning copper-bright as he shoved Feyre behind him. “Sadistic bastards,” he muttered, voice like flint. “That whole court’s filled with killers who smile while they skin you.”

Tamlin wasn’t far behind. His face was all sharp lines and seething rage, mouth twisted. “This is Rhysand’s idea of a joke,” he spat, nostrils flaring. “He’s letting us know he’s watching. That he’s waiting for the wards to crack even more.”

And that, of course, meant more work for Gillie.

Tamlin had turned to her with that same tone he used when something was beneath him. “Contact Viviane. Now. Take a few trips if needed.”

The trip to the Winter Court, followed by a brief detour by the Day, was exhausting. She returned on the morning after the Summer Solstice, her travel-stiff body aching and her mood fouler than ever. Still, she cleaned up, tucked her hair into something resembling civility, and dragged herself to the lunch table—for the first time since the Calanmai mess.

Oddly, the dining room had been rearranged. The table, normally sprawling and decadent, had been replaced by a smaller one—intimate, almost painfully so. She didn’t ask why. She didn’t care.

“Blessed day,” she muttered, as she dropped her stack of parchments—fat with reports, fresh ink still bleeding at the corners—directly in front of Tamlin with a satisfying thud .

“My Lord,” she added, bowing the bare minimum before sinking into the chair across from him, wedged between Lucien and Feyre. 

That closeness, accidental or not, made her skin itch as Feyre reeked of Tamlin. His scent clung to her, deep and layered, it made Gillie want to claw her own throat out. 

Tamlin sat back slowly, grabbing the parchments without so much as a glance at her face. His fingers left faint smudges on the corners as he started leafing through the pages.

Lucien, at least, gave her a grin. Tired, yes, but sincere.

He caught her hand, warm and calloused against hers, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Good to have you back, Gillie,” he said softly.

Then, oddly, he kept rubbing at his temples with the same hand he’d kissed hers with, silent as he pushed food around his plate.

Gillie’s plate remained empty. She waited until Tamlin read every damn word she'd brought him—every dotted “i,” every crooked scrawl penned in the cold halls of the Winter Court.

“And where were you last night?” Feyre’s voice cut across the table, all wide-eyed curiosity, her tone innocent but edged like she knew too much.

Lucien’s metal eye gleamed sharply as it narrowed on Feyre, the polished gold catching a shard of sunlight that cut across the room like a blade. “I’ll have you know,” he began dryly, voice curling with irritation under the pretense of charm, “that while you two were off dancing with the spirits, I was stuck on border patrol.”

Tamlin gave a dry, not-so-subtle cough that sounded suspiciously like shut up , but Lucien only shrugged and added with a casual lilt, “With some company.” That sharp grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked at Feyre. “Rumor has it you two didn’t return until well after dawn.”

A flush crept up Feyre’s neck like wine poured too fast into a goblet, too fast to contain. She glanced at Tamlin, her teeth catching the plump swell of her lip. The moment stilled around them. Tamlin’s gaze was already on her—ravenous, unblinking, taking her in like she was something utterly delicious. Like he was starving and she was the first meal in weeks.

“You bit my neck on Fire Night,” Feyre murmured, almost too low to hear. Her voice had gone rough. “If I can face you after that, a few kisses are nothing.”

The words shattered whatever feeble walls had remained standing. Tamlin’s hands dropped the parchments Gillie had worked herself ragged to deliver. They fluttered uselessly in front of him like wounded birds. He braced his forearms on the table, the wood creaking faintly under the sudden shift of weight, and leaned forward—closer to Feyre 

“Nothing?” he asked, voice pitched low and dangerous, the edges roughened by something deeper. His eyes dropped to her lips. 

Lucien made a sound, something between a groan and a curse, and shifted in his seat. “Cauldron spare me,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his face with both hands.

Gillie didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The scent hit her like a brick wall, their arousal had bloomed in the air like crushed blossoms set on fire. Sweet and sharp. Suffocating. Feyre’s blood practically hummed in her veins, responding to Tamlin’s magic like a drawn bowstring. Their hunger clung to the room, hot and physical, like steam rising off skin just out of bathwater.

“Nothing,” Feyre repeated, breath hitching just slightly, her gaze caught on Tamlin’s mouth like it had its own gravity. Her voice was barely more than a whisper—floaty, distant. Like she didn’t even realize she’d spoken aloud. Like the rest of them weren’t even there. There was a look in her eye, something raw, something desperate. Resentment. Want. A need to close the gap between them.

Tamlin reached a little closer, just a few inches, but enough to make Gillie’s stomach curdle. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice so low it felt like a touch on bare skin.

Gillie’s throat sealed up. She swallowed hard, but the knot of disgust sat there like a stone. The air had turned thick, syrupy, hot with tension, the scent of sex...

“I’m trying to eat,” Lucien snapped, words muffled around a mouthful of food he clearly wasn’t enjoying anymore.

Feyre blinked slowly, like dragging herself out of a dream, and pulled back just an inch.

“Well now that we have your attention,” Gillie said, her voice clipped, sharper than glass. The words slapped through the air, dragging his attention off Feyre and back into the room they all still unfortunately shared.

Tamlin blinked and looked at her, finally. Lucien leaned away from the heat of the moment, gaze flicking between them like he was waiting for someone to explode.

Gillie lifted her chin, voice steady but darkened with the weight of what she’d brought back with her. “Not to be the bearer of truly bad tidings,” she said, her tone carved from stone, “but my trip to the Winter Court wasn’t exactly jolly.”

The smile slid right off Tamlin’s face like ice melting from stone.

“The blight,” Lucien said. His voice was restrained. 

Gillie nodded once. Her hands clenched in her lap, hidden beneath the tablecloth. “It took two dozen of their younglings,” she said softly. “Two dozen, all gone.”

She paused, swallowed hard. Her mouth tasted like ash.

“It burned through their magic first. Just stripped it away like bark peeled off a tree. And then… then it got into their minds. And it broke them. No one could stop it.” Her voice cracked just slightly. 

Silence dropped like a curtain.

“I’ve sent for word from the other courts,” she went on. “The Dawn. The Day. The Summer… They’re all being hit hard, and none of them can contain it. But somehow, the Night Court—” Her lips curled around the words like they tasted spoiled. “They remain untouched. Unscathed. Of course.” Her next breath shook in her chest. “But it’s coming farther south with every attack. And faster with each strike.”

The brightness that had briefly filled the room, the flirtation, the heat, the careless teasing, bled out. 

“The blight can…” Feyre’s voice broke the silence, faint and trembling. “Can truly kill people?”

Tamlin didn’t answer immediately. His eyes had gone dark, distant. Shadowed by something ancient and haunted. Then he slowly shook his head, it seemed, in disbelief. Like he couldn’t quite accept what he already knew to be true.

“The blight is capable of hurting us in ways you—” He cut himself off with a sudden, violent motion.

Tamlin surged to his feet so fast the chair behind him toppled with a crash that echoed like a crack of thunder. His claws unsheathed in a hiss of sound, sharp as razors, his muscles coiling.

The house had gone still. No whisper of skirts against polished floors, no muted clatter of dishes or the low hum of servant voices. The silence was unnatural. Pressed-down. Wrong, like the manor itself was holding its breath.

Lucien swore under his breath, the kind of word meant for battlefields, and stood so quickly his chair scraped across the marble. His sword sang free of its sheath with a whisper of steel that made Gillie’s blood run cold.

Her eyes snapped to Tamlin’s. His face was carved stone—expressionless, calculating. He was  listening to something beyond the room. His eyes hadn’t left the open doors.

“Get Feyre to the window. By the curtains.” His voice was a command, deep and rough, edged with something more animal than human. He didn’t even blink.

Lucien didn’t hesitate. He reached for Feyre’s arm, his grip hard around her elbow as he hauled her out of her chair, nearly toppling the goblet she hadn’t touched.

“What’s—” Feyre started, confusion drawing her brows together. But Tamlin growled again low and echoing through the silent dining hall like a warning sent from the gods.

Feyre shut up. She grabbed one of the knives off the table and let Lucien steer her toward the window. Velvet curtains loomed there, deep green and gold-threaded. Lucien shoved her toward them and stepped in front of her, planting himself like a wall of flesh and steel between her and the room.

He pressed his back into her, his sword still pointed down but his stance radiating tension. His breath was quick and shallow. Feyre stiffened beneath him.

Gillie stood—her chair pushed back with barely a sound—and moved straight toward Tamlin. She didn’t ask nor she waited. With one smooth motion, she yanked a dagger from his baldric, not even pretending to be graceful about it. Tamlin didn’t stop her, didn’t even flinch. His eyes stayed locked on the door.

Gillie lifted the hem of her dress—ivory linen edged in pale green, trembling just slightly in her fingers—and bared one thigh. Her skin was flushed from the wine, warm against the chill in the air, and she shoved the dagger into the top of her stocking. The blade bit cold into her skin. She caught the flick of Tamlin’s eyes—unintentional, instinctive. He looked away just as fast.

She dropped her skirt back into place, walked back to the table, and sank sideways into her chair. Casual, lazy, like she had all the time in the world. Her hand shook as she reached for her goblet of wine, so she took a slow sip to cover it. The cold steel of the hidden blade pulsed against her thigh. 

Across the room, Lucien hadn’t raised his sword, but his grip on it was tight, his knuckles pale against the hilt. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready, while the glamour fell on Feyre, shielding her from their unwanted guest.

Tamlin exhaled through his nose. A long, slow breath.

His claws slid back into his skin with a faint hiss, the gleam of fangs vanishing behind closed lips. He righted his chair and lowered himself into it again, slouching into the seat like he hadn’t just been ready to rip something apart.

He began cleaning under his nails with the tip of one finger. A performance. Calculated nonchalance .

The slow, unhurried footsteps from the hallway came closer. Louder. Louder.

Lucien angled himself slightly, as if he were simply watching the gardens outside, though the set of his jaw was tight with tension.

Then—he appeared.

A silhouette first, framed in shadow, and then a male stepped into the dining hall like it belonged to him. No hesitation. No weapon in sight—but the power he carried wrapped around him like a second skin. Darkness clung to him, silky and alive. His clothes were rich, indulgent—an ebony tunic heavy with gold and silver embroidery, fine enough to rival any seasonal court’s royal regalia. His black pants clung perfectly, tucked into knee-high boots polished until they gleamed.

He radiated the kind of cruel, seductive confidence that made Gillie’s stomach knot in instinctive revulsion.

“High Lord,” he crooned, voice like velvet. He inclined his head ever so slightly. 

Tamlin didn’t rise. He didn’t even lift his gaze. His voice, however, was venomous. “What do you want, Rhysand?”

The name hit the floor like a curse. Rhysand smiled, one hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “ Rhysand? Come now, Tamlin. I don’t see you for forty-nine years, and you start calling me that?” His grin curled wider, baring teeth, there was something feral about it. “Only my enemies and my prisoners call me that.”

His eyes glittered with unspoken promises, and then they moved—slowly, languidly—to Lucien.

Rhysand’s gaze raked him from head to toe like he was studying a painting or a puzzle.

“A fox mask,” he said smoothly, tilting his head with faux curiosity. “Appropriate for you, Lucien.”

Lucien said nothing. His jaw clenched tighter.

Gillie didn’t breathe. She didn’t move . She held herself completely still, wine untouched in her hand, the blade at her thigh a cold kiss of comfort. But her pulse was thundering.

“Go to hell, Rhys,” Lucien snapped, his voice cracking like a whip in the air, rough and sharp as broken glass.

Rhysand turned his head slowly, as if savoring the insult, as if it were wine he could roll across his tongue. That smirk—the same one Gillie remembered from Under The Mountain—spread lazily across his face.

“Always a pleasure dealing with the rabble,” he murmured, not even looking at Lucien now. His attention shifted to her .

Gillie froze mid-sip.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting,” Rhysand said smoothly, his violet eyes—so dark they bordered on void—roaming her face with unspoken curiosity. That smile never faltered.

“We were in the middle of lunch,” Tamlin answered before she could open her mouth. His voice had dropped into that cold, glacial register. The High Lord’s voice. Voice of the war-born ruler, full of stone and iron.

“Stimulating,” Rhysand purred, his gaze flicking over the half-eaten food, the spilled wine on Lucien’s plate.

Gillie lowered her goblet with a soft click . The wine had gone sour in her mouth.

“What are you doing here, Rhys?” Tamlin asked again, still unmoving, still lounging like he hadn’t been moments from violence. His composure now was more frightening than a drawn sword.

Rhysand smiled wider, turning on his heel in a smooth pivot. His boots made no sound on the polished marble.

“I wanted to check up on you,” he said, voice lighter now, more theatrical. “I wanted to see how you were faring. If you got my little present.”

A muscle twitched in Tamlin’s jaw.

“Your present was unnecessary,” Gillie said, sliding into her courtier voice—refined and crystalline, the one she'd learned from her mother and sharpened like a blade in political salons. “It took weeks for my staff to clean the blood from the fine marble. Next time, please, send your gifts wrapped appropriately, Lord Rhysand.”

Rhysand looked at her for a beat too long. “A nice reminder of the fun days, wasn’t it?” he said at last, turning his attention back to Tamlin. His tongue clicked against his teeth as he surveyed the room. “Almost half a century holed up in a country estate.” He breathed out the words with mock wonder. “I don’t know how you managed it. But,” he said, circling back toward Tamlin, “you’re such a stubborn bastard that this must’ve seemed like paradise compared to Under the Mountain. I suppose it is.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowed with something between curiosity and mockery.

“I’m surprised, though. Forty-nine years, and no attempts to save yourself. Or your lands. Not even now, with everything beginning to... get interesting again.”

Tamlin’s expression barely shifted. But his eyes were darker now, filled with something heavy and hollow. “There’s nothing to be done,” he said, voice quiet.

Rhysand moved closer. Each step deliberate, silent as shadow. He came to stand directly before Tamlin, a strange intimacy in the stillness between them. And when he spoke again, his voice dropped lower—into a whisper so soft it was obscene.

“What a pity,” he breathed, the sound brushing over the table like silk over bare skin. “That you must endure the brunt of it, Tamlin—and an even greater pity that you’re so resigned to your fate. You might be stubborn, but this?” He gestured around the room, to the plates, the papers, the exhausted faces. “This is pathetic.”

He leaned in, one arm draped lazily over the back of Tamlin’s chair, lips near his ear. “How different the High Lord is from the brutal war-band leader of centuries ago.”

Gillie’s stomach churned. That voice. It wasn’t a whisper—it was a touch . A hand on the inside of the thigh. A drag of fingers across a bare throat. It was meant to unmake.

Lucien broke the silence with a snarl. “What do you know about anything? You’re just Amarantha’s whore.”

A pause. Rhysand didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. His gaze slid to Lucien, slow as molasses.

“Her whore I might be,” he said, and his voice was steel now—unsheathed and hungry, “but not without my reasons.”

The air seemed to crack, as if something massive had just stirred far away.

“At least I haven’t spent the last five decades hiding among the hedges and flowers while the world goes to Hell,” he added, cool as frostbite. “Playing court while your people rot.”

Lucien’s sword rose an inch.

“If you think that’s all I’ve been doing,” he said, his voice thick with the kind of fury that simmered just below eruption, “you’ll soon learn otherwise.”

Rhysand’s smile returned. Slow. Calculated. Dangerous.

And in the quiet between them, Gillie’s hand slipped back beneath the table, fingers grazing the hilt of the dagger strapped to her thigh. 

“ Little Lucien,” Rhysand said, his tone coiling around the words like a snake playing with its prey. “You certainly gave them something to talk about when you switched to Spring. Such a sad thing, to see your lovely mother in perpetual mourning over losing you.”

Lucien’s reaction was instant. His sword snapped up, the tip aimed straight at Rhysand’s heart.

“Watch your filthy mouth,” Lucien snarled, voice gone low and wild. His stance was solid, but his eyes betrayed him—burning, wounded, cornered .

“Lucien,” Gillie said sharply, setting her goblet down with a soft thud . The wine inside trembled. “It’s not worth it.” Her voice was flat, her throat too tight to soften it. She shook her head once in warning.

Lucien’s jaw clenched like stone grinding against stone.

Rhysand laughed. That laugh . It was the kind of laugh you gave someone in bed, a velvet purr slid over bare skin. Intimate. Private. Laced with threat.

“Is that any way to speak to a High Lord of Prythian?” he said, a little sigh underneath the words like he was disappointed in the lack of decorum.

Gillie swallowed thickly. Her palms were damp, her dagger felt cold and useless now, its presence no longer comforting but absurd. She knew what it meant to cross Rhysand.

Tamlin hadn’t moved. Still seated. Still watching. Tension radiated from his stillness like heat from smoldering coals.

“Come now, Tamlin,” Rhysand said with exaggerated patience. “Shouldn’t you reprimand your lackey for speaking to me like that?”

“I don’t enforce rank in my court,” Tamlin replied, and though the words were calm, they were frayed around the edges—his voice gone brittle, thinner than before.

“Still?” Rhysand’s arms folded lazily across his chest. “But it’s so entertaining when they grovel. I suppose your father never bothered to show you.”

Lucien bared his teeth, and his hiss split the air. “This isn’t the Night Court,” he spat. “And you have no power here—so clear out. Amarantha’s bed is growing cold.”

Gillie winced.

Rhysand snickered, but the sound fractured into something far more dangerous. In one blink, he was gone from his place and there, in Lucien’s face.

Lucien slammed back into the wall with such force that the framed artwork nearby rattled, the floor beneath the window quivering with the impact. Feyre stifled a soft, startled gasp, her body caught between Lucien and the carved wood paneling, pinned.

Rhysand’s face was inches from Lucien’s, his breath misting hot and slow between them.

“I was slaughtering on the battlefield before you were even born,” he snarled. His voice didn’t rise—it tightened, like a garrote around a neck.

Then, as easily as a cat slinking away from a mouse it no longer found interesting, he withdrew. Just…stepped back. Smoothed his tunic like they’d only exchanged pleasantries.

“Besides,” he added with an infuriating softness, slipping his hands into his pockets, “who do you think taught your beloved Tamlin the finer aspects of swords… and females?” His smile was cruel. “You can’t possibly believe he learned everything in his father’s little war-camps.”

Tamlin scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his temples like he could dig the headache out of his skull. “Save it for another time, Rhys,” he muttered. “You’ll see me soon enough.”

Rhysand chuckled, as if he had won. And maybe he had.

He turned and began meandering toward the door, his posture loose and languid, like nothing in this room posed a threat to him. Like none of them mattered.

“She’s already preparing for you,” he said over his shoulder. “Given your current state, I think I can safely report that you’ve already been broken… and will reconsider her offer.”

Gillie’s heart thumped against her ribs.

Lucien’s breath caught. Just once, sharply.

Rhysand neared the table, and his presence filled the space like water filling a sealed chamber. He ran a finger along the back of Feyre’s chair, a casual, intimate brush that made Gillie’s stomach lurch. Her muscles tensed.

“I’m looking forward to seeing your face when you—”

He stopped.

His gaze dropped.

And Gillie knew. Knew .

Rhysand’s eyes skimmed the table. The wrong wine goblet. The untouched food. The two sets of utensils. Feyre’s plate—too warm. Her scent—still fresh.

His pause was just a second too long.

Gillie’s breath hitched. Her spine went stiff.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Her thoughts were a frantic chant, a drumbeat in her head. They were sooooo fucked.

Lucien went stick-straight.

Rhysand tilted his head, almost imperceptibly. Noticing and then—smiling.

“Where’s your guest?” Rhysand asked, turning back to the table like a male surveying the wreckage of a battlefield he’d already won. His fingers closed around Feyre’s goblet. He lifted it and sniffed.

Gillie watched the movement, eyes wide, heart stuck somewhere between her ribs and throat.

Rhysand's nostrils flared slightly. That coldly elegant nose, twitching like a predator catching the scent of fresh blood.

He set the goblet down again. Gently. Precisely. The sound of glass on wood felt like death itself.

“I sent them off when I sensed your arrival,” Tamlin lied. Smooth. Clean. He didn’t even blink.

But Rhysand had already turned toward him. And for a breath his face was unreadable, carved marble and nothing more. Then a shift.

His brow ticked up. A single, slow rise. That flicker in his gaze—excited, incredulous. He whipped his head toward Lucien so fast Gillie flinched.

Magic burst across the room like a slap. Gillie felt it down to her bones, like her body remembered the rules of a court it had never belonged to.

Feyre went utterly still.

Wide-eyed. Petrified. Frozen in place, her breath shallow and fast. She was too new, too raw, and too human to know how to hide the sheer, undiluted terror blazing across her face.

Rhysand saw it.

And his face twisted into something beyond rage.

“You dare glamour me?” he growled, his voice lower than before, his violet eyes weren’t eyes anymore. They burned . All the stars and night and death boiling behind them as they locked on Feyre.

Lucien pressed her harder into the wall, his body a shield. But even he couldn’t stop the heat, the magic, the sheer power that pulsed off Rhysand now like waves.

Tamlin’s chair groaned like it was screaming as he shoved it back and rose in a single, predatory movement. Claws sang free from his skin, curling wicked and gold-tipped at his sides.

No words. Just the threat of him. That war-trained body ready to rip, ready to end.

Gillie stood as well, moving behind her chair as if it could do anything. She reached under her skirts, hand clamping around the dagger strapped to her thigh. Her fingers curled tight on its hilt.

She had no training. She’d never been in battle, never been tested like this. But a dagger was a dagger. You pointed it. You stabbed it. And Mother help her, she'd aim for the fucking heart.

Rhysand's expression shifted again, back to that mask of eerie calm. Fury licked beneath the surface, cold and dangerous. He stared at Feyre like he could peel her skin open with just a look.

“I remember you,” he purred.

The way he said it made Gillie’s stomach flip.

“It seems like you ignored my warning to stay out of trouble.” He turned his gaze to Tamlin. “Who, pray tell, is your guest?”

“My betrothed,” Lucien answered before anyone else could. His voice was steady, his eyes were locked on Rhysand.

“Oh?” he breathed. “Here I was, thinking you still mourned your commoner lover after all these centuries.” Rhysand’s mouth curved like something wicked crawling out of the dark..

Lucien spat at Rhysand’s boots.

His sword came up—glinting, deadly. Not just raised. Between them .

Gillie’s breath caught behind her teeth. She pressed her palm to her lips, a quiet gasp barely escaping. Her heart was rattling the cage of her ribs now, too loud, too fast.

Rhysand’s eyes flared with something crueler than rage. “You draw blood from me, Lucien,” he said, “and you’ll learn how quickly Amarantha’s whore can make the entire Autumn Court bleed. Especially its darling Lady.”

The blood vanished from Lucien’s face, but he didn’t move, didn’t lower the blade.

Behind him, Feyre shook silently, her hands curled into the curtain fabric like she could disappear into it. Gillie could almost hear her thoughts unraveling.

It was Tamlin who stepped in, his voice no longer a growl, but no less lethal. “Put your sword down, Lucien.”

“I knew you liked to stoop low with your lovers, Lucien,” Rhysand said, his lips curving in a cruel smile, “but I never thought you’d actually dabble with mortal trash.”

Feyre flinched. Her face flamed so hot it stung, like she'd been slapped.  

Lucien was trembling—shoulders taut and fists clenched like he was holding back something that might explode if given half the chance. But whether it was rage, sorrow, or some crawling, quiet kind of fear… it was impossible to tell. His bronze skin had paled beneath the candlelight, and his russet eye glinted, not with fury, but something more brittle, something that felt like the ground crumbling beneath him.

“The Lady of the Autumn Court will be grieved indeed when she hears of her youngest son,” Rhysand added, tone turning colder, silken with venom. “If I were you, I’d keep your new pet well away from your father.”

“Leave, Rhys,” Tamlin’s voice came from behind, strained and sharp. He stood only a few feet away, posture stiff as a board, yet he didn’t move. Didn’t lift a hand. Didn’t bare his teeth. The claws had come out, but no step forward, no snarl, no instinctive leap into action.

Despite Rhysand still approaching Feyre.

Then, like it was the easiest thing in the world, like he had every right in this house that was not his, Rhysand reached out and pried the knife from Feyre’s hands. His fingers were careful as he took it from her grasp. Like he was taking a child’s toy. The blade clattered across the marble floor and spun out of sight.

“That won’t do you any good, anyway,” he said to her, not unkindly. In fact, he almost sounded sorry. “If you were wise, you would be screaming and running from this place, from these people.” A pause. Then a smile, wide and wicked. “It’s a wonder that you’re still here, actually.”

Feyre’s confusion must have been plain across her face, because Rhysand barked out a laugh, one that bounced too loud off the walls. “Oh, she doesn’t know, does she?”

“You have seconds, Rhys,” Tamlin warned again, voice lowered to a growl. “Seconds to get out.”

“If I were you,” Rhysand said, not even looking at him, “I wouldn’t speak to me like that.”

And then—Gillie froze.

It hit her like a punch to the stomach. That voice, the angle of his head, the look in his eyes—she remembered. She remembered him visiting her the night she had stupidly nudged Tamlin to take Feyre to the glen with the pool of starlight. Now, standing in this room, the memory slammed into her, what it felt like when his talons scraped across the fragile, fleshy interior of her mind. It had been agony and relief at once. She had felt herself peeled open like a fruit, nothing hidden, nothing sacred, and even now, the echo of it made her stomach turn. He was doing the same to Feyre now.

“Let her go,” Tamlin barked, the panic flickering fully to life in his eyes now. But he still didn’t move, he glanced from Feyre to Rhysand, like he couldn’t decide what to do with himself. “Enough.”

“I’d forgotten,” Rhysand murmured, “that human minds are as easy to shatter as eggshells.”

His hand lifted, and with the pad of his finger, he traced a lazy line along the base of Feyre’s throat. She shuddered. Her lips parted slightly, no sound coming out, but her body locked up, muscles pulled tight.

“Look at how delightful she is,” Rhysand breathed, voice almost adoring. “Look how she’s trying not to cry out in terror. It would be quick, I promise.”

His gaze for some reason flicked to Gillie then, and the temperature seemed to drop again.

“She has the most delicious thoughts about you, Tamlin,” he said, and his voice shifted, laced with something wicked. “She’s wondered about the feeling of your fingers on her thighs—between them, too.”

The air went still.

He chuckled low in his throat, like he was tasting her thoughts right then and there, chewing on them slowly.

“I’m curious,” he turned his face toward Tamlin, head tilted just slightly, like a predator sniffing out the edge of weakness, “Why did she wonder if it would feel good to have you bite her breast the way you bit her neck?”

Tamlin’s face, already tight with fury, twisted. His features contorted into something near feral, the mask of High Lord cracking wide open. “Let. Her. Go.”

Rhysand’s face softened with mock sympathy. “If it’s any consolation,” he murmured, “she isn’t the one for you. You might’ve gotten away with it. But it’s too late now. She’s more stubborn than you are.”

Feyre crumpled. Her knees buckled and she folded in on herself, sinking to the floor in a tight coil, arms around her shins, her breath ragged as she tried to contain the sobs threatening to tear out of her chest.

Rhysand didn’t even spare her another glance.

“This one, however,” he said, with a different kind of delight, voice sing-song and sharp. He pointed at Gillie, his long finger beckoning.

She didn’t need to move—her body had already decided without her. Her feet, like they had minds of their own, carried her toward him. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, like a war drum, but her body obeyed.

Rhysand placed a warm palm on the small of her back. His touch was tender, disgustingly tender. He brushed her hair off her shoulder, letting the strands fall like silk down her back. Then his knuckles grazed her cheekbone, slow, possessive. It was unbearable, that touch—light as it was. It made her breath hitch, made something deep and old inside her scream. Her skin crawled, and yet burned under his knuckles.

Tamlin’s face turned crimson with fury. He stepped forward. Then stopped. Again.

“Madame Courtier,” Rhysand purred, drawing out the title like it was soaked in scandal, like it tasted of gossip and rot. He clutched his chest in a mock gasp, eyes gleaming. “You filthy little girl, you. Couldn’t expect anything different,” he said, his tone turning colder as he flicked his eyes to Tamlin. “Tamlin, you’re such a dog.”

And then, with a mocking delicacy, like he was pressing a petal to her skin, Rhysand laid a kiss on Gillie’s cheek. It was soft, it was gentle, it was cruelty masked in care.

Rhysand let her go.

Gillie’s breath shuddered out of her lungs, her chest heaved. She reached for the back of Feyre’s chair, her fingers clutching at the wood like it was the only thing anchoring her to the ground. Her knees were jelly. Her spine felt made of smoke, so she held on tight, tight enough for her knuckles to turn white.

“Amarantha will enjoy breaking both of them,” Rhysand said to Tamlin, his tone detached, like he was discussing wine or weather, not lives. His gaze slid lazily over Feyre, then turned toward Gillie, his lips curving ever so slightly. “Although… the human is more promising. Almost as much as she’ll enjoy watching you as she shatters the lovely girl bit by bit.” His voice took on a cruel kind of sweetness. “And her favorite toy…”

Gillie didn’t have time to brace, Rhysand’s hand—cold, ringed, claiming—landed on her backside, fingers spreading possessively. He squeezed it hard and possessive, like she belonged to him.

She jolted, breath catching in her throat. Her stomach turned violently, nausea crawling up her chest. 

He leaned in, breath brushing her neck, hot and intimate and foul in its intimacy. His voice was a low rasp against her skin. “...Her favorite toy still remains in your possession. And she would loooove to have it back.”

He released her, hand sliding off slowly—as if savoring the curve of her body before withdrawing. Then he stepped to the side with feline grace, like a curtain had been drawn back after a bad act.

Tamlin stood frozen, his eyes vacant, locked on something beyond this room, something he could already see: Gillie screaming, bloodied, torn open again under Amarantha’s cruel fingers.

His arms hung limp at his sides. Claws still extended. Useless.

He looked at Gillie.

His gaze cracked something in her. It wasn’t love in his eyes. It wasn’t even fear. It was defeat. Like he'd already lost her. Like she was already gone.

Then his eyes flicked to Feyre.

“Please,” Tamlin said.

Just that. One word. A whisper of breath. Choked and dry.

Rhysand tilted his head, almost affectionately. “ P l e a s e what?” he said—voice low, coaxing, like a lover tempting someone back into bed.

“Don’t tell Amarantha about her,” Tamlin managed, his voice splintered, like it scraped through his throat on broken glass.

Her.

Gillie’s lips curled. She bit down a bitter laugh. He didn’t mean her, he meant Feyre. Of course. Always Feyre.

Rhysand’s gaze slid to Lucien, and his lips curled. “And why not?” he mused. “As her whore,” he spat the word like a slap, “I should tell her everything.”

Lucien flinched, jaw ticking, but said nothing.

“Please,” Tamlin whispered again. Each time he said it, it seemed to cost him more—to breathe, to speak, to exist under the weight of it.

Rhysand smiled then. Really smiled. All teeth, all poison. He pointed to the floor. “Beg,” he said softly. “And I’ll consider not telling Amarantha.”

The silence shattered. 

Tamlin didn’t hesitate. He dropped to his knees with a thud that echoed off the walls. His head bowed forward. 

“ Lower. ” The command cut like a whip.

Tamlin’s forehead touched the cold marble floor. His hands slid forward, palms pressed to the ground, reaching toward Rhysand’s boots like a servant offering prayers. His golden hair spilled around his face, around his mask like a curtain of shame.

Gillie’s breath caught, rage swelling hot and violent. Her hands clenched into fists. Her High Lord, brought to his knees. For her. For Feyre. For a human… The sight of Tamlin bowing like that, bent and shamed, scraped something raw inside her.

She wanted to scream.

Rhysand pointed lazily at Lucien next. “You too, fox-boy.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched, but his face remained unreadable, all shadows and steel. Still, he obeyed. Slowly, he knelt, red hair falling over his brow, and pressed his forehead to the floor beside Tamlin’s.

Then Rhysand turned to her. “Madame Courtier,” he crooned, licking the title like it was sugared fruit. “Would you be so kind and graceful to join the gentlemen?”

Gillie’s head snapped toward him. Then down at Tamlin. His golden head still bowed, face hidden. Her lips parted, her eyes stung with tears she refused to let fall and shook her head.

No. Not this. Not her knees. Not for him. Not for her .

“Rhysand,” Tamlin rasped, lifting his head just enough to speak, voice hoarse. “Please. She has nothing to do with this.”

Rhysand only snorted .  

“Are you doing this for your sake, or for hers?” Rhysand mused, voice light. He shrugged. “You’re far too desperate, Tamlin. It’s off-putting. Becoming High Lord made you so boring.”

And then he turned to Gillie again, stepped closer. He pressed a hand to her shoulder—casual, almost affectionate—and shoved.

Pain flared hot across her body as her knees slammed into the floor. She gasped, her spine arched, shoulders trembling from the force. She landed hard, eyes level with Rhysand’s crotch.

He leaned in, his breath brushing the shell of her ear. “Lower, bird , ” he whispered, warm and slow. “What a remarkably pathetic scene.” He laughed again.

Tamlin didn’t lift his head. His forehead still touched the floor, as if glued there by shame.

“Are you going to tell Amarantha?” he asked, voice flat now. Dead.

Rhysand tilted his head. “Perhaps I’ll tell her,” he said lazily. “Perhaps I won’t.”

Tamlin moved in a heartbeat. He was on his feet, his body a coiled storm, teeth bared—fangs a flash of white as he lunged for Rhysand’s face.

But Rhysand didn’t even flinch.

He clicked his tongue in disappointment, and with a single, casual hand, shoved Tamlin back. Like he was nothing.

“None of that,” Rhysand said. “Not with the ladies present.”

Then he turned his attention to Feyre. His expression changed to almost… interested.

“What’s your name, love?” he asked, and it was softer. Dangerous in a whole new way.

Gillie held her breath, if Feyre would fail to give him a false name—they were all finished.

The girl stammered, barely louder than a breath. “Clare Beddor.”

Rhysand stared at her for a heartbeat. Then turned back to Tamlin.

“Well,” he said, stretching his arms with the satisfaction of someone who’d had a good meal, “this was entertaining. The most fun I’ve had in ages, actually. I’m looking forward to seeing you four Under the Mountain. I’ll give Amarantha your regards.”

He was gone then, and the silence that followed… It was hollow and trembling. Tense with every unsaid thing, every breath too loud. Every heart beating too fast.

Gillie was still on her knees. Her palms were pressed to the floor. And she couldn’t move.

None of them could.

Chapter Text

The moment it struck them—how long it had been since Rhysand vanished into shadow—it was as if time itself exhaled. 

All three of them were still kneeling.

Feyre was curled by the window, knees pulled tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins as if she could squeeze the panic out. Eyes wide and glassy, staring not at the room but through it, at something behind her lids she couldn’t shake loose. The velvet curtain near her quivered faintly in the breeze, scented with cold spring air, and the ghost of Rhysand’s cologne.

Tamlin moved first. He rose like something cracked out of ice, slow and stiff, the motion making his shoulders twitch, his breath audible. He didn’t speak. Just reached down.

Gillie looked up. Her own hands were still planted against the marble floor, her nails biting into the seams, legs folded awkwardly beneath her. The offer of his hand was quiet, soft. 

His fingers wrapped around hers, and the warmth of him shot through her bones like a pulse. Her skin buzzed where he touched her, too hot and too alive, like lightning trapped in a jar. For a moment, the world shrank down to the skin of their palms. Her breath caught, snagging in her throat, but then he let go—too soon—and the chill of absence bloomed in its place.

Without a word, Tamlin turned away from her and crossed the room with long, purposeful strides. His boots thudded softly over the rug, the only sound in the room save Feyre’s unsteady breaths. He knelt again, this time beside her. He didn’t hesitate to pull her into his arms. She sagged against him, pliant, dazed. His hand came up to her cheek. His thumb hovered near her jaw, brushing back a loose strand of hair.

“Lucien,” Tamlin rasped over his shoulder, voice ragged, like it had clawed its way out of his throat. “Escort Feyre to her room. Shut the doors on your way out.”

Lucien had just finished sheathing his sword, the rasp of metal sliding against leather sounding too loud, too final in the echoing stillness. He turned slowly, gaze snapping to Tamlin. Then to Gillie. Her eyes were still wet, lashes clumped with tears that refused to fall, her lips trembled, parted slightly like she’d been about to speak but forgot what words even felt like.

Lucien met her gaze and didn’t look away until she nodded. The smallest flicker of a signal: I’m alright. Go. He passed her as he walked across the room, and paused just long enough to brush his hand over her shoulder with a quiet squeeze. He turned to Feyre then, extending a hand.

Feyre hesitated for a breath, and then she reached for him, her fingers finding his with the frail desperation of someone who’d just been scraped raw. Lucien wrapped an arm around her waist and led her out, careful with every step. The door clicked shut behind them with a finality that echoed like a tolling bell.

Left alone with Tamlin, Gillie didn’t lift her head when he looked at her. She felt his gaze settle on her, however.

“I’m sorry for this, Gillie,” he said quietly. 

Gillie nodded, her arms wrapping around herself like she could keep her ribs from splintering. Her hands trembled, she couldn’t still them.

“Was it him?” Tamlin’s voice was low. Guttural, like it physically pained him to ask. “Those younglings from the Winter Court…”

Another nod. Smaller this time, sharper.

“Under the Mountain—”

“He didn’t do anything to hurt me in any way. No,” she cut in quickly, shaking her head. “No.” Her voice broke on the second one.

She swallowed hard, chest rising with a breath that sounded more like a sob she was choking down.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, “for the lack of strength to keep myself intact, my Lord.” Her tone was brittle. Formal. Like wrapping herself in old manners would keep her from breaking entirely.

“But,” she added, straightening just a little, spine a little less curled, “not to ignore what just occurred—the statements from the other Courts, Rhysand’s unannounced visit... All of it confirms what we feared. Our assumptions weren’t paranoia. They’re facts now. And we need to act. Fast. ”

She stepped closer, her body still thrumming with nerves, with tension. With rage she hadn’t dared give voice to yet. 

Tamlin parted his lips, but her hand lifted between them—palm out, freezing inches from his chest, interrupting anything he was about to say.

“There are two paths forward,” she said, her words clipped, her lips tight, as if the taste of what she was about to say physically repulsed her. “First, Feyre confesses her love to you. The curse breaks. We all live, happily ever after. We throw parties. Plan a wedding. Discuss names for the babes.”

Her own sarcasm curdled on her tongue. The idea of it was almost laughable, too naive, too far away from the blood still singing under her skin.

“Or,” she said, her hand falling slowly, “the other path wins. The one that’s already beginning. Feyre says nothing. The curse festers and we go back Under the Mountain . Back to Amarantha. To serve. To rot… To die.”

Her hand dropped to her thigh and she hadn’t even realized where it landed until her fingers brushed something hard beneath her skirts. The bulge of the dagger still strapped to her stocking. Tamlin’s dagger.

No response from him. Not a sound. His eyes burned with guilt, rage, helplessness.

Gillie lifted the hem of her skirts, baring her thigh just enough to reach beneath and draw the blade free. The steel caught the light and glinted like a living thing, sharp and cold. She stepped forward and stretched her hand toward him, holding the weapon by the hilt, though not quite offering it—more like asking him to take it away.

But Tamlin didn’t reach for it. Instead, he took her hand in his, fingers firm but gentle, and closed her fingers around the hilt. Shaking his head.

“Keep it,” he said softly, like it cost him something. Then he let her hand go.

The dagger remained in her grip, a strange comfort, still warm from where it had been pressed to her thigh. A phantom echo of adrenaline pulsed through her fingers. She didn't sheath it again—just kept it in her grasp as Tamlin stepped away.

He walked without rush, sank into the chair at the head of the table with a weariness that made the air around him feel heavier. There was an overturned goblet on the polished wood, abandoned in the chaos. He righted it without a word, then reached for his own, filling both from the crystal decanter beside the fruit bowl. He slid a goblet for Gillie across the table, placing it in front of Lucien’s empty seat—his right-hand side.

Gillie moved slowly, her limbs aching as if she’d run miles barefoot across gravel. Her head throbbed—sharp, pulsing behind her eyes, like something was trying to claw its way out. She eased into the chair beside him, shoulders hunched, her whole body folding in on itself like a tired bloom.

She rested the dagger on her lap and reached for the wine without looking. Gillie  took a careful sip then, velvet and sharpness bloomed on her tongue.

“Did he do this before?” Tamlin asked quietly.

She blinked at him. He saw the question on her face and clarified, jaw taut.

“Rhysand.”

Her throat tightened.

“He did,” she said, nodding slowly. “Not long ago he made me believe Eris visited me. He was... vivid. Detailed. Asked questions about us hosting a human. I believed it.” She took another sip to hide the flicker of shame. “Every part of me believed it was real.”

Tamlin’s jaw clenched hard enough she saw it twitch. The corner of his mouth tightened. His fingers tapped on the table—once, twice—before the claws slid free, scraping softly against the wood. Not enough to splinter it, but just enough to be heard. 

“Did he hurt you?” he growled, the words barely controlled.

Gillie exhaled slowly, forcing her body to stay still.

“I don’t think it was ever his intention,” she admitted, not quite meeting his eyes. “But I caught a scare. That sort of trick is not something you shake off easily.”

Tamlin didn’t speak, but his silence wasn’t empty. By the stone-stillness of his face, the dead calm of his body, she could tell he was envisioning every scenario in which he could make Rhysand bleed.

And still—it didn’t warm her. That look in his eyes might have comforted her once, the promise of protection, vengeance on her behalf. Now it felt like a mirror turned the wrong way, because she already knew… She would never have space in that heart of his. Not fully. Not truly. With Feyre there... it would always be too damn crowded.

“You care for her,” Gillie said suddenly, quietly. Tamlin’s head snapped up. His gaze locked onto hers, tired and wild all at once. “And she will not break the curse,” she added, lips curling bitterly. 

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh. It would have come out too hysterical. “Send her away then, if you care for her this much, my Lord.” Her voice was calm, too calm. “That would be the right thing to do.”

“I think I’m already past making any amends for my stupidity,” Tamlin muttered, downing the rest of his wine like it was medicine, the goblet hit the table with a dull thud .

Gillie tilted her head. Her fingers traced the stem of her own glass. “Well,” she said with a faint shrug, “you were never taught to rule, my Lord.”

His eyes flicked to her, defensive tension crawling up his spine, but she continued before he could snap.

“You were taught to fight. To protect. Which you do —ferociously. It’s not your failing, it's your nature. Lucien, for all his warrior training, has a mind made for politics—analytical, nimble, cunning. Add his humor, and he becomes dangerously persuasive, but he’s not yet a leader. Not in the way this Court needs.”

She looked down, inhaling slowly. Her breath tasted of wine and ash.

“I have always been here,” she said. “To shut your father’s courtiers down when they tried to sink their claws in. To keep the old bloodlines in check. To help you thrive as High Lord, not just survive.”

The words rang with a fierceness she hadn’t meant to show, but it was too late to hide it now.

“As a warrior, you train to hone your body. As a High Lord, you train the same way—except it’s your instincts, your judgments, your mercy that you have to sharpen. It’s a hard position and that’s why you must have people around you who don’t just tell you what you want to hear.”

Her hand reached for his on the table, laying over it gently.

“You don’t have to always listen,” she said softly, “but you do need to hear us. Me. Lucien. Even when you hate what we say. Even when you’re furious.”

Tamlin stared down at her fingers on his, expression unreadable. But the warmth was there. The quiet, awful need. That fragile, exhausted gratitude in his eyes that twisted something in her chest.

“We’re not here to shame you,” she whispered. “We’re here because we chose to be. We do not blame you for what’s happened. We mourn with you. We rebuild with you. And if you lead us to hell, we will still follow.” She squeezed his hand. “But don’t expect us to go quietly.”

A breath passed between them. Heavy. Full of the weight they both carried. 

“What are you saying?” Tamlin asked, his voice just barely above a whisper.

He paled, something quiet and terrified to flickered in his eyes. He knew. He saw where she was going, saw the edges of it, and he tensed, his mouth tightening.

Gillie only smiled. It was faint and sad.  Her fingers squeezed his where their hands were still joined on the table.  “I am saying, my Lord,” she murmured, voice steady despite the sharp ache rising in her throat, “if you choose to save at least one of us… that will be enough.”

Tamlin’s brows pulled together. His breathing had slowed, shallowed, the kind of breath you take when your chest is heavy and your ribcage has forgotten how to move.

“That will be enough for us,” Gillie continued, “to still love you in our dying breath.”

Her words hung in the air likea dark clowd. 

“I am saying,” she went on, and her voice had to be coaxed up from somewhere deep and guttural now, “that if you choose to save Feyre and send her away, I will follow you Under the Mountain.” She held his gaze, unwavering. His pupils dilated slightly. “I will do whatever is necessary for the survival of our people,” she whispered. “On my own expense. My own soul, my own body—whatever it costs. If it must be bartered, I will do it. And if you ever stumble,” she added softly, a breath against the space between them, “I will be there to offer you my hand.”

Her voice cracked slightly at the edges. “No matter how little you care for me. You are my High Lord,” she said, more firmly now. “This is my home. And I will always fight for it. With every ounce of might and wit I possess.”

Her fingers began to pull back to release his hand, to slip away from the warmth and the weight of it, but Tamlin caught her. He gripped her tighter, not with force, but with desperation. His calloused fingers curled around hers like a tether.

“I care about you more than you know,” he rasped. His voice had turned hoarse, his throat visibly working as he pulled her hand to his mouth. He kissed her knuckles with raw adoration. “I do, Gillie.”

Gillie exhaled, something bitter twisting behind her ribs. Her mouth tilted into a smirk laced with old pain. “Not enough to beg Rhysand for me,” she said simply.

And then she pulled her hand free. It took effort, it hurt to pull away, like peeling away from warmth in winter, like walking out into cold wind.

“Please,” she added, her voice now stripped of any sharpness. Just tired. “Don’t say anything.”

Tamlin’s jaw clenched, but he obeyed.

“I cannot bear another word. I need to take my mind off this day, if you don’t mind,” she whispered. 

Her eyes found his, and what Tamlin saw there—pleading, aching, frayed around the edges—made him look away. 

He nodded, then stood from his chair in one fluid, automatic movement. A habit from court etiquette. A courtesy. A male trying to remember what dignity looked like.

Gillie rose more slowly, holding his dagger to her chest, her body aching like it had been dragged behind a carriage. The migraine that had been coiled behind her eyes since Rhysand’s departure now flared sharp and cruel as she straightened, red-hot pain radiating through her skull like a spike being driven between her brows. Her vision blurred momentarily, black spots dancing like ash before her eyes. She blinked them away.

“Do you wish to be escorted to your room?” Tamlin asked. His voice had softened again, but it carried that note of worry—too late, too careful.

Gillie gave him a small, worn-out smile and shook her head.

Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, her footsteps muffled against the carpeted floors of the hallway that led toward the stairs. Her legs trembled under her gown, the fabric brushing against her calves like ghost fingers. Every step was a negotiation with her body—one foot, then the other, don’t let yourself collapse. Not yet.

She reached the first step when—

CRASH.

A sharp, unmistakable thud, followed by the splintering of glass. She froze. Her hand hovered above the banister. The sound had come from the dining room. The shatter rang in her ears, vibrating down her spine like a scream.

She didn’t turn back.

***

It all happened too fast.

The low, drawn-out howl split the night air like a warning bell. Then came the barking—dozens of hounds, savage and baying with the unmistakable thrill of the hunt. Hooves pounded the ground next, the thunder of horses overtaking the softer, quicker beat of wings slicing above the manor—something enormous and winged circling overhead, the beat of their bodies against the wind drowning everything else out.

A split second, and the world collapsed and darkened.

***

The next thing Gillie knew, she was kneeling.

Her body slammed against the cold marble dais, her knees throbbing where they met the stone. She blinked rapidly, her eyes felt raw, scratched. The light in the throne room was blinding in its polished cruelty, gleaming off the black obsidian throne at its center. Her breath caught.

She was already there. Right side of the dais.

Right side of her .

Amarantha’s long crimson nails—lacquered and glinting—danced over the delicate silver chain draped across her lap. That chain connected to Gillie’s collar. Iron. Tight. Her neck burned beneath it. It bit into the skin, slick with sweat, and Gillie could already feel the welt forming just below her ear where it chafed most.

She couldn’t remember how she got here. The screams and crash of the manor were still ringing in her ears.

Her shirt was too large for her, torn at the hem and dark with sweat and blood. It clung to her back like a second, soaking skin. Her britches were so thin they might as well have been tissue, every scrape of the stone floor digging into her bones. Her knees throbbed, bruised and swelling beneath her. Her ribs ached where boots had found her. One of her fingers was swelling too, she couldn’t remember which one had cracked, only that it throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

She tasted her own blood, it coated her tongue, metallic and hot, and bitter in a way she’d never forget—not as long as she lived. Not as long as she served .

Gillie blinked hard, forcing the room into focus through the haze of pain. The throne loomed beside her, carved from darkness itself, and Amarantha lounged in it smiling.

She was talking, but Gillie heard only fragments, like distant echoes underwater. Her brain couldn’t keep up, couldn’t translate through the pounding in her skull.

Tamlin sat beside her, in a smaller throne cut from black stone. His face was blank, cold, but his thumb, twitching against the curve of his chair arm, rubbing a tight circle over and over again. His rage leaked out in that small movement, it screamed where his voice didn’t.

Gillie tried to breathe. Every inhale burned. Her nose had bled earlier. She could feel the crust of it, drying and cracked above her lip.

“I came to claim the one I love,” Feyre said.

Her voice was quiet. Not shaky. Not bold. But centered ...

Gillie’s head turned toward the sound before she even realized it. She blinked slowly, like her body couldn’t move fast enough to keep up with what her ears were hearing.

Feyre stood at the far end of the throne room. Small compared to the towering Court that flanked her. Wild-haired, in travel-worn clothes, her eyes locked on Amarantha with a look Gillie had never seen from her before. Brave enough—or stupid enough—to stand in this pit of monsters and speak.

Gillie’s balance tipped, her vision tilted sideways as her body listed slightly, worn out from the beating she'd taken earlier. Muscles seized, ribs screamed. She caught herself just before falling completely, but the movement drew Amarantha’s attention like blood in water.

The Witch didn’t speak, just yanked the chain hard.

Gillie didn’t have time to brace, her neck wrenched forward, and the iron collar cut into her throat like a blade. Her body hit the marble face-first with a thud that echoed through the room. Fire bloomed across her cheek, across her ribs, across every part of her that was already broken.

She whimpered. Quiet, but sharp. The sound of something helpless and too proud to admit it.

Through blurred vision, she saw movement. One figure stepping forward from the crowd.

Eris… He couldn’t hide his fury. His entire frame buzzed with tension, shoulders pulled back, jaw clenched. He took one deliberate step toward the dais, but Gillie lifted a shaking hand. He stopped. But his fire simmered, barely caged.

“Oh?” Amarantha purred, leaning forward, her voice slicing through the air like a sharp dagger.

“I’ve come to claim Tamlin,” Feyre said. “High Lord of the Spring Court.”

Silence dropped like a guillotine.

The court gasped in a ripple of shock and disbelief that echoed through the towering columns and into the vaulted ceiling. Even the Attor, who had remained still as stone until now, shifted behind Feyre, its wings flexing wide in the cold light.

But Amarantha only tipped her head back and laughed. Her teeth flashed white and wicked.

“Oh, Tamlin,” she breathed, turning her face to him with mockery dripping from every word. “You certainly were busy all those years.”

Her smile widened, lips pulling back far too much. “Developed a taste for human beasts, did you?”

Tamlin said nothing. His face stayed impassive, dead, almost. Like someone who had stopped hoping a long time ago.

Gillie watched him. Watched what he didn’t do. Watched what he didn’t say.

What had she done? Her chest caved in a little more.

“But,” Amarantha went on, the word hanging like a hook in the air, “it makes me wonder ...”

She rose slowly from the throne, her scarlet gown dragging like oil across the stone. The Attor watched her hungrily.

“If only one human girl could be taken—once she killed your little sentinel…” Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, you are delicious , Tamlin.”

Her tongue clucked against her teeth.

“You let me torture that innocent girl,” she crooned, “just to keep this one safe?” Her finger jabbed toward Feyre. “You lovely, twisted thing.” Amarantha clapped her hands once, sharply. “You actually made a human worm love you. Marvelous.”

Tamlin turned his face away and that— that —was the only response he gave her.

Gillie didn’t notice the tremble in her fingers until the chain jerked again—subtle, a warning tug from Amarantha’s fingers that sent pain flaring down her neck, into her collarbone, sharp and scalding like acid beneath the skin. The links of the chain brushed across her raw collar with a metallic whisper, and she flinched.

Her cheek still burned from where she’d hit the floor. Her mouth throbbed, lip split. And still she stayed upright, still she breathed through the pulsing pain, because Feyre was speaking now.

“Let him go,” Feyre said, steady.

Gillie’s heart lurched at the sound of her voice. That girl. That mortal girl standing alone in a den of monsters… 

Amarantha’s laugh cracked like a whip, echoing off the high cavern walls. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t destroy you where you stand, human.”

Gillie didn’t need to see Feyre’s face to feel the defiance in her words. She could hear it, could taste it.

“You tricked him,” Feyre said. “He is bound unfairly.”

Tamlin had gone still. Utterly, terribly still.

Amarantha clicked her tongue and examined one of her white, long-fingered hands, as if she were bored of this already. As if murder and torture and theatrics had become mundane.

“You human beasts are so uncreative,” Amarantha sighed. “We spent years teaching you poetry and fine speech, and that is all you can come up with? I should rip out your tongue for letting it go to waste… But I’m curious…” Amarantha purred, pointing her cursed ring with Jurian’s eye outward, its gaze moving with her like a serpent. “What eloquence will pour from your lips when you behold what you should have been?”

Gillie’s eyes locked on the far wall—and she felt her soul tear. There, nailed like a warning sign above the court, was a corpse. Female. Young.

“Clare Beddor.” Gillie recognized the name only from Feyre’s lips. 

But that didn’t matter.

Because the girl's body was burned and bloated and twisted at impossible angles, skin blistered in places, torn in others. Her fingers—those fragile, innocent fingers—were bent the wrong way, like snapped twigs. Her body was naked, covered in deep red lines—blood, whip marks, maybe worse. The walls behind her were stained with the darker reds of what had leaked and splattered.

Gillie’s vision blurred again. Her stomach clenched so violently it stole her breath, and she gagged—dry at first—then retched without warning. Her fingers, frozen on the iron collar, slipped slightly as her body lurched. Amarantha yanked the chain just then and the force of it nearly snapped her neck sideways. Gillie whimpered at the pain, at the helplessness of being tugged like an animal on a leash. She tried to stay upright, tried to brace herself against the nausea clawing through her, but her balance gave way. Her body folded forward, and another wave of bile forced itself up her throat.

She fell, hands hitting stone slick with her own vomit, but Amarantha didn’t even look at her.

Her attention remained fixed on Feyre, her voice drifting through the haze.

“Perhaps I should have listened when she said she’d never seen Tamlin before,” the Queen mused. “Or when she insisted she’d never killed a faerie. Never hunted a day in her life.”

“Though her screaming,” Amarantha whispered, “was delightful . I haven’t heard such lovely music in ages.” She turned to Feyre. “I should thank you for giving Rhysand her name instead of yours.”

Gillie saw the moment Feyre broke.

“Come now, precious,” Amarantha said, mock-sweet. “What have you to say to that? “You came to claim Tamlin?” she said.

Gillie watched Feyre. The girl’s lips barely parted, jaw tight, body motionless but for the way her throat pulsed with a held breath.

Gillie wanted to scream at her. Say something. Say anything. But she couldn’t move her lips.

And then, softly, “Yes,” Feyre said. “Yes, I do.”

Gillie’s breath caught.

Amarantha’s lip curled back, canines like ivory razors. Her eyes, black and glistening, studied Feyre with the delight of a predator finding its prey willingly walking into its jaws.

“I was worried,” she said, almost musing now, “when he didn’t flinch while I played with darling Clare. When he didn’t even show those lovely claws…”

Gillie wanted to claw her own ears shut.

“But I’ll make a bargain with you, human,” the Queen said, and something in the air shifted. “Three tasks. You complete them, Tamlin is yours.”

Gillie’s body tensed. No—no, no—Bargains were poison. They twisted and bit and turned on you like serpents.

“And if she solves a riddle,” Amarantha added with a grin that made Gillie’s skin crawl, “the curse will break instantly.”

Jurian’s eye swiveled again. Watching. Drinking in every word like it remembered every moment of its death.

Gillie wanted to scream "don't do it," but Feyre’s voice came again: “I want his curse broken, too.”

And so the trap closed…

Chapter Text

Apparently, Amarantha had learned her lesson.

The first time Gillie had been dragged Under the Mountain, she’d remained too lucid. Too coherent. And even drugged with fear, even caged like a beast, she'd still found ways to think . To watch, to listen, to gather and exchange information. She’d remembered things, that had made her dangerous. That allowed The Spring Court to exist even under Amarantha’s clawed grasp. 

So now, she was kept wrapped in a cocktail of leeching spells and volatile, blooming magic that seeped into her bloodstream like rot. Every night she was beaten in a twisted blunt routine of creative tortures, until her ribs rattled like broken instruments and her stomach turned sour with the taste of iron and bile.

She spent her days slumped like a broken doll at Amarantha’s feet, strung out on agony and bitter magic, in a haze thick enough to make time fold in on itself. Her skin always buzzed, her bones always throbbed. She didn’t know how long it had been. Hours bled into days bled into nothing. Just heat and bruises and the phantom itch of spells crawling under her skin.

At night, they threw her back into the cell like garbage. The collar stayed on, a beautiful thing of carved obsidian and iron, too tight against her throat. The chains of rusted iron and spelled steel, cold and biting as they snapped every night around her wrists and ankles, but most times she was too far gone to feel it.

A bucket of freezing, salt-laced water would come in the dead of night, splashed over her to wash away the vomit and blood and whatever else her body had expelled in its quiet, constant rebellion.

She reeked like piss, like iron, like sickness and death. Her hair clung in clumps to her scalp, slick with blood and grime. Her mouth tasted like old copper and ash. Thinking was like wading through tar. Her body ached in places she didn’t remember owning. Her magic was silent. Gone.

“Hold on,” a voice whispered, cutting into the dark like a razor across soft skin.

Gillie didn’t move, but her senses flinched.

“Don’t, she will notice!” The sharp clap of flesh—skin on skin. Another slap in reply, like two hands bickering.

“Mother’s tits, why are you so childish?” A familiar voice snapped. It was dry, bitter like burnt caramel.

“I don’t know. Why are you so dimwitted?” The other voice hissed back, exasperated.

Gillie forced her heavy eyes open. It took effort, like dragging herself from the bottom of a black lake. Her lids cracked apart, lashes glued with blood and salt and sleep. The ceiling was jagged stone, the color of wet slate. Dim torchlight painted everything in flickering golds and dirty shadows. She was still on the floor, curled like a corpse in the piss-stained corner of her cell. Cold stone beneath her cheek, every inch of her throbbed.

And standing above her—two silhouettes, unmistakable even in the half-light—were Eris and Lucien.

Eris, w ith his sharp, sharp noble features and the kind of beauty that felt like something you shouldn't touch without permission. Hair like liquid fire, eyes like banked coals—bright, burning, impossible to read.

And Lucien. Disheveled, twitchy, stormy-eyed, pacing like a fox caught in a snare.

“Oh, hello…” Eris grinned at her, but the smile was a lie. 

His eyes cracked at the edges with pain, with rage he kept tucked behind his teeth. He crouched down beside her, knees bending slow and careful, and one long-fingered hand lifted to cradle her face with an almost shocking gentleness. His palm was warm. Dry. Real. She blinked up at him like she couldn’t believe he wasn’t a hallucination. 

“I’m going to give her the ability to resist the hazing spells,” he said over his shoulder, voice too calm, like he was speaking through his teeth. “Just enough to keep her mind.”

“Well, that’ll be stupid,” Lucien muttered from behind him, ducking into a crouch of his own. “Why don’t I just heal her deeper wounds?”

Eris didn’t turn around. His jaw clenched. “Because, you fool, if she heals too quickly, Amarantha will notice . ” The words snapped like a whip, and then Eris reached back and punched Lucien in the knee.

Lucien yelped. “Ugh—what the fuck—”

“I said,” Eris went on, unfazed, not even looking away from Gillie, “she’ll notice. And then what, Lucien? Do you want to see what she’ll do when she finds out someone’s been tampering?”

“Why did I even bother helping you see her if you won’t let me do what I came here to do?”

“Because if Gillie was in your hands,” Eris hissed, almost too low to hear, “she’d have it much worse.” It wasn’t for Lucien, not really, he said it like it was a curse aimed at himself.

He exhaled, rough and quiet, and leaned down closer to Gillie’s ear. His soft and silky hair brushed her cheek. The scent of him hit her nose, reminding her too vividly of how home felt like.

“I’m going to stitch you up a little, Blossom,” Eris whispered, barely audible over the sound of their shared breath. “Just enough so you don’t fall apart. But you have to pretend . Pretend you’re still high. Still theirs. Blink if you understand me.”

She blinked. Then nodded, slow, tiny, every movement screaming through her bones.

“Good girl,” Eris murmured, the words breaking softly on his tongue like a prayer that hurt to say. His thumb stroked her bruised cheek once. “Watch the door,” he barked at Lucien.

Lucien muttered something obscene but moved anyway, pressing his back to the stone wall near the threshold, watching through the slot of the iron door.

Eris inhaled sharply and placed his palm against her shattered nose. Gillie’s body stiffened, breath catching. She could feel the heat flood from his hand into her skin—deep, molten, tugging at the edges of her broken cartilage, like it was coaxing her flesh back together with needles made of fire and silk.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood.

But her eyes never left his.

***

Free of the magic that Amarantha had used to keep her mind fogged and her limbs slow, Gillie could finally listen again—really listen. Thanks to Eris, the haze that had dulled the edges of her thoughts was gone, peeled back like a scab from a wound. Every snatch of whispered plan she’d caught between screams and darkness, every Hybern plots and plans carved like runes into the marrow of her bones.

She repeated them to herself in the dark like a prayer, like music. Like a broken lullaby that she whispered into her curled palms before sleep, voice shaking, breath warm against the stone floor of her cell. She bled as she murmured them. Bled from wounds that hadn't closed, from gashes reopened every time a guard was bored or Amarantha decided Gillie needed “reminding.” The words came anyway. Names, locations, numbers of footsoldiers, of ships, dates, intentions. 

Eris came when he could, healed what wouldn’t raise suspicion. Bones back into place, deep cuts sealed. His magic was hot fire, elegant and passionate, and yet somehow it still felt like care.

Lucien had done the same for Feyre, until he got caught and nearly killed for it. The image of Lucien bloodied and limp burned behind her eyes even now. After that, she had begged Eris to step in for him to help Feyre, but he refused, said it was too dangerous. Said he'd rather play the long game with her, said he wouldn’t risk himself for a human girl who, in his words, “could break at any second.”

It had been cruel. Cruel and cutting, and Gillie had wanted to scream at him, to shake him and make him understand. But she didn’t, because deep down, he wasn’t wrong. They had Prythian to save, a future to fight for. And Feyre... Feyre barely understood what she was walking into. She didn’t know this world and maybe she didn’t even care if it burned.

***

Gillie’s eyes snapped open like she’d been slammed out of a nightmare.

Her back arched, ribs colliding with the copper rim of the tub, water sloshing over as she gasped and nearly choked on herbs and heat. A strange, bitter-tangy taste clung to her tongue—witchroot and rosemary, with undertones of something rich and earthy. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs, like it was trying to claw its way out of her chest.

She gripped her sides, breath rasping in her throat and blinked up into two pairs of eyes.

Two enormous smokehounds sat like twin statues beside the tub, unmoving and unblinking. Their fur looked spun from clouds of ash, thick and soft and curling around their long limbs. Their ears were pointed like spears, and their snouts rested on the edge of the tub, faces far too adorable for something so obviously capable of murder. Their eyes, though—deep, velvety blue, glowing faintly in the dim light—were full of strange awareness.

“Ah. You’re conscious.”

Eris’s voice drifted in like it belonged here, like he was simply part of the architecture of this place. He strolled into the room with a bundle of thick towels tossed over one arm, a bottle of deep red wine in the other, two crystal glasses dangling between his long fingers. He looked effortless, casually divine—his russet-red hair braided back from his face, shoulders wrapped in soft velvet robe the color of firelight.

Gillie let out a long, shuddering exhale and sagged into the bathwater. The herbal mix sloshed gently around her, steam curling from the surface, clinging to her skin in damp kisses. “I take it you brought me in after the witch was slaughtered?”

Eris gave her a dry look, smirking as he set the towels on a small side table. “Is that a genuine question, or did you catch dimwittedness from my little brother over the years?”

He poured wine into both glasses with a practiced hand, the rich, almost black liquid slithering into the cut crystal. Gillie snorted, too tired to fully roll her eyes.

With a low whistle, Eris signaled the hounds to move aside. They obeyed instantly, melting back into the room’s shadows. He took their place beside the tub, lowering himself with a languid grace, crossing his legs like this was just a casual sleepover they had plenty of when they were younger. Then he handed her one of the glasses.

“I took you in under the very noble excuse that my healer could serve you better. Autumn was barely touched, thanks to my father’s sleazy “loyalty” to Amarantha. Serving her was, in fact, the smartest thing he’s ever done—aside from conceiving me, of course.”

He lifted his glass in salute.

Gillie let out a dry, almost surprised laugh and clinked her glass against his. The wine hit her tongue in a dark, tart bloom.

“Tamlin was quite resistant to part with you however,” Eris added casually after a long sip.

Gillie winced, blinking slowly. “He was? How come?”

Eris gave her a knowing look. “Gillie, you’re his courtier.”

“He has plenty of those,” she muttered, waving him off with a lazy flick of her hand. Her arms draped over the edge of the tub, her hair soaking and curling like black grape vines down her back. “Besides, he’s got his shiny new human-turned-Fae bride to keep him busy, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Ouch. Is that a burn of jealousy I hear?” Eris’s smirk widened.

“I’m not jealous of her,” Gillie snapped, too quick, too sharp. “ Fuck . Her.” She exhaled hard, staring up at the ceiling. The tiles were golden, flecked with garnet, glowing faintly in the warm light. It smelled like cinnamon and crushed hawthorn, like bath oils and clean linen, and still, something in her chest itched and burned.

“Wow, Blossom…” Eris drawled, grinning. “There have been maybe two occasions in centuries where I’ve heard you swear. Once when you couldn’t get the hang of your fiddle composition—what was it called? ‘ Descent of Moonlight ,’ or something equally dramatic—and once when you took my cock for the first time.”

Gillie narrowed her eyes and splashed a handful of hot water in his direction.

“She must cause a lot of feelings in that pretty little head of yours,” he added, utterly unbothered, patting her damp hair like she was a sulky pup.

“You’re vile,” Gillie sighed with a smile.

“I’m delightful.” He leaned back on his hands and downed the last of his wine in one smooth gulp. “Hungry? I had food brought up for you. After your bath. And after the healer pokes at you a bit.”

“I’m surprised only the healer would poke me,” Gillie said, catching the innuendo, her voice curling slowly as she smirked, a single brow raised before she tipped her head back with a teasing wink.

Eris, ever the connoisseur of innuendos and her rare sparks of levity, bit his bottom lip, visibly pleased. His crooked little smile returned.

“You know I would never turn down an invitation,” he purred, voice low, head tilting in flirtation, “especially not during the holy opening hours of your divine legs.”

He leaned in closer, his elbows braced on either side of the bathtub. The way his chest rose with a slow inhale, the faint flush on his collarbone from the steam, the scent of wine and ginger curling around him like perfume.

“But—” he exhaled ,almost reluctantly. “We both know there won’t be any of that , because you, Blossom, are completely and disgustingly in love with your… High Lord? Friend? Mate…?” His eyes narrowed slightly, voice trailing off as he squinted at her like he was trying to pin her under a magnifying glass.

The playfulness drained from her face like water down a cracked glass. 

“Eris,” she said, voice barely a breath, her lips parting like she didn’t quite know what she was about to say until it was already too late.

“Don’t ask me how I know,” he interrupted gently, shaking his head. A lock of copper hair, damp with steam, clung to his cheekbone, he brushed it back with a casual hand, sighing. “Just keep the courtesy of trusting me to keep this secret for you, Blossom.”

“We’re not mates,” Gillie replied, but even her own ears caught the hollowness in her voice. Like she’d said it enough times to try to believe it, and yet—

Eris tilted his head, smiling with something that looked like pity. Though he tried to mask it with smugness, it didn’t quite land.

“You may not have acknowledged it,” he said, calm and maddeningly certain, “but since we’ve been close for centuries, I scented it on you the moment the stench of piss and vomit was washed off your gorgeous body.”

He pulled back slightly, refilling both their glasses with a smooth pour. The wine bled like ink into crystal. Then, with effortless flair, he balanced her glass on her chest, its cool stem resting just above her heart.

“I’m sorry, Blossom,” he murmured, raising his own glass before sipping. “That’s a wild fucking situation to find yourself in.”

As he leaned back to stretch, his robe slipped—soft crimson velvet sliding off his shoulder, baring skin kissed by firelight and marked with old scars. His body told stories he rarely ever voiced.

Gillie closed her eyes again, not to escape, but to soak in the moment. The scent of crushed mint leaves and copper-tinted water clung to her, but underneath it all was him . Earth and embers, the faint, addictive hum of Autumn magic just beneath his skin. Her muscles still ached, her ribs protested with every breath, and yet her mind had the gall to race—galloping toward thoughts she’d buried deep, thoughts with golden hair and haunted green eyes.

But despite the ache, despite the storm still waiting outside the walls of this bath, she felt safe. And that safety terrified her more than any whip ever had.

“Do you think he—” she started, but didn’t finish.

Eris nodded, slow and sure, his gaze gentled with something dangerously close to sympathy.

“Well,” Gillie muttered, her voice dry, “fuck.”

That made Eris laugh, loud and delighted, a sound that echoed against the tiled walls like something stolen from a more decadent world.

“Should I brace myself,” he grinned, “and start getting used to this new, vulgar way of speaking? All these filthy little gems falling from your pristine mouth?” He made a grand gesture, waving his hand at her like a particularly dramatic courtier.

Gillie laughed, cheeks flushed as she brought the wine to her lips and drank deeply. “Maybe,” she said, voice softer now, sleepier.

She tilted her head toward him, her eyes catching his in the steam-heavy air. Then, with a slow movement, she reached out, her fingers ghosting across his cheek and Eris leaned into the touch.

“Muzzle?”

“Yes, Blossom?” he whispered, his palm rising to cover hers, warm and careful.

“Thank you.” Her voice broke a little, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “Truly and genuinely… thank you for everything you do.”

Eris nodded, lips parting slightly as though he might speak, but he didn’t. He just held her hand there, breathing her in like he was trying to memorize her skin. Then, he lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed her knuckles.

“You’re my only friend, Blossom,” he said, voice low, hushed. “And you did plenty for me, back in the day. More than I can ever repay.”

He fidgeted with her fingers, as if trying not to hold on too tightly, as if knowing it would end too soon.

“And we both know,” his tone darkened, eyes flickering with that old fire, “there’s far, far more coming—for both of us. More to ask. More to lose.”

Gillie swallowed hard. That truth lingered in the room heavy, inescapable. Two people weren’t enough for the war they were planning to fight. Not by a long shot, but they were willing to try anyway.

“However,” Eris said suddenly, snapping out of the heaviness with a practiced smile, the warmth in it real this time. “You need to rest. Recover. Heal that beautiful, chaotic brain of yours. Only then will we come back to this conversation.”

Gillie nodded, her lips quirking upward despite herself.

Eris stood with fluid grace, tugging his robe up over his bare shoulder again as he turned away.

“Now go on,” he tossed over his shoulder with a smirk. “Get that juicy bum out of the bath—you’ve got a healer to suffer through and food to devour.”

Gillie snorted, sinking lower into the herbal water for one last moment of peace before she’d face the world again.

But her heart, traitorous fucker, was already no longer in this room.

Chapter Text

Tamlin tapped his taloned fingers against the edge of the round table, the rhythmic sound dull but tense in the quiet hum of the room. 

The sitting area, spacious and elegant, was drenched in warm, drowsy afternoon light that filtered in through tall windows, turning the carved wooden floors into honeyed gold. Dust motes hung suspended in the air like lazy snowflakes

Tamlin’s jaw was skewed, tight with thought and more than a flicker of irritation. His stare was locked on Eris, who lounged across from him with that maddening ease only Eris could wield like a weapon.

The eldest Vanserra brother was a picture of decadent arrogance. He was sprawled luxuriously, spine curved like a cat’s, his limbs taking up far more space than necessary as if he owned the room. One long leg was crossed over the other, resting unapologetically on the same table Tamlin tapped. His britches were sinfully snug, hugging the strong lines of his thighs and hips in a way that made it almost cruel, almost comical—especially for Tamlin, who noticed, unwillingly, exactly what Gillie could have been wrapped around, if not for the current consequences.

Eris idly spun one of Gillie’s pens between his fingers, a slow, taunting rotation of silver and bone. His dark burgundy coat hung over the back of his chair, discarded like he was at home here. His black shirt was mostly unbuttoned, baring a lean, golden chest mapped with soft curls of ginger hair. The embroidered vest still clinging to his shoulders glinted every time he moved, catching stray threads of light. When Eris stretched, his muscles flexed beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt indulgently, like he was enjoying being watched.

Gillie didn’t glance up though. She sat just slightly apart from the others, her legs curled beneath her on a wide velvet chair that swallowed her whole. Stacks of papers were spread in her lap and on the armrest, edges fluttering faintly in the breeze from the open balcony doors. Her fingers moved swiftly, sorting, eyes scanning. The sharp smell of ink mixed with the deeper, darker scent of dried herbs and perfumed oil on her skin. 

Eris was the first one to break the staring contest as his gaze slid from Tamlin to her, lingering.

“This is so awkward,” Lucien muttered, clearing his throat like it physically pained him to hear the silence stretch any longer. “I suggest we at least chat about the weather instead of sitting here like someone’s about to throw a knife. What is this, anyway? A pissing contest? Power game?” He snorted, throwing himself back into his chair with a thump and folding his arms like he wanted nothing to do with any of it.

“For the death of me, brother, I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Eris purred, still smiling, still deadly calm. His smirk deepened as he continued to drill Tamlin with it like a slow, burning match pressed to skin.

Tamlin leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table. His head tilted, a click of his tongue breaking the tension like the crack of a whip. His eyes never left Eris’s.

Gillie sighed, long and weary, like she was dealing with children. “All of you, just shut your traps, please,” she muttered. “I’m trying to decipher Lucien’s nasty handwriting.”

From a small leather pouch tied to the corset-belt cinched around her waist, she pulled a slim pair of glasses, the frames simple and dark. They caught the light as she slipped them on with a practiced touch—one hand holding her papers steady, the other bringing the lenses to her face.

Both Tamlin and Lucien went stiff, as if she'd suddenly grown a second head. They exchanged silent, frustrated glances.

“Ah, yes,” Eris drawled with open amusement. “She wears glasses now. You may both calm your hard-ons.”

Tamlin’s voice came after a long pause, tinged with something deeper, a tremor of alarm he couldn’t quite bury. “Since when?”

Gillie didn’t look up right away, but when she did, it was slow and intentional. She tilted her chin and looked directly at Tamlin through the faint shimmer of the lenses. Her voice didn’t waver, but something in her chest twisted all the same.

“Since Amarantha tortured me for months Under the Mountain,” she said. “And my eyesight didn’t quite heal, because my healing powers were stripped from me.”

The air dropped a degree. Tamlin’s entire body reacted as if her words hit him in the ribs. His shoulders tensed, fingers clenched into the wood, his breath caught in that unmistakable, choking way grief does when it ambushes you. His golden skin looked suddenly drained, paler, as if the memory rose up like bile and burned.

Gillie felt the pain roll off him like a wave she hadn’t meant to cause. It punched into her chest, and her throat went tight as she swallowed it down. Too late. The damage was already done.

Lucien sat forward, eyes soft and golden and full of guilt. “Gillie,” he said, and his voice cracked just a little. “I’m so sorry.” Then, after a pause, he added lighter “Although, I have to say…”

“You don’t have to,” Tamlin said coldly, his voice flat.

“You look incredibly attractive in those,” Lucien finished anyway, his grin tilted with that familiar reckless charm. 

Both Eris and Tamlin exhaled sharply, twin sounds of disapproval—one amused, one unamused. A low, guttural growl from Eris, almost a purr. From Tamlin, it was more like a crack in the earth.

Gillie just looked at Lucien with a soft unimpressed shake of her head. That subtle, disappointed shift of her eyes that said try again . Her fingers returned to the stack of papers on her lap, flipping through them with sharp precision. Crooked, rushed lines of Lucien’s godawful rushed handwriting crawled across the pages, full of last-minute scribbles and blotted ink. She squinted, exhaled hard through her nose, and slapped the parchment down in front of her with a kind of grim finality.

“And?” Tamlin jerked his chin toward the pages, voice taut, expectant, already braced for an answer he might not like.

Gillie rubbed at the bridge of her nose, glasses slipping slightly as she leaned back. Her head turned to Eris, the movement slow and deliberate.

“How fast can you infiltrate the Night Court?” she asked, voice too calm.

Eris winced, but it was subtle. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, a fleeting crease between his brows before his face smoothed over again into something cool, unreadable.

“Months…” he said after a beat. He didn’t sound confident, but Eris never looked uncertain. That was his trick. He could lie to the Mother herself and smile doing it.

Gillie nodded like she'd expected as much. Her fingers drummed lightly on the tabletop, rhythmic and tense.

Her eyes slid toward Tamlin. “How assured are you that Feyre is controlled by Rhysand?” she asked, voice flatter now, more pointed. The question hung in the air like a blade.

Tamlin’s head lifted slowly. His golden hair caught the light, but there was nothing warm about him. Not anymore. Not when it came to this .

She saw the flicker in his throat, the pulse behind his jaw.

“She is ,” he said simply, every word like a nail. “What else do you want me to say?”

Gillie didn’t reply, didn’t even blink at him. But her shoulders tensed, her mouth tightening. She’d heard that tone before—the finality in it, the unwillingness to entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so black and white.

Eris’s lips pursed, slow and thoughtful. That smile of his crept back like smoke curling under a door.

Tamlin’s gaze cut toward him like a whip. “What?” he snapped.

Eris shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. “Nothing,” he said, but his eyes glinted, dangerous.

“ Eris— ”

“It just hasn’t occurred to you even once,” Eris interrupted smoothly, “that she might be canoodling behind your back while you’re here—fretting, summoning meetings, pulling every connection you’ve got to try and rescue her from a bargain she might not even want to leave.”

His voice was soft. Mocking. Lethal.

The chair screeched violently across the rich mahogany floor as Tamlin shot to his feet, planting his hands on the table hard enough to rattle the inkwells and send a sheaf of papers fluttering to the ground.

Eris didn’t even flinch. He simply switched legs—right over left now—and settled even deeper into his chair, the very image of lazy defiance. The arch of his brow was pure provocation.

“You are talking about my— ”

“She’s a human,” Eris snapped back, cutting the sentence in half with a hiss, his voice sharp as broken glass.

“Technically,” Lucien chimed in, unusually calm amidst the rising temperature of the room, “she’s High Fae now.”

All heads turned toward him.

Lucien raised both palms in a half-hearted gesture of peace. “Obviously, with the new set of powers, she’s a… well, a delicious piece of pie for Rhysand.”

“Rhysand does love to collect powerful fae around him and his Court,” Eris nodded thoughtfully, picking invisible lint from his knee like this was all a fireside chat and not a slow descent into blood and ruin.

Tamlin’s talons flicked out and began drumming against the wood of the ancient table. The sound was grating.

Gillie hissed through her teeth. “Fucking hell .” She slapped her palms flat against the table, the sound cracking through the room like a whip. 

Everyone froze.

“Would you please sit down, my Lord,” she bit out, her voice low and laced with fury. “And get those talons off my mother’s table.”

Tamlin was caught completely off-guard by the fury, but didn’t move.

Gillie leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “It’s been a week since I renovated this fucking house,” she said, voice rising with each word. “And I am not looking forward to watching the lot of you destroy it just because your egos are slapping each other in the face like drunk ducks in heat.”

Silence followed, stunned.

Lucien covered a cough with his fist. Eris smothered a grin behind his fingers.

Tamlin blinked at her. Slowly, like the sound of her fucking hell still rang in his ears. It hadn’t even been the volume—just the audacity, the profanity, the tone. Gillie had never spoken to him like that. Not once, not even in private, not even when he’d deserved worse. She had always had a grace to her rage, a varnish of old-world diplomacy. But now? Now she wielded her authority like a blade, clean and sharp and utterly unapologetic.

Eris snorted, clearly enjoying the show. Lucien straightened in his seat as if she’d just pulled his name in a war draft. His eyes darted to the floor, checking the soles of his boots for mud like he’d personally offended her carpets.

Tamlin, visibly gathering the remains of his pride, slowly sank back into his chair. His movements were controlled, stiff with the effort it took not to explode. He folded his hands on his knees, like a chastised schoolboy trying to appear noble.

“And you,” Gillie snapped, lifting her glasses and pointing them at Eris like they were a weapon. “Get your damn feet off my table as well.”

The smirk vanished from Eris’s face like a flame doused in snowmelt. He blinked once, then—slowly, ever so dramatically—lowered his polished boots to the floor. His eyes never left hers. The look he gave her said she was out of her mind for thinking he took orders from anyone. But still, he obeyed.

Gillie cleared her throat, her voice leveling again. “Now,” she said, as if none of that had happened. “Feyre needs to train. She needs to learn how to use her powers.”

Tamlin went pale and then, just as fast, his expression twisted, darkened. Rage fell over his face like a storm front. The lines of his jaw sharpened, mouth flattening into a grim, bloodless line.

“Absolutely not,” he bit out cold.

“That wasn’t a question, my Lord ,” Gillie shot back, snorting—bitter and breathless—as she bit her lower lip, trying not to scream. Her anger pulsed in her ribs like a war drum.

“And I’m not asking, Gillie. This is final.” His arms crossed like gates locking tight. A slow, lethal stillness settled over him, and he stared her down with all the obstinance of an ancient oak refusing to fall.

Gillie stared back, not blinking. 

“Out. Both of you,” she murmured to Lucien and Eris, her voice a quiet blade.

Lucien rose first, murmuring something about “space” under his breath. 

Eris rolled his eyes dramatically, gesturing like he was waving away smoke. “Let’s give this some room,” he muttered, lips twitching into a grin. He dragged Lucien out with him, and the doors closed with a dull click that left the sitting room heavy.

Gillie leaned back into her chair, arms crossed to mirror Tamlin’s posture. The standoff was thick between them—years and heat and betrayal stitched into the silence.

“What are you doing?” she asked after a moment, squinting at him. Her voice was quieter now, but it cut deeper.

Tamlin arched a brow, and the light hit his face just right—unmasked, untouched. It still startled her sometimes, that face. That devastating, golden beauty that hadn’t faded a bit, not even after fifty years of grief and horror. He looked young, untouched by time, like the world had ended and restarted and he’d walked through the fire and come out looking the same.

“I can protect her,” he said, low and firm.

Gillie actually laughed . It burst from her as she stood, disbelieving and furious.

“No. You cannot ,” she said, pacing toward the tall windows, her boots silent on the polished floor. “This is too big even for you. You can’t expect to save her from the wrath of a full-on war, my Lord.”

She paused at the glass. Outside, the garden shimmered in full bloom—poppies and dog roses, vines crawling up stone columns like they were trying to flee the heat. In the distance, she spotted Lucien and Eris, they strolled in brooding silence while Eris cursed at a bee that had landed on his collar. He slapped at the air, cursing the Spring Court sun like it was a personal attack.

Gillie’s gaze softened for only a breath before she turned back.

“Feyre has immense powers,” she said. “And she may help us in the long run, if she’s trained right. She is your Lady , Tamlin. She should be involved in what’s happening here. This is her Court too.”

Tamlin narrowed his eyes, his voice lowering with venom. “That makes her your Lady too. And yet, you still treat her like a fragile human doll.”

Gillie whipped her gaze back at him, the fury snapping in her spine like a drawn bow.

“You are my Lord,” she said, voice trembling with restraint. “But don’t think for a second that I won’t slap that smug expression clean off your face if you need to be taught some sense.”

Her hands were shaking with pressure, with everything she’d held back for ages.

“I’ve been silent, I’ve been obedient. Far too long,” she hissed. “I don’t have time for pleasantries anymore. And let’s not forget—you came here for my help, not the other way around. Just like centuries ago, when you begged for my return and servitude to your lordship.”

She stepped forward, chin lifting. “If you don’t want to listen to what I say, just ask me to resign. Right now. Save us both the trouble.”

Tamlin tilted his head, a tight, uncomfortable smile twisting at his lips. “Would you like to resign?”

“I’d like you to pull your head out of your ass and step over your pride,” she snapped. “And Ianthe ?” she added, biting out the name like it tasted of bile. “Really, my Lord ? That snake shouldn’t be anywhere near you or Feyre— especially not her.”

“You’re forgetting yourself, Gillie,” Tamlin snapped, the words cutting through the space between them like they carried teeth. His voice was low, strained through his clenched jaw, but the threat beneath it pulsed like a second heartbeat.

And Gillie—Gillie laughed. It was bitter, breathless, sharp with disbelief.

Tamlin’s face twisted. “What’s so amusing to you?” he barked, the words half a growl.

She didn’t answer at first. Just tilted her head, that same knowing expression slowly spreading across her face—like she was looking at a male unraveling and trying to pretend he wasn’t.

He grimaced, the golden hue of his skin catching the pale sunlight that slanted in through the window. “We all did what we could,” he said, voice rising as if trying to shove the blame out of his own lungs. “I needed someone to help Feyre. To help me rebuild something out of the fucking ashes Amarantha left behind.”

He stepped away from the table, pacing now, the edge of his boot scuffing lightly against the newly refinished floors. His shoulders were rigid, muscles twitching beneath the fabric of his tunic. “My people were fractured, I was barely holding them together. We patrol more now. More bodies. Bigger numbers. More blood. The land is still sick with her filth, the creatures she left behind crawling out from the dirt like rot. Every day, we deal with something else. Every day, I have enough work piled on me for my head to explode.”

His chest was rising and falling fast, fury pouring out of him in waves. “And into that , Gillie—into that —you expect me to throw Feyre? Train her to fight? To stand on the front lines?”

He turned to her again, eyes flashing with something sharp and vulnerable and furious. “I will not put my Lady at risk. You know this. You know it.” His voice dropped, but it didn’t soften. “There are obligations for every person in this Court. And hers —” he spat the word like it burned his tongue “—is to live her life the way she pleases, under the protection of her husband.”

That last word lingered in the air like the last crack of thunder before the silence.

Gillie stood still, arms folded across her chest, watching him. Her face had gone unreadable. Like she’d heard everything and wasn’t surprised by any of it.

Like she’d known he’d say exactly that. She let the silence sit. Let it settle between them like dust over something long abandoned. Then, very quietly, she said, “And what if she wants to protect you ?”

Tamlin’s words seemed final. He said them like stone, like law—but Gillie only heard the rot beneath. It sounded foul to her. Wrong in a way that made her skin crawl.

“You can’t lie to yourself and expect everyone around you to take it as truth,” she said, her voice low. Her head shook once, slow and deliberate. “Ianthe is not someone you keep close. She shouldn’t be trusted. And if you could just—” she exhaled through her nose, frustrated, tired “—if you could just accept Feyre for who she is, help her accept herself, that would bring her comfort. That would do more than anything Ianthe could offer. Haven’t you thought of that?”

Tamlin flinched like she’d struck him. “What was I supposed to do?” he snapped, the sharp rise of his voice lashing between them like a whip. He stood, his posture stiff and too straight, fists clenched at his sides. “Tell me, Gillie!”

His chest rose and fell fast, the lines of his neck pulled tight. “You were gone for months in Autumn. Then you came back only to move out again and bury yourself in this damned house, putting gold on bones, pretending you weren’t avoiding me or your past. And now—every time I need you—I have to send for you, or drag myself here like I’m some twig under your heel and you’re the High Lady.”

Gillie gasped. Her laugh followed, brittle and disbelieving. “That’s not how it is,” she said, but even to her ears, it didn’t sound solid enough.

“You said you’d be there for me,” he growled, voice breaking on the words. “But you weren’t. I needed you. And instead, I felt like shit sending ravens to Autumn, begging your lover for an audience with my own damned courtier.”

Gillie’s brows lifted, her lips curled into something bitter, amused, incredulous. “ My lover? ” she repeated, the word rolling out of her mouth like she was tasting it and finding it sour.

Tamlin looked away, his jaw working. “Gillie…” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying.” He sat again, hands on his thighs like he didn’t know where else to place them. He looked like a male trying to gather up pieces of a self that had long since cracked.

“You were broken. Sick. I wouldn’t bother you, not then. And I needed someone. She needed someone. I remembered how you used to pray, how you found peace in it. I thought maybe Ianthe could give her that, teach her about Prythian... our ways.”

“You could have done it yourself,” Gillie said softly.

And the look he gave her then was almost disgust. Almost fear. As if the idea itself was too intimate, too exposing.

“Right,” she whispered. “Of course. No time for that . Unless, of course, you trained her, let her join your patrols…”

“And then what, huh, Gillie?” he snarled, voice rising. “Fight in the war too? Would you be the one to hand her the sword? Or should I?”

His roar cracked through the sitting room, loud enough to shake the glass in the windows. Dust fell in threads from the ceiling. Outside, in the garden, Eris’s head snapped toward the house. Lucien followed, squinting up at the windows, trying to see past the lace curtains.

Gillie exhaled sharply through her nose and stormed to the window, grabbing the heavy deep green velvet curtain and yanking it closed, sealing them inside the storm of their conversation. She turned back, fire blazing in her eyes.

“I would ,” she said, her voice a match striking against his. “Because my father was a piece of shit who believed females didn’t fight. Because I had to kneel before your fucking abuser of a brother and then before Amarantha.”

Her chest rose in short, furious breaths. She pointed at him like the fury was physically too much to keep inside. “You wanted to teach me to wield Caelan’s sword once. Why not teach her ?”

Tamlin made a sound—half-scoff, half-exhale—as he straightened again. He was about to speak when her hand suddenly moved, landing softly, instinctively on her stomach.

Gillie froze.

And so did he.

Tamlin’s expression shifted. His eyes fell to her belly, to the soft way her palm rested there, even though there was nothing there anymore. He blinked and ran a hand over his own torso, like something in him mirrored the jolt she’d just felt. Like her pain had bled into him through some cord neither of them acknowledged.

He cleared his throat and looked away, but the silence that followed was heavier than any of his shouting.

“None of that ,” Gillie said sharply, her voice shaking now, thick with fury and something deeper. She meant the mating bond. The one they never spoke of. The thread they both pretended didn’t exist. Tamlin’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t answer.

She turned to the curtain again, gathering it in one hand as if it were a shield.

“I’ll stop by for dinner,” she said with finality, voice brittle but steady. “Try not to trash the library. I loved that place. Lucien told me about the study.”

She pulled the curtains wide open.

Outside, on the bench in front of the window, Eris and Lucien were very obviously pretending to look anywhere but into the house. Lucien had his head tilted toward the sky like he was marveling at the clouds. Eris, dramatically unimpressed by the sun, had a hand shielding his eyes, lips curled into the shadow of a smirk.

Gillie didn’t say a word. She only gave them both a look.

Lucien shrank. Eris grinned wider.

And inside her sitting room, Tamlin was left alone in the heat of his own choices, silent and simmering, as Gillie turned her back on him and walked out.

Chapter Text

The dining room was thick with heat from the rage that licked the walls, tangible and suffocating. The arguments echoed off high ceilings, bouncing between tall windows glazed with early morning light, the soft clink of untouched silverware and goblets a stark contrast to the venom being flung like blades.

Tamlin’s voice collided with Lucien’s, Gillie’s with Ianthe’s—shouts layered over shouts until the room practically vibrated with it.

“They will hunt her. And kill her,” Ianthe hissed, her words sharp and glittering like broken glass. Her robes, moon-pale and flowing, rippled as she leaned toward Lucien, as if her proximity could make her argument more lethal. Her lips curled.

Lucien snarled, low and guttural, his voice fraying at the edges. “They’ll do it anyway, so what’s the difference?”

The table shook slightly when he slapped his palm down, wine sloshing in its glass. His knuckles were white, eyes glowing a dangerous gold.

“The difference,” Ianthe snapped back, her composure cracking at last, “lies in us having the advantage of this knowledge—” Her teeth bared. “It won’t be Feyre alone who is targeted for the gifts stolen from those High Lords. Your children,” she said, voice twisting with something Gillie couldn’t quite name as she turned to Tamlin, “will also have such power.”

Tamlin stilled like a statue.

Ianthe went on, her voice sugar-sweet now, deceptively gentle. “Other High Lords will know that. And if they do not kill Feyre outright, then they might realize what they stand to gain if gifted with offspring from her, too.”

Gillie’s stomach flipped. Her mouth tasted of ash, bitter and cloying at once. The implications slid into her bloodstream like ice, and for a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

“If they were to do that,” she said, voice tight, “none of the other High Lords would stand with them. They would face the wrath of six courts bearing down on them. No one is that stupid.”

She said it because she needed to believe it. Needed it to be true. That the courts still had some order. That the old rules—if nothing else—still held.

“Rhysand is that stupid,” Ianthe spat. She said his name like it was filth in her mouth. “And with that power of his, he could potentially withstand it.”

Gillie blinked hard. A chill crept across her spine despite the fire burning at her back.

“Imagine,” Ianthe went on, quieter now, her tone curdling into something that made Gillie’s skin crawl, “a day might come when he does not return her. You hear the poisoned lies he whispers in her ear.”

She shifted closer to Tamlin again, her voice silk and rot. “There are other ways around it,” she added, almost tenderly, as if sharing a secret in a lover’s bed. “We might not be able to deal with him, but there are some friends that I made across the sea…”

The pause she left was deliberate. Heavy. Loaded.

“We are not assassins,” Lucien cut in, sharp as a blade.

His chair scraped as he sat forward, his eyes lit with fury, with helplessness, from too many sleepless nights and walking on the edge.

“Lucien is right,” Gillie said, voice low but steady. Her nails dug crescents into her palm beneath the table. “Rhysand is what he is, but who would take his place—”

The sentence dangled, unfinished, because they all knew that replacing one monster with another rarely brought peace.

Lucien didn’t stop, didn’t even hesitate. His voice shifted, less fire now, more pleading, a male trying to hold together a dam with bloodied hands. “Tamlin. Tam. Just let her train, let her master this—if the other High Lords do come for her, let her stand a chance…”

Gillie reached across the table. Her hand found Lucien’s arm, fingers wrapping around the tensed muscle. A silent I’m with you , and her thumb brushed softly.

Tamlin didn’t speak right away. He stared at the flames dancing in the hearth, brows pulled low, his expression unreadable. The silence that followed was a beast all its own—waiting, coiled, ready to strike.

When he finally did speak, his voice was nearly a growl, so rough it scraped against the air. “No.” The word slammed into the room like a fist. “We give them no reason to suspect she might have any abilities, which training will surely do.” His gaze flicked to Lucien like a whip. “Don’t give me that look.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty and swollen with disappointment, with rage caged too tight in the chest.

Gillie could feel it simmering in Lucien’s pulse beneath her fingers, she sat back slowly, her hand dropping from his arm. Her heart thudded low and hard in her chest, her skin hot with frustration, her mouth dry with things she couldn’t say in front of her —that festering, smirking presence across the table.

Tamlin’s eyes were still locked on the fire. Like if he stared long enough, it might burn away the choice he didn’t want to make, but the decision had already been made and they all felt it.

“This is a hot pile of horseshit, Tam!” Lucien barked, his voice splitting through the air like a whipcrack. And suddenly he was struck against the wall, hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster. The impact reverberated through the floorboards just as Tamlin’s own snarl ripped through the room—raw, animalistic, and laced with magic that shuddered out like a shockwave. The walls groaned. The chandelier overhead swayed, its crystals chiming like warning bells.

Power snapped through the air, sharp and cold like lightning. Something cracked and a pane of glass in the far window, spiderwebbed with hairline fractures from the surge.

“You have gone mad!” Gillie shouted, her voice just as blistering, fierce and shaken with something deeper—betrayal, fear, fury—all of it pounding like war drums in her ribcage. The moment her words hit him, Tamlin flinched. His face twisted as if her anger— her pain—had punched directly into his gut. The bond pulsed hot between them, wild and sickening, echoing with the same thunder her heart was making in her chest.

She didn’t hesitate. Gillie darted to Lucien, who had fallen to one knee, his hand splayed on the floor like he was trying to hold the house still with his bare fingers. She dropped beside him, gripping his arm and curling under his shoulder to help him rise. His body was trembling, not just from pain but from the sheer velocity of Tamlin’s outburst.

“Stop pretending that all is alright, my Lord!” she snarled up at him, voice thick with defiance. “We are not at fault for your own blindness!”

Tamlin’s chest rose, fell. He shook his head once, almost too slow. His knuckles cracked at his sides. “Do not push me on this,” he said, and his voice had dropped to a lethal hush. 

“Or… what?” Gillie spat. Her hands gripped Lucien’s shoulders tightly. Her face turned sharply toward Tamlin, and the look she gave him was pure contempt—unfiltered and burning hot enough to scald. “Will you hurt me too?”

The disgust in her voice rang like a slap before she even moved.

Tamlin’s expression broke. He looked at his hands. Looked at them like they were foreign. Like he didn’t know what they were anymore. The light of the room flickered in his eyes, a strange gleam of green and gold and shame.

Gillie’s gut twisted. That bond between them flared, and she felt it— his guilt rushing in like a flood breaking loose. Sticky, choking. A sick kind of sorrow pressing up into her throat. It was seeping through her skin, burrowing into her bones.

She blinked at him, trying to breathe through it. Her voice came out hoarse, trembling, as if barely hanging onto control. “I think you need to breathe, my Lord,” she whispered, fingers still gripping Lucien, her nails faintly biting into the fabric of his tunic. Her pulse was thundering in her ears. 

Behind Tamlin, a familiar purr rose like a thread of smoke.

“You shouldn’t talk like that to our Lord, Gillie,” Ianthe cooed, her voice all honey and poison. She stood too close, draped behind Tamlin’s shoulder like a specter, her pale hand nearly brushing his arm.

Gillie’s lip curled, her whole body recoiling from the sound of her voice. She opened her mouth, fury blistering across her tongue. “It is—”

“Lady Vaelaris, for you, Ianthe,” Tamlin snapped over his shoulder, voice clipped and sharp. “Please step out of the room,” he added and his command dropped like a stone into silence.

Ianthe blinked. Her lips pressed into a thin, displeased line, but she dipped her head, movement fluid and overly graceful. “My Lord,” she said, too smooth, too composed. She turned with a swirl of pale blue robes that clung and floated around her like mist, trying and failing to conceal the rotting ambition under her skin.

She floated toward the door like she was made of glass and air, but not before cutting Gillie a venomous glare, her mouth curling in a smirk meant to wound. Her eyes slid over Lucien like she was marking him. 

Gillie’s jaw tensed.

Lucien rubbed his temple, fingers trembling faintly. He gave Gillie a look—something in it both grateful and apologetic—and then pressed his hand to her shoulder in a wordless reassurance. 

He turned to Tamlin then. Met his eyes, bowed his head in a gesture that looked far more like surrender than loyalty.

Lucien left, the door clicked closed behind him.

Gillie remained. Her breath came too fast, her lungs fighting to hold it all in. The guilt pumping out of Tamlin was blistering , boiling through the bond like molten gold. Her chest felt too tight, her heart too full of things that didn’t belong to her.

I’m sorry, Gillie. I’m so sorry. I love you, I’m sorry. I hurt him, I’m nothing. I should have been dead, I love you, I can’t. What is happening, please don’t go. Please stay, I need you, Gillie. Gillie! Please! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt him! I wanted to protect both of you! Protect… I… Protect protect I love you!

The voice in her head—his voice—came not in words but in screams, in a roar of panic and self-loathing and desperation. Her skull ached with it. Her temples pounded, her vision blurred. It was too much—his fear, his sorrow, his love—smashed into her like a tidal wave with no warning. It tore through her like a storm that didn’t care if it left anything behind.

“Stop—” she whispered, but the word was drowned by his heartbeat, his panicked chanting slamming through the bond.

Her feet moved before her thoughts caught up. She crossed the room in four furious strides, her boots landing hard on the polished floor. Her entire body was trembling with rage, and grief, and exhaustion, and his everything invading hers.

Then she struck him.

Her hand connected with his face in a sharp, clean slap that echoed louder than anything said in the last ten minutes. Tamlin staggered half a step, head whipping to the side. A mark already blooming across his cheek.

“Snap out of it!” she gasped, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “Stop it! Just—fucking stop!”

Her chest was heaving, her hand still shaking in the air between them. And he—he just stood there. Staring at the floor like it might explain what he’d become.

Tamlin was breathing like he’d just broken the surface after nearly drowning, air scraping into his lungs in desperate, gasping pulls. His chest heaved, his ribs visibly straining under the pressure, like if he stopped now, he might sink again and never come back up.

And then—quiet.

Suddenly her head went still. His voice, his guilt, the fevered spiral of emotions he'd been pouring through the bond like a broken dam— gone . It didn’t snap away it slowly quietted, like a fist unclenching. The space inside her skull became her own again.

Tamlin looked up at her, his expression wrecked in a new, different way. More raw than when her palm had cracked across his cheek. His eyes, wide and stunned, locked on hers like she was something impossible.

“You heard—” he rasped, voice breaking like a frayed string. “You heard me.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Tamlin winced, like something inside him had turned against itself. He stumbled backwards and collapsed into a chair like his knees had finally given out. His hands went to his head, trembling, claws out now without him realizing. His breath caught in shallow gasps, chest stuttering.

“Stupid,” he hissed, slapping his temple with his palm. “Stupid. Stupid—”

Gillie took a step forward, but he didn’t stop.

He clawed at his face, not deep, but enough to leave raised welts blooming across his skin. “Useless, fucking prick—” His voice cracked on the word, full of venom aimed squarely at himself. His head bowed until his forehead pressed into his hands. “Useless…” he whispered, again and again, until the word lost all shape.

“Tamlin,” she whimpered, barely above a breath, her voice broke as her tears finally fell, cutting hot lines down her cheeks. She could taste salt on her lips, her lungs ached, but he didn’t hear her. Or couldn’t. He was collapsing into himself, guilt and despair pulling him under.

So she crossed to him.

Gillie laid her hand gently on his trembling shoulder. His skin was fever-warm beneath the fabric of his tunic. His breathing hitched at the touch, like her presence had pierced the haze around him. And then, slowly, Tamlin reached for her. He curled into her like it was his last breath.

He pulled her closer until his face was pressed to her stomach, his arms wrapping around her waist with a kind of frantic desperation. He shuddered with every breath, clutching the bodice of her dress in white-knuckled fists.

I’m sorry. His voice, again in her head this time, not shouted, not panicked… Broken. 

Gillie flinched at the intimacy of it, at the raw vulnerability. I’m here , she said back across the bond, the words soft and quiet as a breeze brushing through leaves.

“I’m here,” she whispered aloud, her hands finding his hair, stroking it softly with open palms and trembling fingers. “I’m here.”

Tamlin fell apart in her arms. He gasped for breath between sobs that wracked his frame. His shoulders convulsed, every exhale dragging like glass through his throat. His tears soaked through the fabric of her dress, warm and silent and endless. Gillie only held him tighter. Her arms wrapped around his bent spine, moving his body gently from side to side, rocking him in comfort. She started to hum it without realizing. A song from so long ago it felt like it belonged to another lifetime, a tune Tamlin’s mother had once sung, her voice soft and warm as she pressed it into the swell of her belly, when Gillie was pregnant with Caelan’s babe.

She blinked, a fresh wave of tears flooding her eyes.

“Come on,” she murmured once his sobs began to slow, though he still trembled with every breath. Her fingers moved to unclutch his hands from the fabric of her dress and he didn’t resist.

She took his hand—cold, shaking, callused—and led him wordlessly from the dining room.

The hallway was vast and empty, each of their footfalls echoing in dull thuds. The air felt thicker here, quieter, more sacred somehow. When they reached the threshold of Tamlin’s bedchambers, she stopped and turned to him.

“In,” she said, gesturing.

Tamlin blinked, dazed, like he barely knew where he was, but obeyed, stepping inside as if unsure whether he belonged in his own space.

Gillie closed the door behind them.

The fire was already burning low in the hearth, throwing shadows across the soft furs of the bedspread, the heavy curtains, the carved wooden frame. She kicked off her boots without and loosened the laces at the front of her bodice. She climbed onto the bed and sat against the headboard, half-reclined, then patted her lap.

Tamlin just looked at her for a moment and then—he exhaled. Like the weight of all of Prythian had been resting on his chest and her lap was the only place it could be set down.

He stripped off his boots, tugged the baldric off his chest and let it fall to the floor with a soft clatter, then crossed the room in a few slow steps.

Tamlin crawled onto the bed and curled into her. His head nestled in her lap, his arms found her waist and wrapped around her like she was the only solid thing left in a world that kept slipping through his fingers. His weight settled heavy and warm against her, grounding them both.

And Gillie suddenly felt that jolt of comfort, like something inside her heart had clicked into place. Like she’d been holding her breath and only now remembered how to release it.

She laid her hand on his tousled hair, fingers weaving through the golden strands, brushing across his temple, his jaw, his cheek. Her other hand came down to rest on his shoulder, thumb moving in slow circles. He trembled again. Small, tight flinches, but she stayed.

Eventually, the tension in his grip softened, his arms loosened. His breath evened out, turning more rhythmic, deeper, slower. Tamlin fell asleep with his face pressed to the warmth of her body, as if he could still hear the lullaby echoing there.

Gillie felt the wet spot where his tears had soaked through her dress begin to cool against her skin. She shifted, just slightly, to get comfortable, to soothe the ache building in her spine and then she exhaled too.

She rested her head against the wall behind the bedframe and let her fingers continue their slow movement through his hair.

For the first time in days, the house was silent.

Chapter Text

The nights had become quieter since Feyre vanished, but the quiet was the kind that hummed, like poison, like a storm brewing behind drawn curtains. The manor hadn’t taken a breath since the day she was abducted, and neither had Tamlin.

He didn’t sleep, not if Gillie stayed.

Some nights, she found him in the chair near the cold hearth, shoulders curved like a crumbling statue, eyes glassy and far, far away. Other times, he was on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, knuckles bone-white, spine bowed as though guilt had wrapped both fists around his throat. She never said much in those moments. She’d just sit beside him, her fingers brushing through the messy halo of his golden hair, tracing the curve of his neck with slow, gentle touches. Like her presence might remind him he was still here, still breathing, still made of flesh and bone.

Some nights, she’d hum—old Spring Court lullabies that had once been sung to her by her maid. Others, she’d simply lie beside him until the rigid line of his back softened and his breathing slowed. Until his body stopped fighting rest. Until his jaw slackened and his demons curled back into the shadows, at least for a while.

And then, when he finally drifted off, Gillie would slip from his bed and return to a desk in his room, to her scrolls and letters and maps of courts that weren’t hers, but needed to be saved as much as the Spring. Her candles flickered low as she worked, the scent of lavender wax mingling with ink and parchment and Tamlin’s rigid breathing while he was tight asleep behind her.

The letter from Tarquin came in the dead of night. It was sealed in pale blue wax, the edges water-warped as if it had been hurriedly sealed with wet fingers. Her stomach dropped before she even broke it open.

Rhysand requested permission to visit with his people.

Gillie read it twice, then again, and felt the world tilt just slightly under her chair. She pressed her lips into a tight line and blinked up at the dark window across the room. The stars were veiled behind clouds. It was one of the rare nights she had spent in her own home, so the walk towards Tamlin’s manor gave her enough time to prepare her words carefully.

She found Tamlin pacing in the garden at sunrise, the dew not even soaking into his boots. Just one long track in the gravel. Back and forth. His magic buzzed in the soil like an angry swarm. Something feral crouched in his spine. She didn’t hesitate.

"We should allow it," she told him plainly, the letter clutched in his hand, creased now from the tension in Tamlin’s fingers. “For the sake of information. If Rhysand’s making a move, you need to know why. You need to see how he’s playing this.”

Tamlin’s face twisted, the muscles in his jaw ticking. “He won’t touch her,” he growled, voice thick and low and dangerous. “He’s manipulating her—she’s not herself.”

Gillie tilted her head. “Maybe. Maybe not. But ignoring what’s in front of you isn’t going to bring her back.” Her words cut sharper than she meant them to, but he needed someone to say it. “You’re choosing blindness. That’s not strength. That’s surrender. This isn’t about Feyre, this is about Prythian. If you want us to have any chance in this war, you should let go and lean on the information we get from our allies.”

He didn’t answer. Just turned his back on her and kept walking.

Time passed. Too much of it, and too little. Gillie waited for more word from Tarquin. When it came, it was worse than expected. Not just a visit. Not just tea and conversation and curiosity.

Feyre was being paraded. Alone. Unattached. Laughing in gold and blue beside the Summer Court’s High Lord like she had no fiance, no past, no war behind her.

Gillie read the letter aloud to Tamlin, who was seated at his desk this time, hands gripping the edge so tightly the wood cracked beneath his fingers.

“She’s flirting with him?” he barked, like the words themselves were poison on his tongue.

“She’s making moves,” Gillie said quietly, carefully. She stepped closer, the letter dangling at her side like it had burned her hand. “Tarquin said she was charming. Said she asked him about his armies. His powers. She’s not some helpless puppet anymore, Tamlin. She’s playing the game.”

“No,” he said, voice raw. “No, it’s all mind control. It’s Rhysand. He’s using her. He’s making her do this.”

“You’re still not listening,” Gillie snapped, unable to swallow the sharpness this time. “You are still so damn stubborn, you refuse to see what’s right in front of your damned face. You think everything’s still about her? It’s not.”

Tamlin’s eyes lifted, green-gold and wild with something like rage or grief.

She softened her voice. “I’m sorry, but there is no way to get her back if she is feeling like home in someone else’s embrace.”

There was a long, aching silence.

Then, he looked at her, really looked at her, like maybe for the first time since Feyre left. “I need you here at all times.”

It wasn’t a question. But it wasn’t a command, either. Gillie stood there for a breath, two. The breeze stirred her hair across her cheek, and she felt, for a moment, like it might be easier to float away with it than to stay.

But she nodded. “Alright.”

She took her old rooms the next morning. Everything in her bedchambers and her study was the way she left it, neatly organized and cleaned. Everything besides a bouquet of wildflowers on her desk and a couple of new romance novels on her bedside. 

Later that day, Lucien joined them for a council meeting, though calling it that felt generous, considering how quickly the air turned heavy, stale with tension and the scent of wine and old paper. Tamlin’s study, still sun-warmed from the late afternoon heat spilling in through the tall windows, was crammed full of bodies and fraying nerves. Gillie leaned against the wall at first, arms crossed, silent and watchful.

A couple of sentries had come too—old warband friends from Tamlin’s youth, now polished into nobility. Gillie had only known them by names scrawled in formal correspondence or brief mentions in Lucien’s letters. Five males in total. Each of them had been given cities to hold after Tamlin rose as High Lord, and each wore their authority like second skin. They were a jagged collection of backgrounds and tempers, with only one of them—Rihard—truly Spring Court born.

Rihard sat stiffly in the wooden chair closest to Tamlin. His hair was long, thick and red like coals that never quite cooled, tied back with a leather strap, and his blue eyes were so sharp they felt like they could strip you down to the bone. The way he spoke was rough, his cadence just a bit slower, almost musical in a way that didn’t quite match the others. A farmer’s son, Gillie remembered from his file, raised on the border with the Autumn Court, his vowels still touched with the lilt of mountain wind and hard-earned bread. There was earth in him, she thought. Soil beneath the fingernails and sun-stained knuckles, despite the velvet tunic and the gold pin on his shoulder.

Leandro was next—sleek, composed, and almost too beautiful to be real. Day Court through and through. His skin was bronze-gold, smooth like oiled wood, lighter than Lucien’s flame-kissed complexion but deeper than Tamlin’s fair one. His braided black hair grazed his shoulders with deliberate elegance, each plait tight and gleaming. When he smiled—and he did, often—it lit up his whole face. Dimples appeared like mischief carved into warm cheeks, and the tiny beauty mark under his left eye nearly tangled in the sweep of his thick lashes. His eyes—russet, rich as fresh-cut mahogany—followed Gillie with curiosity whenever she spoke like he couldn’t quite pin her down.

Leandro’s twin, Ellio, sat beside him in quiet contrast. Similar face—same eyes, same fine bone structure—but where Leandro gleamed, Ellio dimmed. His hair was cropped short and neat, no decoration, no fuss. He didn’t speak, didn’t even lift his gaze much, just toyed silently with a throw knife, the blade glinting between his fingers with dangerous boredom. Still, he listened, every twitch of his knife matched a shift in conversation, like his body spoke for him.

Across from them lounged Patrik. He had the kind of resting expression that made people assume he hated everyone—his jaw tight, dark brows forever drawn. He was taller than the rest, broader too, and his chestnut hair was long but tamed, an undercut on the sides with braids coiled tight at his temples and the rest flowing down his back like poured ink. But when he finally spoke—low, smooth, and with a strange buttered syllable twist—Gillie blinked in surprise. That soft Autumn Court accent curled around his words like smoke, and it made her stomach twist with something unnamable.

And then there was Miro. Mother above, Miro looked like he’d stepped out of a blizzard and hadn’t thawed. His hair was the color of ash, white as bone, and his skin pale like moonlit alabaster. His eyes—icy blue and utterly unreadable—swept over the map with a calm that Gillie found difficult to ever trust. He stood beside Tamlin, arms behind his back, his posture militaristic but not stiff. The way he explained his troop formations was laconic and efficient. There was no warmth in his voice, no emotion, just facts, clean and sharp. He was of Winter Court origin, yet here he was, discussing hypothetical allegiances, even if Kallias might side against them. It didn’t sit right. None of it did.

When the meeting finally ended, and the others filed out one by one—Leandro with a wink, Ellio without a glance, Rihard nodding politely—Gillie stayed with Tamlin, surrounded by the chaos left behind. The long oak table was a mess of discarded goblets, slumped bottles of wine, crumpled maps, and notes smeared with ink and fingerprints. Candle wax had pooled onto the wood, long cooled into pale crusts. It smelled of old wood, spiced wine, worn leather, and something faintly metallic beneath it all. 

Gillie remained standing, her hands braced against the edge of the table, fingers digging in as if she might keep herself steady by force alone. Her voice cracked.

“We have to make a choice,” she said, eyes fixed on the edge of the map. “And there aren’t any good ones. We need to do what we have to do.”

Her throat seized halfway through. The words soured on her tongue like spoiled fruit. She swallowed, hard and sharp, trying to will it down. Her fingers curled tighter into the wood.

“There’s no good way to say this,” she added, softer. “We have to strike a deal with Hybern. And it’s not about Feyre anymore.”

Tamlin sighed, leaned back in his chair, rubbing the heel of his palm into his temple. The whole room was stained with his unrest.

“And if it is about Feyre,” he said slowly, “then what?”

Gillie flinched, her jaw tightened.

“Then it’s about her,” she snapped, heat flaring in her voice before she could pull it back. “And he’ll help you anyhow. For the old times’ sake.”

Tamlin lifted his gaze to her, head tilted. Something unreadable flickered across his face.

“What if I’m right?” he asked, too quietly. “What if I’m right and Rhys is manipulating her? Controlling her with his powers?”

Gillie rolled her eyes, the movement exaggerated, sharp. “She nearly killed Lucien who was trying to save her and deliver her home safely,” she said. “When will you snap out of this?”

She crossed her arms, the edge of her hip leaning into the table. Her skin was warm from the room’s heat, the silk of her blouse clinging slightly at her back.

Tamlin shrugged, one shoulder rising, then dropping like it weighed too much. “Maybe soon,” he said. “Maybe never.” 

He tried to smile, but it came out crooked, humorless. Gillie didn’t return it, she just shook her head slowly, and Tamlin exhaled like her disappointment physically hit him.

“You really think bringing Hybern here would do us any good?” he asked finally, his voice raw with the kind of vulnerability he rarely let slip.

Gillie didn’t answer right away, she rubbed the bridge of her nose, glasses sliding down slightly. Her fingers smelled of parchment and sweat, her head throbbed.

“It’s a dangerous, contradictory plan,” she admitted. “But Ianthe is practically frothing at the mouth for them to show up. She’ll let them in the second she gets the chance, so why not beat her to it? Invite the enemy in through the front door rather than waiting for them to crawl through our walls.”

She sighed, the weight of it dragging from somewhere deep in her ribs. “We have strong alliances. A solid spy network. Eris is working on getting us insight into the Night Court—”

“And you should rest,” Tamlin cut in.

She blinked, his hand was already reaching out, fingers ghosting her cheek as he slid her glasses gently back into place. His touch was warm, too warm.

“Did I ever tell you those suit you?” he asked, voice quieter now, almost fond.

Gillie snorted, the sound harsh in the still room. “No. But Lucien did.”

Tamlin huffed a laugh. “Yes, he did.”

Then he straightened slightly, the weight settling back on his shoulders. “Take a day off. We all need to. Gather our minds before they start spiraling.”

Gillie nodded, throat tight. “Agreed,” she said, though the ache behind her eyes said rest was a lie neither of them could afford anymore.

Chapter Text

Predictably and pathetically, Gillie worked until her body betrayed her. Her head sagged, heavy with exhaustion, until her cheek sank into the parchment, her breath fogging the ink-stained page. Sleep took her suddenly, dragging her down into a shallow, twitching doze that offered no rest, no dreams, just the numb weight of unfinished thoughts crowding her skull. One moment she was scribbling a note with a stubborn hand and aching wrist, the next—darkness.

A soft sound of fading footsteps pulled her from the blur, it echoed down the hallway like the last heartbeat of a dream. Gillie’s eyes snapped open, heart stuttering into a half-panicked rhythm. The world was still dim, washed in the soft blue of early dawn. Her neck ached, her mouth was dry and sour. Her face sticky…

She groaned and lifted her head from the table. The stack of parchments had left imprints against her cheek, now smudged with ink, and not just any ink, Lucien’s handwriting. A sentence curled across her skin like a branded insult. Her elbow rested in a pool of spilled black, the inkpot now pitifully empty, upended and glistening on her sleeve and fingers.

Her glasses were half buried under a corner of an unfinished report. She slid them on with ink-slick fingertips, blinking blearily as the world came into focus. And then, she saw a vase with fresh, dew-beaded wildflowers tilted toward her in full, unrepentant bloom. Honeysuckle, baby’s breath, crushed lavender, poppies the color of flame. The scent rose sharp and sweet, a slap to her senses. Her fingers, twitching in the ink-stained mess, touched something crisp and folded between the blooms. Gillie wiped a string of drool off her chin with the back of her wrist and picked the note up, squinting as she unfolded the parchment.

"Roses are red, my patience is thin,
Wear something loose—I intend to win.
Bring your blade and leave that sass,
But fair warning: I might grab you by your—"

She frowned, snorted, then snorted again. It cracked out of her chest like a spark. Her eyes flicked toward the wall—toward the blade hanging there. His blade. Caelan’s.

The sword still lived in her study like a relic of a past she pretended to forget, even though she never really left it behind. It had followed her like a ghost, from court to estate, its presence silent but hard on her chest. 

A faint smile tugged at her ink-smeared lips. She rose from the chair with a groan, joints stiff, muscles unamused. The note still pinched between her fingers.

She bathed quickly and chose her outfit lazily but with purpose: flowy lilac trousers, soft and loose enough for comfort, and a blouse with a plunging neckline and a bodice that didn’t sinch too hard. The sleeves were sheer, fluttering like wings when she moved. 

Back in the study, she grabbed what she needed for the day: papers, a fresh bottle of ink, a good pen, and her glasses, shoved it all into her satchel. She reached for Caelan’s sword last. Her fingers closed around the hilt with familiarity and a pang that settled in her stomach. She slung it over her shoulder like guilt.

Downstairs, her maid had left a tray. Toast, barely warm. Coffee, piping hot. She stuffed the toast into her mouth, chewing while burning her tongue on a large porcelain cup, holding it with both hands like it might disappear.

Outside, the morning stretched soft and quiet, the sky washed pale gold and powdered blue. The air smelled like damp soil and new grass, like the breath of the forest still yawning. Birds chirped in layered harmonies from every tree, and far-off, the river whispered over stone.

Tamlin was already waiting. He stood by the edge of the garden, sword slung across his broad shoulder, the breeze catching strands of his golden hair. He looked like something out of an old war song, except for the smirk he gave when he saw her walking toward him—half amused, half judging.

His eyes flicked down to her boots.

“Really, those shoes?” he asked, one brow arched, a tone of dry disbelief curling around the words.

Gillie followed his gaze to her heeled ankle boots—mahogany leather, a little scuffed. Then she raised her eyes again, unbothered.

“You said ‘dress comfortable.’ This is comfortable,” she said with a shrug, balancing her coffee cup in one hand and her sword like a walking stick in the other.

Tamlin groaned dramatically, but the curve of his lips betrayed him. Whatever sour mood had haunted him the past weeks, it had lifted, at least a little. 

He turned and began walking, fast and fluid, his body all sharp lines and rhythm. “Go on, Gillie, pick up your pace!” he tossed over his shoulder.

“My Lord !” she yelped, stumbling as the sword slipped in her grip. Hot coffee sloshed precariously close to her blouse. “Where are we going?” she asked, huffing, trying to sip and keep up at once.

Tamlin didn’t slow. His stride was relaxed but purposeful. “To the woods, Gillie. To the woods!”

“But… why, My Lord, if I may ask?” she frowned, stepping carefully around the edges of a flower bed, her boots squelching in damp grass as he veered straight for the trees.

He stopped and turned abruptly and she didn’t have time to react. Gillie smacked right into him, nose-first into his chest. She bounced off and landed on her ass with a graceless thud . Her coffee cup went flying, landing in the grass with a sorrowful splatter. The sword clattered beside it.

Tamlin didn’t move for a second, then his lips twitched with just the faintest pull at the corners.

“I will teach your sorry ass how to wield one of those,” he said, bending down to pick up her sword, offering it back with a crooked grin.

“With all due respect,” Gillie grumbled, brushing wet leaves and dirt off her backside. Her light lilac pants now bore the bruises of her fall. “I shall not lower myself to violence.”

“Not willingly you shan’t,” he mimicked her voice, lips curling. “Don’t be dull, Gillie. Let’s have some fun. Come on! Get! ”

He patted her ass, lightly pushing her to resume her walk. It was playful, but Gillie still froze. She whipped her head around and stared at him over her shoulder, her expression twisted into a cocktail of rage, shock, and disbelief. Pure horror sat just behind her eyes, tangled with confusion.

Moments later, they were already standing on the sandy, sun-warmed shore of a wide, slow-moving river. Tamlin exhaled sharply through his nose and slammed his sword into the packed sand with a thunk, the metal biting deep into the earth. With a fluid, impatient motion, he peeled his tunic over his head,his skin catching in the light, golden and flushed. Muscles rolled beneath his flesh like something wild barely leashed. He twisted his hair into a loose, careless bun at the crown of his head. 

Gillie stared, she hadn’t meant to... She really hadn’t meant to, but her eyes lingered, drawn like a tide on the way his back curved, on the stretch of his spine, on the way his chest rose and fell as if he were carved from this earth. Her lips parted slightly, a breath catching in her throat. She nearly drooled.

The soft give of the ground beneath her feet made her heels sink slightly, the sand molding around her shoes with a subtle squelch. She swallowed and dragged her gaze away, fixing it on the glittering line of the river instead.

“Shoes off, Gillie,” Tamlin called, already leaning on the hilt of his sword with all the smug elegance of a wild cat, his legs crossed lazily at the ankle.

She glanced down at her feet, her sword hanging from her hand, like her whole arm felt boneless. "Absolutely not," she sighed, voice flat with exasperation and maybe a touch of stubborn pride.

Tamlin tilted his head, that half-grin spread over his mouth. “Unless you want to sweat and struggle through when it can be avoided or injure yourself…” he said as he stepped toward her, voice low, honeyed with amusement. “I’d suggest you listen to me.”

He moved behind her, so close she could feel the ghost of his breath along her neck. Before she could react, he was already sliding her satchel from her shoulder with careful fingers. He set it gently on a smooth rock beside them, and then his hands were in her hair—those large, calloused fingers gathering the long fall of her silvery-lavender strands like he was collecting starlight in his hands.

Gillie stilled, spine going taut. “What are you doing?” she asked, suspicion threading her voice as her body froze under the weight of that unexpected tenderness.

Tamlin’s fingers moved through her hair, slow and sure. He was careful, even gentle, separating strands, smoothing them. “What do you think?” he snorted, but the sound was warm, almost fond, not mocking.

“Shoes off,” he whispered, voice barely a breath now, just a scrape of sound meant for her ear alone.

His fingers worked efficiently, the faint scrape of his knuckles at her scalp sparking a strange heat behind her eyes. When the braid was finished, he pulled a leather cord from his wrist and tied the end with practiced ease. Then he gave her shoulder a brief squeeze before striding away with a lazy kind of swagger, and scooping up his sword again. He spun it in the air once, showy and obnoxious, a twitch of muscle and grace.

Show-off … Gillie thought sourly, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

I heard that . His voice purred through her mind, brushing against her thoughts with that same teasing heat. It startled her, sharp and bright, like cold water splashed down her spine.

She flinched and snapped her head toward him, eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that,” she hissed, pointing at him with the tip of her sword like it could puncture that cocky grin off his face.

Tamlin only laughed, soft and wicked, like he knew he’d gotten under her skin and he liked it.

With a grumble under her breath, Gillie bent down and unlaced her shoes, her fingers fumbling slightly against the dampness of her skin. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his hands in her hair, her braid felt too intimate now.

She placed the shoes carefully next to the rock where Tamlin had left her satchel and straightened slowly, toes sinking into the cool sand. For a moment, she just stood there, grounding herself in the texture of the earth and the weight of the heat pressing down from above, then she lifted her chin and turned toward the river.

“So? Where do we start?” Gillie sighed, dragging her palm up the length of her forearm, fingers idly brushing the fine silk of her blouse, glancing at him with her brows raised.

Tamlin smiled. He stepped forward and tapped the damp-packed sand with his boot, drawing a faint line. “The guardia, or basic stance, is your starting position in a fight,” he said, voice even, but still laced with that low, velvety rasp he used when slipping into instruction. “There are variations, depending on your weapon, your build, your goal—but we’re going to start with the core of it. No flair, just bones.”

She watched him shift his weight and demonstrate, sand kicking up in tiny swirls as he moved with fluid, brutal ease.

“Feet—shoulder width apart. Front foot should face your opponent, don’t square off with both, you’ll get knocked on your ass. Back foot slightly turned out for balance. You’ll want your knees soft, never locked, keep them bent just enough that you could spring forward, back, side to side, without hesitation.”

He moved around her like a shadow, sharp eyes tracking every twitch of her body. His proximity was unnerving, heat curled low in her belly.

“Upper body,” he continued, circling, “upright, but not stiff. Shoulders back, but not clenched. You tilt forward—just enough—so your weight is primed. Not leaning. Think... alert. Coiled. Like a cat waiting to pounce.”

Gillie followed the movements, but she already felt the burn in her thighs, her limbs complained. And then there was his sword… Caelan’s sword.

It was a bastard of a weapon—beautiful, but damn near unbearable in weight. The hilt was worn and warm from the sun when she gripped it, and the steel sang faintly with every shift in her stance, like it resented being handled by her hands instead of his.

“Am I even supposed to start my training with this?” she asked, lifting it with a grunt, her arms quivering under the effort. Her fingers curled uncomfortably around the leather grip, the balance of the blade all wrong. She winced and looked up at Tamlin, the sweat on her temples already trailing down to her jaw. “This thing is... ridiculous.”

He didn’t scold, didn’t mock her either. Just tilted his head slightly, like he was considering the fastest way to get her out of her own doubts.

“Listen,” he said, tone flat but not unkind. “I could run you through some stretching drills, give you a featherweight training sword and pretend we have months. But we don’t. Time’s a luxury we can’t afford.” His eyes burned golden as they locked onto hers. “You’re a fast learner. You’re sharp. You’ll get used to the weight of this steel monster, and when you do, anything lighter will feel like a feather. You’ll be unstoppable.”

Gillie arched a brow at that, but didn’t argue.

“So,” he continued, stepping close enough that his heat reached her skin again, “we start from the ground up. Correct posture. Proper footwork. And from there... practice. Repetition. Muscle memory.”

He crouched in front of her and guided her stance again, large hands brushing against her calves, her knees, her hips—adjusting angles, pressing with just enough force to ground her in her own body. His touch was functional, but it still lit a fire beneath her skin.

“Body tension and balance,” he murmured, stepping back. “That’s what gives your movements power without making them sluggish. You want precision. You want speed. You want force, but only when it counts.”

She tried to focus, but every inch of her felt overstimulated, the sword was a weight she wasn’t yet ready for, but she held it like a challenge.

“Core,” he said, tapping the spot between her ribs and navel. “Slight tension, not braced like you’re taking a punch, hold it just tight enough to keep everything aligned.” he stopped, observing her. “Relax your shoulders, love,” he added, tugging one gently downward with the edge of a knuckle. “Don’t slouch. Tension here—” he touched her trapezius, warm fingers pressing into muscle “—will slow you down, make your swing clumsy. And we want a nice utterly strong and sexy swing.”

Gillie swallowed, breath shallow.

“Your sword grip should be firm,” he said. “But not iron-tight. If you choke it, your arms will burn out before we’re done with footwork. You need control, not brute strength.”

She adjusted her grip. The hilt still felt foreign in her palm, like it hadn’t made peace with her yet.

“Always be ready to move. Feel your legs, your center. You shift it evenly between both legs, but know which foot you’re launching from. That’s how you dodge, how you strike. You move, or you die.”

She nodded, face flushed, chest heaving from the sheer intensity of being studied this way.

The sword was still too heavy. Her arms ached, the sun was too hot, the sand too damp, her blouse clinging to the slick of her back. But Mother above, the way her body buzzed, it was addictive, she felt real. 

Tamlin circled her again. “The more you practice this,” he said, eyes flicking to hers, “the more it becomes second nature. These aren’t tricks, they’re habits. And with the right habits—and the right mindset—you’ll become a fighter no one sees coming. Adapt it in your routine, even if I’m not around to accompany you.”

Gillie tightened her grip on Caelan’s sword. It still felt too big, too heavy, but when she exhaled this time, she sank into the stance with more certainty.

“Alright,” she said, jaw set. “Again.”

Tamlin smiled soft and genuine. His eyes twinkled, not just with amusement or pride, but with something warmer.

He showed her again, without words this time, just movement, just breath. His body flowed through the posture like water moving around stone and when Gillie faltered, when her feet turned out too far or her hip stiffened or her shoulders locked up in tension, he came behind her and adjusted her.

Tamlin guided her hips with steady hands, firm, but careful. Slid his palm up the line of her spine to remind her to straighten without bracing. He nudged her shoulders down, fingers warm where they pressed into flesh slick with sweat. It wasn’t indecent, but it was so intimate. Deeply, skin-close intimate. 

He made her feel her own body, her stance, the way her balance shifted with even the smallest twitch of her knee or ankle. Her muscles started to memorize it before her mind even caught up. Instinct carved itself into her, breath by breath, sweat by sweat. The sand beneath her toes seemed to respond to her differently the moment she grounded herself properly—like she could feel the tension of her weight coiled into the soles of her feet.

And through it all… Tamlin was at peace. She could feel it radiating from him. That strange, hushed stillness she’d seen crack through him only rarely. Something steadier, something calmer. Like this—training, teaching, guiding—this gave him a purpose he hadn’t let himself feel before. It ached, a little. In her ribs. In her throat. She felt it through the bond and it made her heart shatter for him.

When she finally got it—when she stood before him in full stance, spine aligned, legs set, arms raised with her grip solid and the sword no longer swinging wild in her hand but balanced with calm tension— he smiled again. This one broke open across his face like pure sunlight.

And she smiled back.

Tamlin stepped toward her and held a pair of soft, broken-in leather gloves. “It’s essential for you to keep your hands safe,” he said, voice low and practical again. But there was a note of... care in it. Subtle, but real. “This sword is vicious. She’s not forgiving. You mishandle her, she’ll slice your skin open like wet paper. It needs respect. Precision. A steady hand.”

He slid the gloves onto her fingers one at a time, tightening the straps around her wrists. His knuckles brushed her palm, and the skin-to-skin contact left a faint burn even after he pulled away.

“For now,” he added, lifting her gloved hands before her, “safety first.” He stepped back, twisting his own sword around his fingers like it weighed nothing, and winked, grin turning slightly cocky. “Let’s do a rundown of your first sparring, Gillie.”

Gillie exhaled, lips parted slightly, heart thudding.

He motioned for her to face him, the air shimmered faintly with heat, the faint rustle of a breeze tugging at her damp shirt. Sand clung to her calves, the sword was already heavy in her hand, but she lifted it anyway.

“Four core techniques,” Tamlin said, voice rhythmic now, like a drumbeat. “You nail these, and you’re already ahead of most.”

He stepped forward, raising his blade high above his head in a powerful vertical line.

“ Uppercut. A vertical strike. Top to bottom. Simple, but devastating. You start up here—” he guided her arms—“and let the blade drop with your whole body behind it. Don’t just use your arms. Use your shoulders, your core. The drop is where the power lives.”

He demonstrated again, the blade slicing the air with a hiss. “This is your opener, cracks a defense wide open.”

She mirrored it. Her wrists were shaky, her breath caught, but the steel came down in a clean line. He nodded, just once.

“Now— undercut. ” Tamlin dropped into a stance, the sword rising from low near his knee to high near his chest in a fluid upward arc. “It’s the reverse. Bottom to top. Think of it as the surprise. People don’t guard low. You bring it up quick, sharp, right beneath their line of sight.”

She tried it. Stumbled. Tried again. The blade caught the light this time as it rose, slicing through the heat-warped air.

“ Middle slash, ” Tamlin went on, stepping into a slow, deliberate horizontal stroke. “Right to left. Or left to right, doesn’t matter. It’s aimed at the torso—limbs—something exposed. Comes from the hips. You pivot into it, not just swing with your arms. Let the momentum carry the steel.”

He caught her wrist mid-motion and adjusted the angle of her hips. “No power without fluidity. Feel your whole body turn with it.”

Gillie’s breathing grew heavier, more focused. Sweat rolled from her temple to her chin, but she didn’t stop.

“Last one— thrust. ” He grinned. “Straightforward. Precise. Your tip goes forward. Quick jab. If you hesitate, it’s useless. You punch through their guard. No thinking. Just strike.”

She thrust the blade forward, her balance wavered and he caught her elbow, steadying her. “Center your weight. Don’t overreach. You want to move with the lunge, not after it.”

Tamlin circled her again, this time with his own sword drawn. “Now parries. Defense is your spine—if you crumble, you die.”

He raised his blade over his head in demonstration. “Upper parry—meet the blow before it cracks your skull.”

Dropped low. “Lower parry—protect your gut. Your legs.”

Shifted to the side. “Side parry. Block the middle slashes. Keep your blade close, angled. No wide swings.”

He slashed toward her—not fast, just enough to trigger instinct—and she caught it with a clumsy upper parry, the force trembled down her wrists.

“Better,” he murmured. “Again.”

The next hour blurred into movement.

Uppercut. Undercut. Slash. Thrust. Parries. Counter-strikes. Repeat. Sweat dripped from her hairline. Her gloves grew damp. Her thighs burned. The sword felt like lead, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Not when every correction from him made her body sing with the burn of new knowledge.

They moved in circles. Drilled combinations. A middle slash followed by a thrust. A parry then undercut. A fake uppercut that turned into a side lunge. He pushed her, and she pushed back—sloppily at first, then with growing finesse. Her muscles screamed. Her lungs begged. But her mind was clearer than it had been in weeks.

And when they paused at last, when Tamlin lowered his sword and just looked at her, sweat-soaked, flushed, he said softly, almost to himself:

“Good girl, Gillie.”

She swallowed thickly, still catching her breath. The sword felt lighter now, enough to believe it wouldn’t always fight her. And enough to make her whisper back, with a flicker of grit behind her teeth, “Damn right I am.”

Tamlin slammed his sword into the sand again, the blade hissing as it pierced the grainy surface. This time, there was a sense of finality to it. The metal trembled faintly in the golden light, still humming with residual force. A single breath escaped him, steady and sharp, as he straightened and turned toward her.

He gave her that slow, half-amused as he reached up to untie his hair. His fingers worked lazily through the knot, tugging until the golden strands fell loose around his shoulders, glinting like sunlight in the early afternoon. Without breaking eye contact, he toed off his boots and stepped toward the river, the sand giving softly beneath his feet, his breath catching for a moment as he inhaled the fresh, earthy breeze drifting from the water’s edge.

“You’re coming?” he asked over his shoulder with a wink, and then dove in headfirst, the water folding over him like a sheet of liquid glass.

Gillie snorted under her breath, the sound sharp and bright in the quiet air. She glanced at the sword still quivering in the sand, then began to peel her blouse from her shoulders. The fabric whispered against her sun-warmed skin, clinging slightly from the sweat of the training. She stripped off her trousers next, her fingers quick and practiced, leaving her standing barefoot in nothing but a sheer lace bralette and matching underwear, delicate as spider silk. The breeze teased along her body, stirring a shiver over her freckled skin, cooling where it kissed damp patches of sweat and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Tamlin surfaced with a gasp, his hair slicked back, a lopsided grin stretched across his face. His chest rose with slow, even breaths, water trailing down his collarbones in rivulets. His eyes found hers—hungry, amused—and Gillie didn’t hesitate.

She ran the last few steps and launched herself into the river, the splash loud and glorious. The cold bit into her skin and she savored it, gasping into the sting. Her body lit up with it, every nerve singing. Her limbs ached with pleasure from the sudden change, the shock of it blooming through her veins like crushed mint on the tongue.

When she surfaced, hair slicked against her cheeks, she saw him already drifting toward her in lazy, effortless strokes, like he belonged to the river, like it welcomed him. They floated near each other, wordless, the silence thick with heat and the sound of water lapping gently around them. Time seemed to loosen its grip—just the two of them suspended in the river’s arms, surrounded by the distant chirp of birds and the rustle of reeds swaying at the edge of the bank.

Eventually, Tamlin moved, turning toward the shore and wading out with unhurried steps, water dripping from his skin in glistening trails. He dropped onto the sand with a grunt, propping his elbows on his knees. Gillie watched him a moment, then followed, pushing through the shallows with short, purposeful strides. The water clung to her thighs, and then fell away in rivulets as she stepped onto the shore. The sand was warm still, sun-soaked and gritty beneath her toes.

She lowered herself beside him, a bit closer than she meant to, and he smiled—quiet, distracted, something thoughtful hovering in his expression.

“You were right,” he said.

Gillie arched a brow, smirking as she wrung water from her braid. “Please, clarify what exactly, because there are a lot of instances—”

“Oh shut up,” Tamlin rolled his eyes and bumped her shoulder with his. 

She laughed, low and genuine, her body relaxing a little beside his.

He exhaled, slower now. “You were right when you said I should’ve taught Feyre to use her powers. Both of you… You and Lucien were right,” he added, quieter, like he hated the words and hated needing to say them even more.

Gillie stilled, her breath catching somewhere between her ribs. A string pulled taut inside her chest, and she nearly hissed at herself—for daring to believe they could have this moment without Feyre threading through it. Even now. Even here. Even after everything that had occurred. 

She didn’t look at him, but Tamlin, of course, felt it and met her gaze. His voice was soft, that subtle lowness he only ever used when he was genuinely sorry. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should listen to you more. Gillie, you should know that I respect you. Deeply.”

Something twisted in her chest at that. She nodded, chin dipping with grace that had cost her years to master. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“But also,” Tamlin said, too quickly, his tone shifting just enough to make her glance at him. “You are incredibly annoying.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” she echoed with a smirk.

Tamlin sighed and dropped his gaze to the sand, his fingers dragging idle lines through it. His elbows braced on his bent knees. “So... are we ever going to talk about it?” he asked. And there it was—a tiny crack in the armor of his voice, just enough to let the truth leak through.

Gillie turned her head slowly. “What exactly?” she asked, though she already knew. She could feel what he meant, thrumming under her skin like a second heartbeat.

This , Tamlin’s voice echoed through her mind, sudden and unwelcome. 

Her jaw clenched. “Stop doing that,” she grunted, voice flat with irritation.

“I would if I could,” he said, shrugging with the kind of careless grace that made her want to slap him and kiss him.

“Would you?” Gillie asked, and even she was surprised by how sharp her voice came out, how vulnerable.

Tamlin’s expression softened. He shook his head slowly, biting his lower lip like he was trying to stop something from spilling out. “Of course not,” he said, voice thick. “I’ve grown rather... attached to it. Don’t know what I’d be if it wasn’t for this.”

Gillie swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry despite the water still cooling her skin. “Wouldn’t you want to have this with someone else? Someone—” She faltered. The words were there, heavy and hot in her mouth. Someone like Feyre . Someone he’d actually chosen. Loved.

But they didn’t come out.

“—Someone available,” she finished, voice dull, and Tamlin met her gaze with something close to frustration.

“I think between the two of us,” he said, “it was me who always had an excuse not to act on my feelings. No matter how deep I felt for you, I kept setting it aside. Ignoring it. Pretending it didn’t matter.” He shook his head again, voice cracking with self-loathing now. “It’s ugly, Gillie. I feel horrible for being such a prick.”

Gillie stared at him, her lips slightly parted. There was so much she could say, so many things she wanted to scream, cry, tear out of her chest. But instead, she just sat there beside him, soaked and shivering slightly, the silence between them fuller than it had ever been.

“Both of us are at fault,” she sighed suddenly, stretching her legs out in the water. “So what do you think? Should we just… deny it? Reject the bond?” Her voice didn’t tremble. But there was a soft, slow ache underneath it.

Tamlin exhaled hard through his nose, long fingers knitting together as he sat beside her, his thighs drawn up, elbows resting on his knees. He didn’t meet her eyes right away, fidgeted instead. “No,” he said finally. But it came out more like a question than an answer. He swallowed. “Why don’t we take it slow instead? See where it takes us?”

Gillie gave a dry little laugh, sharp and too quick. “Slower than it is already?”

Tamlin shot her a look, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Why? You can’t help but fantasize about my gorgeous body every time you leave your prayer bowls on the windows and ask Mother for forgiveness for your sinful thoughts?” He chuckled at the end, clearly trying to make it a joke. But Gillie didn’t quite laugh, her mouth curled, but it was almost pitying.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, brushing a hand through her silver-lavender hair, the strands catching little flecks of afternoon sun. “You’re the one leaving flowers and books for me. So you tell me.”

Tamlin pursed his lips, teeth pressing lightly into the inside of his cheek as if to hold back a smile. “Touché,” he admitted with a slight nod. Then, quieter, more grounded, he added, “Gillie… I don’t want to reject our bond. I don’t know where it will lead us, but…” He looked at her now. “I don’t want to feel hollow. Not feeling you at all times…”

Something cracked in his expression then. He turned to her fully, fingers brushing over hers, then wrapping around them. His hand was warm and  Gillie didn’t pull away. She let his palm rest in hers, softening just slightly, even as her jaw tensed.

“When you were in the Autumn Court,” he said, voice tightening, “it felt like someone cut out my heart and chewed it, piece by piece.” His breath hitched, his eyes flickered with rage and memory. “And when Amarantha… fuck.” He choked on the memory, his whole face twisting. His knuckles whitened where he gripped her hand. “I felt you so vividly. All of it. I tried to absorb and pull in as much of your pain into my own heart as I could. I wanted to take it from you. I wish—I wish I could’ve protected you better…”

Gillie’s throat worked. The words tugged something deep in her chest, something buried under sarcasm and careful control. She exhaled shakily, pain flickering across her features as she slid her other hand atop his. 

“It is long passed, my Lord,” she said, and smiled—but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Stop torturing yourself over it. I do not blame you for anything, nor do I feel you’ve done less than you could. I was fortunate enough you paved the path for Eris and Lucien to heal me and Feyre.”

Tamlin blinked slowly. “You know?” he asked, like the wind had just been knocked out of him.

“My lover told me,” Gillie grinned, dragging out the word with biting theatricality, mimicking his tone from some time ago when he’d hissed that same word in spite.

Tamlin barked a laugh, tipping his head back toward the canopy. “Fuck you, Gillie. Really—fuck you very, very much .” His grin was crooked yet affectionate.

They turned back toward the river, letting the quiet settle between them. The water whispered nearby, a low gurgling hush as it tumbled over moss-covered stones. Neither of them moved for a long while. But eventually, Tamlin grunted and rose, brushing off his pants, his expression souring the moment he remembered that it’s time to go back.

They dressed in silence, the mood folding in on itself—heavy, reluctant. Gillie adjusted her belt, the hilt of her sword settling against her spine, and Tamlin rolled the sleeves of his tunic up, stretching once before stepping into the forest path that would wind them back home.

“Same time tomorrow?” he smirked as they reached the stone path that led up toward the manor.

Gillie gave him a sideways glance, arching a brow. “I really hoped you’d take me somewhere where we could play fiddle when you said we’d have fun, my Lord,” she teased, slinging her sword onto her shoulder.

Tamlin snorted and pointed at her, walking backward a few steps. “I am still full of surprises, huh?”

She smirked. “That’s one word for it.”

He shrugged. “It’s a great idea though. How about tomorrow after the council?”

Gillie gave a noncommittal shrug, her face twisting. “It would all depend on how the council goes. If Patrik starts nitpicking again, I might throw myself out the window.”

“Tonight then,” he offered quickly, suppressing the laughter. “After dinner. Drinks. Music. Annoyed Lucien?”

That made her laugh, genuine this time, head thrown back slightly. “Tempting enough for me to erase any doubt in this idea.”

“Decided, then,” Tamlin said, snapping his fingers dramatically as he veered toward the stables. “Blessed day, Gillie.”

“Blessed day, my Lord,” she replied, her voice low, fond in that tired sort of way.

She turned, a grin still tugging at her mouth—until she nearly collided with Ianthe’s smug, pale face.

The High Priestess stood halfway down the garden stairs, blocking the path. Arms crossed, mouth twisted into something between a smile and a snarl. 

“Move,” Gillie snapped.

Ianthe hesitated, then stepped aside with exaggerated elegance, dipping her head in false courtesy.

“Careful, Lady Vaelaris,” Ianthe purred, each syllable dipped in venom. “Sometimes the game is too strong for a weak player. It can bite. Make you bleed.”

Gillie’s gaze raked her from head to toe, slow and utterly unimpressed. “Please return to your actual responsibilities, High Priestess,” she said coldly, brushing past her with a flick of her hair. “I’m quite certain they reside in the temple, not in our High Lord’s breeches.”

She didn’t even glance back as she ascended the stairs, not caring in the slightest what venom Ianthe might spit in her wake. Her grin returned, sharper now, meaner. She never walked lighter than when her back was turned to an enemy.

Chapter Text

Gillie stretched, her limbs unfurling with a slow, languid ache. Her ribs expanded beneath Tamlin’s heavy weight, and she let out a soft hum as his body molded to hers. He was still curled into her lap, his face buried against the bare skin of her belly, breath warm and rhythmic. Sleep still clung to his features, softening the hard edges of his face. His lashes fluttered against her skin like little moth wings, and for a moment, the world was nothing more than the rise and fall of his chest.

A prick of pain sparked at the base of her spine, sharp and nagging. She hissed under her breath and slightly shifted. Tamlin stirred at once, his arms loosening from around her waist. A low yawn unfurled from his throat, delicious and lazy. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, boyish in the gesture, and reached down with the other to lazily drag his knuckles across the skin of her ankle, anchoring himself with a gentle clutch at the hem of her trousers like he wasn’t ready to let her drift off just yet.

“Good morning,” he murmured, voice still raspy and sweet with sleep. He arched his back, stretching his enormous frame with a groan that cracked through the silence like thunder rumbling in the distance. Every line of muscle along his torso tightened and shifted like a mountain coming alive, his abs flexing with each breath, each movement. There was a rawness to him in the mornings—hair tousled, mouth soft, soul still half unguarded.

Suddenly, he stilled. Eyes narrowing, Tamlin turned toward the window. Something out there snagged his attention like a snare wire around his neck. His whole body tensed, the easy lines of sleep slipped from his face in an instant. His jaw clenched, shoulders tightened.

“Fuck,” he muttered, not even bothering to hide it, and bowed his head as if praying to be spared.

Gillie blinked, then let her back fall against the pillows, exhaling with a resigned groan as she tried to sit up, only to end up flopping sideways into the warm imprint he’d left behind. Her hair spilled like liquid silver across the covers.

“Not a good morning, after all?” she asked dryly, rubbing the heel of her hand over her sternum as if she could smother the tension rising in the room.

Tamlin didn’t answer right away. His voice came low, distant, eerie in the way he said, “It’s Calanmai.”

There was something bleak in the way the word tasted in his mouth.

Gillie snorted, dragging a hand down her face. “Yes,” she said, half laughing. “Unexpectedly, the same day every year. Who could imagine?” She threw a shrug in his direction, half teasing, half sharp.

The glare he shot her was molten. Not angry, exactly, but all sarcasm and something darker underneath. But it passed in a blink, replaced by a twitch in his cheek and whatever it was, it shifted his entire expression—tightened it into something she didn’t like. Something she already had recognized.

He turned on his heel and disappeared into the bathing room without another word. She heard the hiss of cold water, the wet slap of it as he splashed it onto his face. 

Gillie exhaled through her nose, arms folding across her chest as she leaned against the headboard. The sheets were still warm where he'd lain, still held his scent. Her skin still tingled where he’d touched her.

She rubbed at her eyes, then called, “Alright, what is haunting you?”

His answer was too sharp and too fast as he said: “Nothing.”

She tracked him with her gaze as he emerged, as he brushed past her like a specter. He moved across the room to the armchair where he’d left his tunic and baldric. The leather creaked as he picked it up, fingers flying through the motions of dressing with mechanical grace. Gillie’s eyes snagged on the slope of his back, the way the muscles rippled as he bent to pull on his boots. 

“Tamlin,” she said gently, though the plea threaded between her ribs. “We’ve spoken about this.” She pushed herself up, knees drawn close, arms open, voice soft but firm. “I stay with you during the nights you don’t want to be alone and in return, you talk to me instead of bottling everything up to poison your existence.”

He looked up, met her gaze. For a beat, something in his expression cracked, then he waved her off, fingers flicking in that careless way of his that wasn’t careless at all. “Some things aren’t worth discussing,” he muttered, pulling the baldric over his head. His hands paused to check the daggers, fingers running over the hilts one by one.

Gillie’s brows furrowed, lips parting. She didn’t move, just let her arms fall, open-palmed, to rest on her thighs. The covers had fallen to her hips, exposing the soft skin of her stomach where Tamlin’s face had rested just minutes before.

“What aren’t you telling me then?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, but not soft, it demanded honesty.

Tamlin gave a humorless snort. His body mirrored hers, legs spread, arms resting. “You’d be surprised how much I don’t actually tell you,” he said, eyes flicking toward her but not meeting hers.

“Considering that I’m no one important to you,” Gillie muttered, voice low and cutting, “I’m not surprised as well.”

The words slid out like a blade, not thrown but carefully placed between them. Tamlin flinched. Just a twitch, but enough to betray it struck home.

“Nonsense,” he winced, turning his head slightly as though her gaze burned him. Then, with that crooked little grin he wore like armor, he added, “You’re my safe blanket.” A pause. His brow furrowed, like even he didn’t buy it. “Well… technically, you’re my extra pillow. That’s more accurate.”

It was meant to be charming, disarming even, but landed somewhere between weak and insulting instead.

“Tamlin.” Her voice cracked sharp across the room, thin with restrained patience.

He closed his mouth into a tight line, jaw flexing. His breath slipped out through his nose, slow and shallow. Then he shook his head, subtle, resigned, like the words were trying to fight their way out and he was still holding them back.

“It’s a bit overwhelming,” he murmured at last, barely audible. As if saying it louder might make it more real. “Performing a Great Rite in the current circumstances…”

“You mean with Feyre out of the picture?” Gillie’s breath caught halfway out of her lungs, voice hoarse with something she didn’t want to discuss in return.

But Tamlin was already waving her off, his eyes darting away, unwilling to look directly at the wound. “More… considering our bond,” he said, and the words hung there, uncomfortable and raw. “It feels… wrong?”

His hand scraped through his golden hair in frustration before he began braiding it—too fast, too tight. It was all fidget and distraction, no care behind the motion. “Maybe I should ask Lucien to step in for me instead,” he mumbled.

Gillie narrowed her eyes. “Lucien is not the High Lord,” she said, shaking her head slowly, each word a stone dropping into still water.

Tamlin groaned, long and low, and dropped himself into the armchair like the weight of his own thoughts had folded his spine in half. His braids were half-done, tufts of hair escaping like they wanted to crawl away from the tension rolling off of him. His tunic was thrown on unevenly, the belt twisted, baldric buckled off-center. Everything about him looked misaligned, out of place. 

Gillie sighed, letting her hands fall of her hips. She crossed the room, grabbing a carved wooden brush from the vanity. The light filtering through the windows caught the shimmer of her skin, the faint sparkle of her freckles catching like dew as she knelt in front of him without a word.

Tamlin blinked, caught off guard. His brows drew together. “What are you—?”

She motioned, wordless, and he leaned forward obediently, letting his broad shoulders round toward her. She reached up and carefully undid the rushed, angry braid at the back of his head. Her fingers were gentle, the motion unhurried, almost motherly. His golden hair poured through her hands like spun sunlight—silken, warm, faintly wild from sleep.

The air between them thickened.

Tamlin’s eyes didn’t leave her face, not for a moment. He watched every movement, caught every brush of her fingers against his scalp, like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth. His hand twitched once, as if he meant to reach for her cheek, but he stopped himself and curled his fingers into a fist.

She didn’t call him out for it. Just started braiding again, this time slowly, purposefully, pulling a strand from his temple and working it into a clean, elegant plait. Her touch was confident, steady, familiar in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with closeness .

“You know this better than anyone,” she said softly, voice steady. “Every single one of us has an obligation. A function, our own role in the balance.”

Her fingers wove through his hair like music. 

“The land gives, but her gifts are not limitless. And to keep it alive—to keep us alive—we have to give something back. But it’s not a transaction. It’s a… cycle, a rhythm. And to give back right, we have to give from a place that’s true.”

She met his eyes. Her gaze was warm, soft around the edges, but solid. 

“You are a High Lord, Tamlin. You know all of this better than any of us. You were raised with this magic. This isn’t something you can push away just because your heart is breaking. This Rite—it’s not about want. It’s not even about you. On Calanmai, you give your soul a rest. You make space for the Spirit of the Land to step through you—for the ancient magic to rise, for the Hunter to walk.” Her voice dropped lower. “By dawn, it’ll be over. You’ll wake up and you won’t even remember what happened in that cave.”

Tamlin’s lips parted slightly, brow furrowing. “What are you saying?” he asked, voice rough.

Gillie started on the second braid, lips tightening around the words before she let them go. “I’m saying that, technically… it’s just a fuck.”

He growled, sharp and animalistic. “Just a fuck?” he snarled, incredulous.

“Fine,” she relented, exasperated, lifting her eyes to the ceiling before shaking her head. “Not just a fuck. It’s more than that, of course it is. But for your body it is. For your heart, it is.”

She shrugged, expression tired. “It’s a ritual, Tamlin. It’s not about desire. It’s not even about the girl. It’s about the land.”

Tamlin blinked, the edge of anger still trembling in his limbs, but some of it ebbed. He dragged his elbows to his knees and lowered his face into his hands, then slowly let his fingers fall away, his eyes fluttered closed for a long moment.

“Tell me,” Gillie said, folding the braid neatly and tying it off. Her tone turned dry. “Do you even remember all of the Fae you’ve fucked over the years on Calanmai?”

That got his eyes open and the look he gave her was almost wounded. “I do, as a matter of fact,” Tamlin said, voice low but steady as his eyes opened, glinting with certainty, with guilt even.

Gillie’s hands froze, fingers still ghosting over the nape of his neck where she’d just finished tying the last braid. The moment cracked like thin ice. She pulled back, startled, and lowered her hands to her lap, the brush lowered on the floor with a quiet thud.

“Oh?” Her throat went tight around the word, and she had to swallow to force it out.

Tamlin leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His golden hair framed his face now in twin braids—neat and regal and deceptively composed, in a stark contrast to the storm building in the room.

“One,” he said simply. “I remember one.”

Gillie’s heart stuttered, the room suddenly felt smaller. 

“I remember the one from last year,” he continued, eyes never leaving hers. “I remember the maid in the cave. She fainted when she realized she’d been chosen. Just passed out cold, overwhelmed before I even touched her.”

Gillie blinked, her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of her trousers.

“I don’t recall ‘fucking’ her,” Tamlin went on, the words coarse. “But I remember coming back to the manor. I remember… biting Feyre, because apparently I was a horny pig.”

His mouth twisted with something bitter. 

“I remember the half-dazed state after,” he said. “The magic pulling me like a leash. And I remember ending up in your bedchambers.”

Gillie stopped breathing.

“I remember us,” Tamlin said, softer now. “Making love. And I remember everything from that night. Everything , Gillie.”

He stopped. His voice dropped into silence, but his eyes didn’t release her. Didn’t blink. They held her there, like a snare.

Gillie’s breath trembled on its way out, her lips parted.

“Did you…” her voice came out so quietly it was almost nothing. “Did you perform the Great Rite… with me ?”

Her question landed like thunder.

“Apparently, I did,” Tamlin said, with a shrug that felt like it cost him all of his strength to produce. “Lucien told me he’d spoken with the maid later. She said I never took her offering. She never even made it to the rite. And then… your scent. All over me. For days.”

He paused, letting it settle. Watching her.

“So naturally,” he said, voice heavy with unspoken weight, “the Great Rite did happen. Just… not the way anyone planned.”

He waited. Watched her closely.

Gillie didn’t move at first. Her mind was a riot of fragmented memories of that night, of the way the air had shimmered around her, of her own aching body and the way he’d touched her like she was part of the earth itself. She remembered the pulse of power, the crackle of ancient magic humming beneath her skin. She hadn’t known. Or maybe she had. Deep down, some primal part of her had known.

“Well,” she said, and it came out shaky. Her tongue was thick in her mouth. Her pulse thundered in her ears. “We can’t do this again.”

Her voice betrayed her, cracked on the last word.

She stood too quickly. The blood rushed to her head and her vision tilted for a heartbeat, the floor dipping under her feet. The room was suddenly too hot . Oppressively warm, like the heat from his body had saturated the air. Her skin prickled. Every inch of her felt exposed.

“So… you’ll have to go and… uhm…” she stammered, cheeks darkening with a flush. “Go be a High Lord or something.”

It was barely coherent.

She wanted to be gone, out of his sight, his space immediately.

Gillie turned on her heel, practically stumbling out of his room before he could say another word, before she could feel that gaze again, his eyes roaming over her like hands. Her bare feet slapped against the cool hallway floor, her breath sharp and wild in her chest.

Behind her, the silence he left in her wake rang louder than any voice could have.

***

After double-checking every detail—every damn line and corner of her plan—Gillie finally stepped through the carved archway of the manor, a self-satisfied smile tugging at the edge of her lips. Her soft-leather boots made little sound against the polished stone floors, a crisp click like punctuation to her thoughts as she flipped through the pages of her worn leather notebook. Ink smudges still stained her fingers from last-minute annotations, and the parchment crackled under her touch like dry leaves. Everything was accounted for. Every offering, every torch, every herb in the bonfires, every dish and liquor served, every flower arrangement, every sacred symbol of Fire Night meticulously planned.

She turned down the corridor toward the sitting room, already expecting Tamlin brooding in silence, but walked straight into something entirely else.

Gillie stilled mid-step.

Tamlin stood relaxed, shirtless and barefoot, the painted swirls and ritual sigils trailing across his chest and arms like living fire. His muscles flexed with unconscious grace as he moved, the paint catching in the golden candlelight—amber and ochre and hints of crimson dancing across the planes of his body. His hair was ruffled, as if he'd just washed it, still damp at the nape of his neck.

He was fitting the bow across his back when he turned slightly, revealing the fresh white ink down his spine—a glyph she immediately recognized, because it was the glyph of her House, House Vaelaris. A willow tree arched in bloom, its roots curling into the shape of a downward-pointing sword, and nestled among the branches, a sprig of lavender, delicate but unburned. 

Lucien lounged in one of the velvet armchairs across from him, a half-empty goblet dangling from his fingers. His copper hair, tousled and falling in waves over his sheer, unlaced shirt, glinted like autumn leaves. He was flushed, cheeks pink with wine and warmth, his eyes slightly too bright. They were talking, laughing even, actually about something nonsensical, voices low and light. Easy and almost boyish.

Among the jars of ritual paints sat a tray with freshly poured wine, slivers of white cheese, honeyed figs, and thin curls of smoked meat. And beside it, carefully laid atop a folded linen, was a flower crown. White peonies, small wild roses, flushed the softest blush, sprigs of lavender and willow branches—slender, reaching, silvery-gray.

Her breath hitched, just slightly. Because Tamlin never chose his own crown. Not once in all the years. That had always been left to the priestesses or the maids. High Lords rarely cared for those aesthetics, yet this —this was no random arrangement.

These were her flowers, her glyph on his skin… Yet, she didn’t say anything. Just cleared her throat— once , sharply.

“Ready?” she asked, steady as she could manage, her voice clipped at the edge, just short of sharp.

Tamlin turned, and the moment his eyes landed on her, he dropped his gaze as if something intimate had just been exposed. Like he hadn’t just been parading around shirtless, glistening with paint and power. Like he hadn’t curled up against her legs in his own bed hours ago, head in her lap, whispering half-maddened things he didn’t remember come dawn. Like he didn’t sleep there more often than not now. Like he didn’t touch her when he corrected her sword form—her hips, her wrists, the nape of her neck, her belly, her face…

“Madame Courtier,” Lucien said with an exaggerated bow of his head. The wine made him silkier than usual. His voice was warm honey, half-drunk and unapologetic. His shirt hung loose over his collarbones, open nearly to his stomach. A smear of pale paint was caught on the side of his neck.

Gillie arched an eyebrow. “Lucien.”

“Gillie,” Tamlin said softly, without inflection.

There was something about the way he said her name… As he was trying not to breathe too much into it. Like it might burn if he gave it more.

Gillie crossed the space with casual ease, though her stomach twisted tight—out of nerves and hunger. She reached the table and plucked a slice of peach from the plate. Her stomach gave a traitorous growl, low and insistent. She hadn’t eaten all day too caught up in preparation, in control, in not falling apart like everything else seemed to lately.

Lucien heard it, of course. He sat up instantly, setting aside his goblet and reaching for the decanter. “You poor thing,” he muttered with a crooked grin, already pouring. “Criminal, honestly. Please, eat! Drink!”

She accepted the glass with a soft, amused smile, the kind that reached her eyes, even if only for a second. “Shall we then?” she asked, tilting her head toward the hallway, the crown still looming in the corner of her vision.

She started to turn, already aiming for distance, for movement, for anywhere-but-here, but Tamlin’s hand wrapped gently around her wrist. His skin was warm, and a little slick from the paint, and she could feel the pulse in his thumb where it pressed lightly against the inside of her wrist. It slowed her, caught her mid-stride.

“Do I have the permission of my mate to fuck a maiden within the Great Rite?” Tamlin asked, amusement curling at the corners of his mouth, though his smile was taut, too tight to be easy.

There was a flush on his cheeks—rosy and creeping beneath the paint. Not just from the firelight. He and Lucien had clearly been drinking for a while, their words slurred just at the edges, eyes a little too bright. There was an old empty bottle of aged fruit wine on the table, the kind strong enough to burn slightly on the way down, and the scent of it lingered in the room with dark berries and cloves.

Gillie raised her brow slowly, her mouth twisting into something between a laugh and a scoff.

“I am not your mate,” she snorted, though the word scraped a bit coming out. “There’s nothing solid between us. You know that. As well as the fact that you never questioned courting Feyre—so what are you even asking, my Lord?” She exhaled, the title sharp and bitter on her tongue.

Tamlin's jaw tightened.

“That was different,” he said, voice low, almost defensive. “And she isn’t in the picture anymore—you said it yourself. So I’m asking you now, because you are my mate. And if it happens that we ever... choose to honor our bond, are you certain you’re permitting me to perform the Rite with someone else?”

His words dropped like a stone into the room. Heavy. Still rippling.

Gillie stood still, the weight of the room shifting as silence pulsed in her ears.

“It’s your responsibility,” she said, firmer than she felt, her voice too even. “Do what you have to do.”

A lie. A clean-cut, tightly-wrapped lie she’d been preparing to wear like armor. But it was the truth, too. It was his duty and his burden. It didn’t belong to her. Even if every part of her bristled at the thought of someone else’s hands on him tonight. Even if her stomach twisted so hard she nearly winced from the inside out.

Tamlin exhaled, the sound long and laced with helplessness. “Gillie...” His voice was cracked glass. “Please say no…” he whispered. 

And that whisper undid something in her ribcage. A quiet plea barely laced in breath, but it trembled with want. With hope. 

Lucien turned away, grinning into his goblet like he’d just watched the first act of a long-expected play. That grin, crooked and amused, damn near smug, should’ve irritated her. Instead, she mirrored it. Stole it from his lips like a mask. Wore it like deflection.

But her exhale was sharp, betraying her. She shook her head once.

Tamlin’s shoulders slouched, the tension in his chest collapsing. “Alright,” he muttered, nodding once, stiff as stone. “Whatever my mate deems appropriate.” The words were ground out between his teeth, salty as blood and swallowed like it, too.

Gillie winced. The word mate was heavy, sharp, too loud fro her to even comprehend. 

Tamlin’s gaze flicked toward the flower crown—the one still waiting in stillness on the table. And Gillie followed his line of sight. Something about the look on his face, like he didn’t know whether to be proud of it or ashamed, pulled her forward.

She stepped towards the table and picked up the crown. The petals were soft and cool beneath her fingers, the scent of crushed lavender rising with each breath. It was delicate, woven with care, and absurdly intimate. A crown of things that only she would recognize. He had remembered. Every flower. Every detail.

She turned to him, held his gaze, and took the last few steps. Tamlin’s head bowed as she approached, like something worshipful was happening and neither of them could breathe. Gillie lifted the crown, settled it gently into place atop his golden hair, careful not to smudge the paint on his brow. Her fingers unintentionally brushed his ears, slow and tender. His skin heated under her touch.

He didn’t stop staring at her. Not once. His eyes didn’t drift, didn’t move. They roamed her freckled face, tracing her cheekbones, the line of her mouth, the hollow at the base of her throat. His gaze landed like warm kisses, soft and scorching all at once. Her breath caught.

She swallowed hard. Lifted her chin. “Go get them, my Lord,” she said with a wink, though it cost her. Her voice was light, teasing, but the knot in her stomach was anything but.

He didn’t move for a long moment. Just stood there with her crown on his head, looking like he’d break if she touched him again. Then turned on his heels and disappeared in the hall. 

***

Gillie was dancing her ass off—hair wild, arms in the air, hips moving with the heavy thump of the drums. Her feet barely touched the mossy ground beneath her; she spun and dipped and let herself burn under the pulse of Fire Night. Sweat clung to the hollow of her throat, slid between her breasts, and made her linen dress cling in all the wrong and and right places. Her laughter burst from her throat, raw and delighted and just a little tipsy, her belly warm from the waves of magic coursing through her from the top of her head, to the tips of her toes.

She swung and jumped, laughed and her body made love to the music until her head suddenly tilted slightly too far and the world spun once, slow and syrupy, and she stumbled sideways, catching herself on the table loaded with wine and fruit and bread still steaming from the ovens. “Shit,” she giggled to no one, brushing her lavender crown back from where it had slipped lopsided into her face. Her hair, already damp and tangled, stuck to her cheeks. She swiped at it again, fingers slick with wine and the heat of dancing.

The bonfires crackled, sending spirals of golden embers into the night sky like fireflies. Music swelled—fiddles shrieking, drums pounding like a heartbeat. She loved it. Loved the chaos, the pleasure, the buzz of life. But then—

A strange flicker caught her eye.

A soft blue hue shimmered faintly in the trees. It was unnatural, didn’t belong here, didn’t belong to the crackling gold and red of Fire Night. It lingered just long enough to be real, then vanished like it had slipped behind the veil of the world. Her heart thumped once, hard.

She turned slowly, scanning the clearing. The path of white-garbed maidens still stood in formation, their hands clasped, their faces lifted to the skies. The altar—stone and draped in garlands—stood empty. Tamlin was still nowhere to be seen. Not that she was waiting with bated breath.

"Fuck it," she muttered under her breath, lifting a goblet of wine to her lips. The ruby liquid was dark and heady, sweet enough to make her tongue tingle. She drained half, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and stared again into the woods.

Curiosity had always been her worst trait.

Her boots made hardly a whisper as she stepped past the last circle of light and into the trees. Leaves rustled underfoot, soft and damp. Her linen dress, dyed a soft lilac and embroidered with careful white peonies, fluttered against her damp skin. The breeze teased her thighs and made the hairs on her arms rise. Her flower crown had begun to loosen, strands of hair clung to her face, sticking in her mouth. She slapped at them, annoyed, half-laughing to herself.

“Mother’s tits,” she muttered as she stopped to untangle it again, fingers tugging the flowers out of her braids.

That’s when she heard the grunt.

The sharp, wet sound of flesh meeting bark. The whisper of a body struggling.

Gillie turned and froze.

It was Lucien! Lucien was slammed up against a tree. His tunic was rumpled, collar torn slightly, pants loosened. Ianthe’s pale body was pressed against him, her hands all over him, mouth moving against his with something that looked too much like hunger. He twisted his head to the side, tried to shake her off. His wrists—tied, she realized—were straining behind him, his fingers curled into fists.

And for a split second, just long enough to make her hesitate, Lucien went still. 

Gillie’s heart climbed into her throat. She wanted to believe he was alright, wanted to believe he’d agreed to this. 

“Back off! Release me, you manipulative whore!” he snarled, teeth bared, voice slurred with wine and fury and… fear.

Ianthe laughed. That cold, lilting laugh that didn’t belong in the sacred forest.

“You obviously don’t mind,” she purred, glancing down at his cock, half-hard and exposed now in the moonlight. Her fingers ghosted over it with false tenderness.

Lucien choked back a curse. “I am the emissary of your High Lord, and I order you to release me or this occurrence shall have dire consequences,” he grunted, struggling against his bonds.

Ianthe’s hand lashed out. The slap echoed. Lucien’s head jerked to the side.

Gillie’s stomach flipped. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“You shall give me beautiful babes and power, little fox,” Ianthe hissed as she dropped to her knees again. Her voice turned sticky-sweet. “We shall have so much fun, you and I.”

Gillie panicked. Her body went cold, her blood hot. She looked around frantically—think, think, move. Her eyes landed on a fist-sized stone near her foot. She picked it up, trembling. Her stomach twisted in knots. She’d never lifted a hand in violence, never crossed that line. But she had to.

She crept forward, quiet as death, leaves didn’t even dare whisper.

Lucien met her eyes just as she raised the stone. His pupils were blown wide, face pale and smeared with sweat, lips parted—raw shock and helplessness written across him. 

Crack.

Ianthe dropped like a felled tree. Her body slumped sideways, unconscious.

Gillie stood there, stone in hand, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like she’d run for miles. Her crown was half-fallen, hair wild, face flushed.

Lucien blinked at her. “Thank you?” he said after a beat, voice scratchy, cracked.

She let the stone fall from her fingers and swiped hair from her face, hand shaking. “No problem,” she panted.

“You alright?” he asked after a moment, still pressed against the tree, bound and half-dressed.

She looked at him, really looked. His pants were halfway down, his face a mask of disbelief and tightly reined rage. Her mouth dried. “Are you ?”

“Fuck no,” they said in unison—and then they both laughed from the edge of frayed nerves, high-pitched hysteria, the crashing comedown.

Lucien tipped his chin toward the crumpled body beside them. “Is she dead?”

“Hope so,” Gillie muttered, voice rough. “Drink?”

“Good idea.” He exhaled hard, then paused. A small, twisted smile tugged at his lips. “Gills, I’m kind of tied up here and my cock is still out swinging. Would you mind?”

Gillie blinked. “Fuck!” She spun around, pressing one hand to her face like it could protect her from the image now branded in her mind.

Her fingers fumbled with the knots, trying to ignore the warmth of his skin. She didn’t speak. Neither did he. The ropes came loose.

She stayed turned away until he muttered, “Alright.” She peeked to see him buttoning the last of his trousers, jaw clenched.

Only then did she breathe again.

“I owe you,” he said, clearing his throat like the words tasted foreign.

Gillie only smiled, soft and crooked, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she hadn’t just dragged him from the jaws of something unspeakable. “Never mention it again,” she murmured, brushing the edge of her fingers against his shoulder before folding into his hug. He smelled of sweat and clove and faint, wild magic. A little like firewood, a little like guilt.

They moved toward the open field where bonfires licked the dark sky, each flame catching on petals, ribbons, spilled wine and skin. The music was louder here—fiddles scraping joy into the air, drums pulsing like a second heartbeat in her chest. Shadows spun between flickers of firelight, bodies laughing, glimmering with sweat and whatever enchantment lingered in the Calanmai air.

“So, what have you been up to?” Lucien asked, arching a brow as his golden eye flicked up and down her form. There was teasing there, but also curiosity. Like he was checking to see if she’d changed somehow in the few hours since they’d last spoken.

Gillie smirked, starting to answer with a lazy gesture, “Danced, drank, spoke to—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish.

A sudden yelp tore from her throat as something yanked her off her feet. The world tilted—bonfires spinning, stars blurring, the scent of rain and crushed damp grass hitting her all at once.

“Gillie!” Lucien gasped, his hand half-raised before he barked out a laugh, catching on quick.

She blinked the world back into focus. Her flower crown slipped askew on her head. Arms—strong, warm, bare—held her off the ground, her boots brushing nothing but air. The grass was far below. And the chest she was pressed to rose and fell in steady rhythm, the silk of his skin sticky with sweat and streaked with smudged paints and blood.

His face was too close. Too smug. Tilted as he looked at her like she was some curious creature caught in his hands. His golden hair was mussed, sticking to his brow, a slash of blood trailing from his cheekbone down toward his neck. The red stood out stark against his sun-warmed skin.

He adjusted her flower crown with one hand, those long fingers brushing over her temple like he had the right to. And Mother above, if it wasn’t for the splatter of blood across his face, the way his chest gleamed with sweat, the heat radiating off him like a second bonfire—she might’ve even called it sweet.

“Having fun?”  Tamlin asked, his grin wolfish, primal.

“You sentimental bastard,” Lucien howled from where he stood behind them, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Did it really pull you to her? Or is this just another way to prove your stubborn point?”

He crossed his arms, the firelight catching in his red hair like it was burning from within. His eye glittered, waiting.

But Tamlin didn’t answer. He turned, with Gillie still in his arms like she weighed nothing. His steps were purposeful—slow and sure—carrying her away from the firelight, toward the shadowed crowd that was starting to press toward the cave’s entrance.

A pulse rippled through the earth. Calanmai magic, ancient and restless, curling up around their ankles like mist.

“Legitimate, then,” Lucien muttered under his breath, chewing his lip like the taste of those words was both sweet and unsurprising.

Gillie twisted in Tamlin’s arms, half reaching out. “Help?” she tried, voice laced with a grin and just the faintest trace of panic. Her heart thundered in her throat.

Lucien only grinned wider, raising his hand in a lazy wave. His voice rang out like a cackle across the field, wild and wicked:
“Have fun, my children! Honor your duties for the Spring Court!”

He threw his head back and laughed, the sound swallowed by the fire and the drums and the crowd parting before the High Lord like the night itself was giving way.

***

It was so utterly wrong—and at the same time, so fucking right.

Not like the first night, not at all like that soft, fumbling ache of anticipation they’d once tasted together last year. This time, Tamlin was wilder. Unleashed. There was something feral in the way he moved, something bruised and hungry. His restraint had snapped somewhere between the wine and the dancing, and now it was just him —unfiltered, unshaped by protocol or performance. And still, despite it all, despite the dangerous edge sharpening every touch, every motion… Gillie melted in his arms.

She yielded, not from submission, but because her body simply couldn't. Every rough kiss that landed on her skin felt like it was searing itself into memory, into bone. His teeth grazed her shoulder and sank just deep enough to make her arch, the sting curling hot down her spine. . He didn’t apologize for the way his beastly, sharp canines scraped her, didn’t flinch from her moans. His talons, curved and sharp, were reckless on her thighs—skating up beneath her dress before it was ripped away entirely. It landed in a haphazard puddle on the cave floor, a little scrap of color tossed into a landscape of warm furs and stone.

Hundreds of candles, thick and tall, misshapen by time and heat. Their wax spilled in clawed puddles, dripping down the rocks like old blood. They smoked a little at the edges, that faint scent of burning wick threading through the overpowering perfume of crushed blossoms. The air was cloying with it—roses and hyacinths, sweet and rotting at the same time. It clung to the inside of her throat like velvet. Her head spun, dizzy from the heat and the scent and his mouth, his hands, the way his body moved like he was still hunting, but now the prey was her.

Gillie hissed when the first bite landed on her breasts, her hand immediately met his face in a sharp slap. Tamlin blinked, startled, his mouth freezing mid-motion.

“No,” she muttered, meeting his dozy, glazed-over gaze—half-lidded and ravenous, glazed like he'd lost track of where he ended and she began. Her voice held a warning,  like she was scolding a bad-tempered hound. His mouth curled in half amusement, half defiance, and he lunged again, trying to bite.

She slapped him again. Hard enough to draw a frustrated growl from him that made her grin, that made her thighs tighten around his hips.

His mouth crashed onto hers in reply, no longer teasing, no longer polite. It was heat and hunger. His hot tongue pushed deep into her mouth like he was starving, like she was some kind of fruit he’d torn open and was now devouring. Gillie moaned into him, the sound vibrating between them, desperate and shocked and real. Her fingers clawed through his hair, nails scraping across his scalp. She slammed the flower crown off his head without meaning to and it rolled somewhere into the furs forgotten, petals crushed beneath their knees.

Paint smeared across her face, sticky with sweat, now streaked across her cheeks and chin. It bled down her neck in messy trails. It all blurred into one fever dream. Her lungs clawed for air. She pulled away, gasping like she'd broken the surface of a lake, and her whole belly pulsed. Wet and warm and aching . That ache gnawed at her, sunk its teeth in low and mean. It made her restless, almost mad. It made her want to snarl at him for taking his damn time.

Tamlin, ever the predator, was still playing with his food.

Gillie growled, fed up, and shoved him hard—his body tumbling onto his back with a grunt of surprise. She didn’t hesitate, climbed over him, claimed him, pressed her body against his like she belonged there, like she had every damn right to. Her mouth found his neck, her teeth digging in where his skin was already flushed and damp. She bit and marked, just like he'd done to her. Her lips ghosted over the dent her teeth left behind and she smiled wild, breathless, stupid, surprised by her own joy.

It shouldn't have made sense, none of it did. The wine, the dancing, the way she’d let herself go tonight. How she’d stepped over fear, saving Lucien from Ianthe’s groping claws. It had cracked something open in her. Something reckless, raw, and molten. And now, here she was—naked, high on heat and power and magic, in the arms of the High Lord himself. 

She was chosen. By him, or by the land, or by whatever damned current of fate that had swept her into this moment, but it had chosen her. And, fuck, he wanted her. Tamlin’s cock throbbed beneath his britches, hard and hot against her thigh, and Gillie didn’t want to wait anymore. The ache in her belly was sticky, unbearable, it made her dizzy, nauseated with want.

She reached for him, dragging his britches down with greedy fingers, her knuckles brushing the soft hair low on his abdomen. His cock sprang free, flushed dark with blood and need. Gillie didn’t give herself a second to think. She slid down on the entire length of it, took him inside her with no hesitation, lips parting wide around the weight of the pleasure. One hand flattened against his heaving chest, fingers splayed against warm, damp skin, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat like it was echoing through her too.

She rode him with a kind of loud, breathless devotion, like she meant to carve this rhythm into the world itself, like her body wasn’t hers anymore, but some sacred vessel made only for this. For him, for this fevered offering. 

Gillie moved with a purpose, with ownership, with that particular hunger that left her thighs trembling and her fingers digging into Tamlin’s chest to anchor herself. Every roll of her hips dragged a groan from him, low and guttural, raw and worshipful. His grunts were beautiful. Messy, unpolished, not meant for ears other than hers. And his face—Cauldron, his face—so sweet in its ruin. That golden skin of his was flushed, his brows furrowed in the grip of pleasure, his mouth slack with something close to awe, and those long lashes trembled against his cheeks as he looked up at her like she was something holy… Something his. 

That look, the way his green eyes bled affection, cracked something open in her chest—and she had to look away. She couldn’t take it, not with that softness staring up at her like she was the only thing that mattered in this court, this world. So her gaze snapped to the massive wall-length gobelin behind his back, depicting the Mother in her timeless, open-armed grace. Woven with gold thread and deep forest greens, lined with wildflowers and suns. Gillie’s stomach twisted.

And somehow fucking Tamlin at that very moment felt like praying. Like the most guttural, carnal prayer she’d ever offered. Like giving the Mother everything she was made to give. Her most significant devotion. Her duty to the Court, her body giving up to something ancient, rooted in loam and starlight. Her biggest gift. To the Mother. To this land. To the fucking High Lord, breathing heavy under her as she gave herself like a vow.

With a sudden shift, Tamlin moved and Gillie gasped as her hands locked around his neck, when he sat up without losing their rhythm, dragging her with him. She was suddenly nose-to-nose with him, their slick bodies pressed together as he began to thrust up into her, his hips chasing hers with a precise, almost reverent force. The way he moved wasn’t rushed—it was measured, like he wanted to memorize how she sounded at this angle, how she felt, how her moans turned into sighs when he hit that perfect spot again, and again, and again.

His breath ghosted over her lips. She could taste the wine from earlier, and her own flavor on his tongue when he kissed her again. His scent clung to her now, soaked into her skin: tangy and heavy. It wrapped around her own until they didn’t smell separate anymore. Like they’d melted into something that belonged to the Spring Court. Like the embodiment of spring . Cool rain soaking through moss, rushed lavender blooms under bare feet, wet grass after the first thaw.

Her head tilted back with a laugh—uncontrollable, joyous,  spilling out of her without shame—and then she curled forward to kiss him, her mouth messy and full of teeth. Her pleasure built like a slow storm, pressure mounting behind her eyes, blooming in her chest, her temples thudding with every pulse of it.

I love you. The words didn’t come from his mouth, they bloomed in her mind like petals unfurling in fast motion. I love you I love you I love you. He chanted it inside her head, in time with his thrusts, like a spell he didn’t know he was casting. His rhythm grew more desperate, his hands gripping her hips so tightly she’d wear bruises tomorrow. Like he needed to keep her tethered to him, like the idea of her slipping away even an inch would ruin him.

Gillie gasped for air, choked on it, drowned in it. His mouth was on her breasts, warm and hungry, those sharp canines of his scraping her nipples in a way that made her cry out. Her back arched into him, spine trembling.

Her fingers gripped his shoulders like lifelines as that tight knot of heat inside her coiled and snapped, vibrating outwards in a wild, sharp spasm that stole the breath from her lungs. She came so hard her vision blacked, her ears ringing, her entire body seized and suspended in that space where thought couldn’t follow.

When her senses blinked back into her, sluggish and disoriented, Tamlin was already watching her. His green eyes were soft and adoring, like she was something fragile and irreplaceable.

Gillie smiled weakly, the inside of her thighs sticky and sore, her body humming with the aftershocks. I love you , she sighed in her mind.

Tamlin’s face broke into a wide, lopsided grin. That boyish one he only ever wore in moments like this—unguarded and glowing. Without a word, he shifted them again, laying her down gently on the tangled furs below. He didn’t rush, he touched her like he still couldn’t believe she was real. Kissed every part of her he could reach, gentle and slow, like he was still worshipping her.

His seed was still warm inside her, thick and sticky where it settled low in her belly, and Gillie laughed under her breath. Her legs twitched with the ache, muscles relaxed but overused. She exhaled long and deep, letting her head sink into the furs. A little dizzy. A little drunk on him.

Tamlin curled in beside her, one arm pulling her against his chest, his heart thudding under her cheek like it was still running from the high.

“That went well,” he breathed, the corners of his mouth twitching as his eyes drifted shut.

Gillie snorted. “Aren’t you supposed to be high on magic or something?” She rolled her head lazily against his chest, her fingers trailing down his stomach, smudging the last streaks of green paint still clinging to his golden skin.

Tamlin chuckled, the sound raspy and honest, like it was scraped right from his chest. “Right?” he echoed, then kissed her forehead. “I’m just glad the effect wasn’t lasting. Though… I was thoroughly enjoying the view.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her with that stupid grin.

She smacked him in the ribs, and he yelped like a kicked puppy.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she mumbled, already yawning, the edges of her mind beginning to go soft.

“Sure,” Tamlin muttered under his breath, that same amused snort following. “Whatever my mate wishes,” he added, but Gillie was already slipping under, too tired to bite back, too warm to argue. 

Chapter Text

A month had passed since Calanmai.

A month of stolen kisses that tasted like wine turned bittersweet on the tongue. Of fingers brushed across flushed skin beneath moonlight, and laughter caught in throats between breathless silences. Nights curled up together, skin against skin, like the world outside their embrace had ceased to exist. But that golden haze was gone now. The fire was still smoldering somewhere under Gillie’s skin, but everything else had chilled.

Now, she stood on the front steps of the Spring Court manor, stone cold beneath her boots, a quiet wind threading through the manicured hedges and rose-slick air. The manor loomed behind her like a portrait left too long in the sun—still lovely, but faded in ways that couldn’t be painted over. Her arms were hidden deep within the loose, flowing sleeves of her sage green velvet jacket, the fabric soft but heavy, like the silence hanging between her ribs. The pantsuit she wore matched it—wide-legged, cinched only enough to be practical. Her sword was strapped flat across her back, the leather scabbard creaking faintly whenever she shifted. Her glasses sat neatly on her nose, catching the dappled light filtering through the garden trellises. She hadn’t slept the night before. Her face didn’t show it, she felt it behind her eyes.

On her right stood the twins—Leandro and Ellio, Tamlin’s noblemen-generals. Sharp, mirror-image reflections of each other, built like bastards born for war, both armored and utterly still. At least twenty sentries were lined behind them in a formation just tight enough to say they’re not fucking around.

The air was thick with magic and sun, pollen-sticky and shimmering. Birds chirped somewhere in the canopy, as if the manor wasn’t holding its breath.

“Welcome home, my Lady,” Gillie said with a practiced smile. She drew it onto her face like armor, hiding the nauseating churn in her gut. 

Feyre, however, just… hugged her. Gillie went rigid.

The scent of blood clung to her, hitting Gillie’s senses all at once as Feyre’s arms locked at her sides, as she wrapped them around Gillie's shoulders. Gillie felt her skin crawl.

“Oh, Gillie! I missed you so much!”

Don’t touch me . Gillie thought to herself. 

She managed not to say it, just forced her face back into place and peeled herself out of Feyre’s arms with a motion so smooth it looked polite. She met Tamlin’s gaze over Feyre’s shoulder—his jaw was locked, eyes simmering, frustrated in that way that always made Gillie want to punch a wall or kiss him, depending on the hour.

“It is great to have you back, my Lady,” she said, turning her voice into something softer. Formal. Controlled. “We have prepared your room. These are your maids—Olivia and Mika.”

She gestured toward two females who stood like they’d stepped straight out of a myth. Ethereal, willowy, their dresses moss-green and petal-pale, skin the color of fresh birch. They bowed, low and respectful, their hair sweeping forward like waterfalls of ivy.

“They shall take care of all your needs, my Lady.”

Feyre smiled at her like they’d always been friends, like there was no tension taut beneath Gillie’s skin. “Thank you, Gillie. You are the best.” And then she turned, walking toward her maids, her golden-brown hair catching the light like a lioness playing human.

Gillie’s jaw clenched.

She turned her head back toward Tamlin, who gave the smallest jerk of his chin toward the stone path that would lead them to her house. No words. Just that silent command. The twins moved before she could, barking sharp orders to the sentries to remain behind and protect Feyre.

They walked without speaking.

The path wound through the back gardens, overrun with honeysuckle and wild roses that tangled around wrought-iron arches. Somewhere, a fountain bubbled faintly, mocking in its serenity. The air had cooled slightly, but Gillie still felt sweat at the nape of her neck, sticky beneath her braid.

By the time they reached her house, Patrik, Rihard, and Miro were already waiting. Sentries stood posted at every corner, alert and tense. Even before she opened the door, Gillie could feel the static in the air. Like the moment before a storm.

Inside, the sitting room was dim and warm. The curtains had been drawn halfway, sunlight striping across the wooden floor and woven rugs. The long oak table was polished and laid with fresh parchment, pens, ink, and a tray of of fruits.

Lucien slouched deep into an armchair like the breath had been knocked out of him hours ago and never found its way back. His face was drawn, pale, and he hadn’t said a word since they entered.

“So. The day has come,” Leandro said first, nodding absently at the maid who’d placed the wine tray before them. His voice cracked the silence.

“I guess we can plan around it, no matter how hard it’ll be to predict her next step,” Gillie murmured, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The velvet of her sleeves rustled as she leaned forward just enough to cast a shadow over the table. Her voice wasn’t shaking, but something beneath it was raw.

“So we are playing a waiting game?” Patrik grunted, the deep timber of his accent rolling off his tongue like gravel.

“Patience was never his virtue,” Tamlin muttered, lips twitching just enough to let something half-humored slip through.

Gillie narrowed her eyes. “Forgive me for my boldness, my Lord, but you seem in a good mood?”

He shrugged, already reaching for the goblet of wine with a loose, lazy hand. “Can’t help that the prospect of getting over with this makes me a bit tipsy, yes.” He leaned one elbow on the back of Leandro’s chair, sipping, gaze distant.

“This one always had a hard-on for battle,” Leandro snorted.

“Everybody does. It’s a normal physical response,” Tamlin deadpanned, brows lifting slightly.

“Ah, that’s why my wife loves when I take extra shifts for patrols,” Rihard chuckled, and the room cracked into laughter. Loud and easy, that kind of tension-popping noise that flooded the room with too much sound too fast.

Except for Lucien. Who sat there like a ghost in the corner. Silent. Motionless.

Gillie exhaled through her nose. “Alright, alright, enough,” she muttered, waving a hand to try and calm them, but the laughter only swelled.

Do you mind? she sent quietly down the bond, into Tamlin’s mind.

His eyes met hers across the table.

“Alright, boys,” he said aloud, lifting his voice just enough to call the room back to order. “We’ve had enough fun chatter. Let’s come back to what we’ve gathered for and redirect our attention to my lovely Lady Courtier.”

He cleared his throat and dropped into the chair beside Rihard, nodding toward Gillie.

She leaned over the table, both palms pressed flat against the surface, sleeves bunched at her elbows now, and met every single one of their gazes. “As of now, we have two main people to keep an eye on: Ianthe and Feyre,” she began, her voice steady but low.

The light in the room felt tighter. The dust in the air caught the sun like little flecks of threat.

“We spoke the other day with the High Lord and came to the assumption that Feyre may attempt to cause a coup. If our suspicions are true—if she is consorting with the Night Court, and plays this role of a damsel freshly liberated from her captors—we should brace ourselves for manipulation. Long-term.”

There was a beat.

Then, Lucien rasped from the armchair, “Do you hear yourself?”

His voice was wrecked, fraying at the edges like burnt rope. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, red fingerprints blooming on his lids. Gillie turned toward him, her expression unreadable.

“You sound like my brother,” Lucien snorted in annoyance. The words hit like a slap.

Gillie frowned, slowly shifting her gaze to Tamlin.

Lucien mated with Elain , Tamlin said through the bond.

And something in her lungs just stopped working for a moment. Oh? she almost gasped, but the shock didn’t show on her face. 

“There are… delicate updates in the situation that you all should keep in mind while proceeding with our plans,” Tamlin said, clearing his throat, though the sound of it cracked like dry bark. His shoulders were set rigidly, but his hand tightened slightly on the arm of his chair.

Gillie watched the way the noblemen reacted, the moment Tamlin began speaking about Hybern, a hush rippled through the room, slow and suffocating. As if the name alone had sucked the air straight out of their lungs. Even the distant birdsong outside the windows felt like it’d dimmed into silence. Something cold and slick slid into the space between them, between all of them, as the words spilled from Tamlin’s mouth. Words that painted blood, magic and treachery.

“That only enforces the suspicion that Feyre shall attempt to free—or reunite with—her sisters in the Night Court,” Rihard said, flatly, his usually boisterous voice low now. He leaned forward, the rough palm of his hand pressing onto the map spread across the table. The parchment crinkled faintly beneath his fingers.

Gillie nodded, jaw tight. Her mouth tasted of metal. “Your people should keep their eyes open at all times, my lords,” she said, sweeping her gaze across the table. “If there are to be any provocations, we act accordingly. We don’t assume it’s coincidence.”

“Which is,” Tamlin added, voice clipped, “to play along with it. Feed the illusion. Erase any suspicions.” His hands were clasped together now, the bones of his knuckles stark under his skin.

The weight of it all settled heavy in the room again, until the scrape of the armchair broke it.

“I need a stiffer drink,” Lucien muttered. He stood without looking at anyone, his face unreadable, and left the room. No one tried to stop him.

Gillie’s eyes followed him until he vanished into the hallway’s shadowed corridor. Her stomach tensed. Something in the way he'd moved seemed fractured.

She turned her head to Tamlin, who was already watching her. He gave her a small nod.

Excuse me,” she murmured, and followed.

The kitchen was full of quiet rustlings—staff moved about in hushed, practiced motions. The scent of roasted herbs, lemon, and fresh bread clung to the air, clashing against the sharp sting of what Lucien was now rummaging through: a tall glass cabinet filled with amber-hued bottles, the kind no one touched unless it was specifically asked for them to be served. 

“Hey,” she called softly, not wanting to startle him. Her voice brushed against the space between them like fingers trailing through fog.

Lucien didn’t look at her, just kept rifling until his hand closed around a familiar bottle—deep brown glass, label torn at the edges. Bourbon, quite expensive one. He pulled the cork out with a pop, raw and messy, like everything else in his head right now.

“Talk to me,” Gillie said, her voice low but firm. She leaned over the marble counter, her hair spilling over one shoulder like a fall of lavender silk. Her body language was open, inviting, unafraid of his silence. He could trust her with it.

“I don’t like what’s happening, Gils,” Lucien muttered, dragging the rim of the bottle to his lips. He took a long pull—no glass, just straight from the source—and winced, his mouth twisting. “Not one bit.”

His voice was too raw, stripped bare, so Gillie didn’t push.

Lucien swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “The fact that both of you are suspicious of Feyre being involved with those monsters, but…” He trailed off, staring blankly across the counter at a bowl of pears.

“But?” she nudged gently, her brow arching. She kept her hands planted on the cool marble between them.

Lucien’s fingers curled tighter around the bottle. “When Hybern tried to break her bargain with Rhys… Feyre glowed, ” he said, and his voice was quieter now. Almost like it was hurting to say. 

Gillie didn’t move, but her breath caught.

“I was—distracted,” he admitted, the shame of it curling behind his words. “But when she switched her mood so fast, like flipping a coin… something felt wrong.” He drank again, then extended the bottle toward her.

She shook her head gently. “No, thank you.”

Lucien sighed and rested the bottle on the counter with a dull thud. “I know the glow,” he said. “I’ve felt it.”

Gillie’s brows furrowed, her head tilting slightly. “That wasn’t Hybern’s magic?”

Lucien snorted, hollow and bitter. “No. It was mine.”

The silence that followed was charged. Gillie winced, mind turning over fast. “That doesn’t make sense,” she whispered, mostly to herself.

Lucien gave a joyless little laugh. “Because the only High Lord who has that power is—”

“Helion. The Spell-Cleaver,” Gillie finished, the name leaving her lips like a prayer turned accusation. Her gaze snapped to his face. “Lucien… but…”

“Yes, Gils.” He leaned in slightly, eyes sharp now. “You’re a smart girl. Go on. Finish that sentence.”

Her throat felt tight. Like something was crawling up her spine, ancient and awful.

“Was that bothering you on the council?” she asked, voice softer, stepping around the counter to reach him.

Lucien’s mask cracked just a little. His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite pain.

She reached out and squeezed his shoulder, grounding him with the simple, solid pressure of touch. His muscles jumped beneath her hand, taut with something like shame. Or grief. Or fear. Maybe all of it.

“Yes. And no.” Lucien took another sip from the bottle, the bourbon burning its way down. “I mean… I get it. The suspicion and all. I get that I’m probably completely compromised now. Feyre is my friend— actual friend, Gills. And her sister…” He dragged a hand through his hair, the strands slipping through his fingers like soft silk. “Her sister is my mate. I’m not impartial anymore. I know that. But I just don’t want this to turn into some rat race. A witch-hunt for something that might not even be real.”

Gillie watched him carefully, her expression unreadable. Then she exhaled and crossed her arms over her chest, the velvet of her jacket creasing softly. “Alright,” she said, tilting her head, voice mild but threaded with mischief. “How about I tell Tamlin we can’t trust you, but we keep a little council of our own instead?”

A sly smile tugged at her mouth.

Lucien pointed at her, squinting. “ That —what you just said—that’s borderline treason talk.” He snorted, not sounding the least bit disapproving. He sipped again.

“ You’re the one telling me that?” Gillie barked a laugh, snatching the bottle from his hand. “How long have we been running side plans behind everyone's backs? Playing double agents while smiling sweetly in court meetings?” She raised a brow. “You’re the Spymaster, Lucien. Keep up.”

He didn’t argue.

She grinned, setting the bottle between them. “So here’s what we’ll do. Keep your eyes wide open. Watch her. Shadow her. Be so close it feels like you’re stitched to the damn back of her dress. Play along with whatever game she’s playing, or thinks she’s playing. And if there’s something to find—I’ll know. Tamlin doesn’t need to. Not yet.”

Lucien blinked at her for a moment, then shook his head slowly, a smirk curling across his lips. “Look at you being all fun again,” he murmured, and for a flicker of a heartbeat, he looked so much like Eris that it nearly knocked the breath from Gillie’s lungs. The same curve of the mouth. The same glint in the eyes—equal parts trouble and brilliance.

She shook her head with a quiet, awed scoff.

“Fine,” he said at last, holding her gaze. “I’ll report back to you. Whatever I can get close enough to hear.” He reached for the bottle again, lifted it to his lips. “But for show, kick me off the council. Make it convincing.”

“Oh, I can absolutely do that,” Gillie muttered under her breath, laughing through her nose.

Then she glanced around the kitchen. Her eyes landed on a polished fruit bowl—a pretty ceramic thing, hand-painted with figs and vines. She swept her arm out and pushed it off the counter. The bowl shattered against the stone floor in a burst of ceramic and bruised peaches. The staff jumped, several freezing mid-step with trays and baskets in their hands.

“ Run in scare, ” she whispered behind her hand to the nearest maid, who immediately nodded and bolted with a dramatic gasp. The others followed—heels clacking loud and panicked as they scattered down the hall, wailing and flailing just enough to sell the drama.

Gillie didn’t stop. She picked up a dirty plate and hurled it at the wall. It burst into jagged porcelain, shards skittering across the floor.

“Your cue,” she said to Lucien without looking, her voice casual.

Lucien rolled his neck with an exaggerated stretch and muttered under his breath, “Cauldron boil me, Gillie, I told you, I will not participate in this madness!”

His voice boomed through the kitchen, trembling the glass in the cabinets. It took effort not to grin.

“Well then you might as well leave!” Gillie barked back, barely stifling her laugh behind her hand.

Lucien grabbed a plate from the sink and launched it across the kitchen, where it cracked spectacularly against the tiled wall. “To Hell with you!” he roared, striding dramatically toward the doorway.

His timing was perfect. Tamlin and his generals were already in the hallway, eyes wide with alarm. The moment the kitchen door slammed open, they were halfway to unsheathing weapons.

“Lucien!” Tamlin’s voice rang out, sharp, commanding.

But Lucien didn’t even look back—just gave a wave of two fingers in the air, still pacing, still furious, and stormed off down the hall with a final bang of the door.

Tamlin turned to Gillie in the kitchen doorway. She was breathing heavily, cheeks flushed, glass crunching faintly beneath her boot as she stepped into view.

“What happened?” Tamlin demanded, brows drawn together, voice low.

“We’re one male less now,” she said, and cleared her throat like she hadn’t just orchestrated a theatrical political illusion. “My lords.” She gestured toward the sitting room with an elegant tilt of her chin. “Shall we return?”

Alright? Tamlin spoke in her mind, a ripple of thought behind the sternness of his expression.

Lucien is not trustworthy , Gillie replied across the thread, not missing a beat. We shall proceed without involving him.

***

“You…” Feyre’s brows pinched together as her eyes flicked across the table, nose wrinkling faintly. “Smell different.”

The way she said it wasn’t exactly accusatory—but it wasn’t kind either. Just loud enough to cut through the early hush of breakfast, still heavy with the scent of warm bread and honeyed butter, grilled peaches and fresh lavender drifting in through the open terrace doors. A breeze stirred the gauzy curtains, but the air inside the dining hall thickened.

Tamlin’s fork clattered against his plate, a sharp clang that echoed once and fell silent. Lucien, across from him, arched one of those infuriatingly perceptive eyebrows, already smirking before he even opened his mouth.

“Manners, Lady Spring,” Lucien said, tone soaked in mock politeness as he sipped his black coffee with infuriating calm. His copper lashes didn’t even twitch.

Gillie only smiled. Not the gracious, but courtly nonetheless, but the quiet curve of her lips signaled that she knew exactly where the dagger was hidden and how deeply it could cut. She nodded slowly to Feyre, eyes calm, unfazed.

“I probably do,” she murmured, brushing an invisible crumb from her lap. “You’ve been going through changes, my lady. A few... shifts in perspective. It would make sense that your perception is adjusting. The way you sense the world is different now—sharper. So, yes—my scent might strike you as something new. But it hasn’t changed. You have.”

Her voice was soft, threaded with a knowing that made Feyre’s shoulders inch just a little higher.

Tamlin exhaled through his nose, the tension in his frame coiling tighter, but he said nothing, just returned to cutting into the sausage on his plate with a little more force than necessary.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Feyre said after a moment, tone flatter now. She didn’t look at Gillie, not directly. Her gaze slid sideways toward Tamlin. “Tamlin’s scent is… quite thick on you.”

Another clang of metal on porcelain—Tamlin’s fork again.

Lucien nearly choked on his coffee, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. But it was useless. The laughter that bubbled out of him was anything but subtle.

“Not the thickest thing he could have put in her,” he muttered, voice rough with amusement.

The fork hit the plate again, sharper this time. Tamlin's jaw tightened, as if chewing stone.

Gillie’s spine snapped straight, eyes narrowing as she turned sharply to Lucien. “Are you alright?” Her voice was deceptively sweet, but the edge beneath it was visible.

Lucien grinned, eyes still dancing like firelight. He raised both hands, palms out in surrender. “Sorry. Guess I’m just in a playful mood today, that’s all.”

Gillie didn’t answer, didn’t even blink. Her fingers reached automatically for the slice of strawberry pie near her plate—fresh, red, glossy with syrup, still steaming gently—and the moment she touched the silver server, a pulse hit her temple like a whip.

It wasn’t pain at first, but pressure. Heavy. Wet. A slithering tendril of something foreign and sticky worming its way past her skull.

Her breath caught. A thick, scraping sensation dragged across the front of her mind, like claws searching for a crack. They hit the wall she had built under the willow tree—solid, pulsing faintly with the magic she and Tamlin had carved into it with sweat and silence and days of discipline.

She let the claws scrape. Let them bleed against it.

Gillie hummed low in her throat. Her head tilted slightly as she lifted her gaze to Feyre, catching her squarely in the act. There was no smile in Feyre’s eyes, there was something colder, harder. She wasn’t even being subtle.

Gillie’s lips parted in a slow, deliberate smile. She slid her glasses up the bridge of her nose with two fingers, the gesture calm, but her stare burned. She saw the discomfort bloom behind Feyre’s eyes and leaned into it.

She didn’t say fuck you outright, but she didn’t have to. The smile did it for her.

Boo! Gillie snapped in her mind and Feyre flinched, causing Tamlin’s eyes shift in her direction. 

“Found anything interesting?” Gillie asked sweetly, finally slicing a bite of pie and slipping it into her mouth. The strawberries burst against her tongue, sun-warmed and tart, with just enough sugar to coat the bite in syrup.

Feyre blinked. “What?” she said, too quickly. Then pasted on a smile, all teeth and deflection.

“I said,” Gillie murmured, voice like warm tea and poison, “did you find anything interesting since you came back home, my Lady?”

She stirred her cup gently, the clink of the spoon lazy and controlled, then took a sip as if nothing at all had happened.

Feyre gave a nervous little laugh, the kind people gave when they realized too late they’d lost a game they didn’t know they were playing. She glanced away, the sharp heat of her daemati grip dissolving as she released Gillie’s mind like dropping a hot coal.

Gillie swallowed her tea. Let the silence fill the space between them. Sweet and bitter and victorious.

***

Tamlin appeared in her room later that night, sometime after the quiet stretch of dinner had dissolved into silence. He looked wrecked—bone-deep tired in a way that went beyond politics and war councils and keeping too many secrets. 

Without a word, he shoved his boots under the velvet-lined chair near the hearth. His baldric was tossed next, the buckle clinking dully as it caught the edge of the armrest before sliding down. He peeled his tunic off a bit clumsy, tired fingers tugging until it came loose from his back, leaving him in just his trousers, his chest rising and falling with tight, clipped breaths. He rubbed at his eyes, then dropped his hands and gave her a worn-out smile that barely tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

Gillie was already curled up in bed, one knee tented under the sheets, the other foot peeking from the edge of the blancket, her glasses slipping down her nose. She hadn't moved since he'd walked in, just stayed there with the book he’d left her a week ago open in her lap, like she’d known he’d eventually come, like she'd been waiting for him all along. Her eyes stayed on him, soft but steady, the room awash in the amber glow of the low-burning oil lamp beside her.

“Leandro and Ellio moved the majority of the people to the East. Patrik’ll oversee the arrangements for Feyre’s safety. Lucien is being Lucien,” Tamlin muttered, voice hoarse and half-slurred with exhaustion as he collapsed into the mattress. The bed dipped with his weight, and he didn't bother pulling the sheets back, just crawled toward her across the coverlet, the scent of sun-warmed leather and iron trailing with him. “And Tamlin… is tired.” He buried his face against the side of her hip, breathed her in like she was the only thing left in the world worth living. 

“What about Jurian?” Gillie asked, removing her glasses and setting them on the bedside table with a muted clack. The book followed with a careful thud.

Tamlin grunted, his voice muffled against her. “Arriving tomorrow. With the twins-from-hell in tow.”

Gillie raised a brow, dragging her fingers through the tousled strands of his hair. “And what does he think of the… current arrangements?”

Tamlin sighed through his teeth, flipping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling like it might have the energy to groan back at him. “He finds the entire Team Night Court extremely dimwitted,” he said, deadpan. “And would rather collaborate with Hybern than agree to play double-agent and endure Rhysand jerking himself off to the sound of his own voice. So I may calm my tits and trust him.”

She snorted. Tamlin shrugged.

“Verbatim,” he added flatly. “His handwriting, not mine.”

That broke her. Gillie barked a laugh and shoved at his shoulder with enough force to roll him back onto his side. Tamlin grinned lazily and leaned up to kiss her.

“No,” she said instantly, palm meeting his cheek with a soft slap. He pulled back, blinking. “She’s one wing away from us.” Gillie said, tone dry as sand, eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Tamlin frowned. “She never goes to this wing after you scared her shitless with your overly friendly demeanor when she was still human,” Tamlin waved that off like it was ancient history. 

Gillie’s face shifted. “She already scented me on you, remember?”

Tamlin’s voice dropped low. “And what of it?”

He rolled his eyes, fingers hooking around her ankles before she could shift away from him. He tugged, hard enough that she slid down the bed with a small gasp, her legs parted beneath him before she could protest. He settled there—between her thighs like it was the most natural place to be, like he'd lived there and was finally home again.

Tamlin's grin was lazy and wolfish as his fingers pushed the hem of her soft, oversized tunic up, revealing her lower belly. The candlelight flickered over her skin, throwing shadows into the gentle swell there—rounded, firm, glowing faintly under his touch.

“She’ll keep scenting me,” he murmured, dipping down to kiss the warm curve of her belly. His voice had a dangerous softness to it. “You know she will. But you’re the one who made her assume it’s because she doesn’t know better, so let her stew in that.” His lips brushed lower. Another kiss. Then another. “Besides… kiss or not, fuck or not…” His hand slid across her skin, slow, until his finger pressed lightly to her bellybutton. “This—” he said softly, with something like awe in his voice, “—will still be here. Until you pop like a ripe cherry.”

He smiled again, lifting his gaze to meet hers—her skeptical, tense, exhausted gaze—and held it like a dare. Then he laid his cheek down on her belly as if it were a holy place, like he expected the life within to whisper secrets directly into his bones. He went still, listening—ears tuned, breath shallow, one hand curved protectively along her side.

Gillie exhaled slow. Her fingers found his hair, buried in it, petting in slow strokes. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, her voice low, tired. “We won’t be able to cover this up for much longer,” she murmured, her thumb tracing slow circles behind his ear. “Hopefully she gets going with whatever she’s up to, and soon.”

“You will stay in your house for the time Jurian visits,” Tamlin said abruptly, the words a sharp cut through the light mood, his voice low but firm. He bent and pressed another kiss to her belly, longer this time, lingering like he thought it might be the last time he got to do it freely. His lips skimmed across the thin stretch of skin with something that trembled, something protective and frightened and desperate to pretend he wasn’t any of those things. “I’m not risking Hybern finding out about this and using it to hurt you just to get back at me.”

Gillie opened her mouth, half-formed protest on her tongue. The kind that would’ve come with a cocked brow and some sarcastic remark about overreaction. But it didn’t come. Something in his voice stopped her, quieted her rebellion with that tight undertone of fear he couldn’t quite hide. His hands on her belly trembled just slightly. And she thought, just this once… maybe missing out wouldn’t hurt. Not if it bought him a sliver of peace, a crack of stillness in the chaos he was drowning in.

“Rihard is staying with with you, bringing his best people,” Tamlin said quietly, almost to himself, like he was trying to convince his own nerves. “I shan’t visit for a while.”

He swallowed thickly, both hands now cupping the curve of her belly like it could anchor him. Like it was the only part of the world he still had control over. He looked down at it—at them —and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Gillie reached for him, brushing her fingers through the golden strands near his temple, drawing him back to her. Her expression was calm. Resigned. Gentle.

“I get it,” she said simply, voice soft with understanding. “Erasing suspicions and all.” She let out a breath, then smiled faintly and tucked a knuckle under his chin, lifting his face to meet her gaze. “You may be calm, my Lord. I shall allow you to protect me. Allowed it a long time ago.”

Tamlin blinked, and to her surprise, a flush bloomed across his cheeks. He gave her a sheepish, almost boyish smile, the kind he rarely let anyone see.

“Thank you,” he said, dragging the words out dramatically, heavy with sarcasm. “Very generous of you.” Then the mischief crept back in, quick and unrepentant. “Now take your clothes off,” he said, already grinning, “I still need to escort you to your house under the cover of darkness like we’re doing something scandalous.”

With a flourish, he snapped the waistband of her britches and tugged them down. Gillie laughed—loud, warm, head-tossed-back, rib-shaking kind of laughter. She laughed so hard it made her vision spot and her stomach tighten like a drum. 

“Don’t be stupid, alright?” Tamlin said suddenly, serious now, like the mood swing had cracked something in him. “I know you can use your sword. I know you’re fast. But if there’s a fight… don’t run into it. Run away from it instead.”

His body was over hers now, one elbow braced on each side of her head, his hips pressed between her thighs, and his cock resting against the heat of her. He was still inside that moment of deadly seriousness, like his mind was two steps ahead, already picturing blood on the snow, blades drawn, and her body lost somewhere in the aftermath. His green-gold eyes were locked on her face—desperate, pleading, quietly terrified.

And the contrast was almost unbearable. How someone so powerful, so brutal in the eyes of the world, could be so tender here. So gentle. Careful. The way he hovered above her—never letting his full weight settle, afraid to crush her, afraid to crush them —it broke something inside her.

Gillie’s smile faltered. Her hand rose again, trembling slightly as she traced the sharp line of his cheekbone with the pads of her fingers. She drank in his face like she needed to memorize it. Like she'd forget the exact shade of his eyes or the freckle on the edge of his jaw if she blinked too long.

“I promise, darling,” she whispered, voice catching just enough to make his brow twitch. She nodded once, slow, and he sagged a little in relief, shoulders loosening, breath escaping like he'd been holding it all night.

Tamlin leaned down, brushing his mouth over hers in a kiss that tasted like gratitude, like a plea, like something stolen from a dream. And then he shifted, guided himself, and slid into her slowly, inch by inch.

All of this was so soft, so devastatingly soft. Not hurried or hungry, not like the frenzied fucking of desperate people needing to forget. This was a slow-burning ache of love and loss and something too heavy to name.

Every movement felt like a goodbye.

And Mother above, maybe it was. Maybe in some part of both their minds, they knew this could be the last time. The world was spinning faster now, dragging them toward some cliff they couldn’t see yet. But here, in this dim-lit room with their bodies pressed together and her hand on his chest and his heart thudding fast beneath it—it felt like time had slowed, just enough to make space for this one moment.

Chapter Text

“Entertain my curiosity, Blossom—”

Eris moved through the sitting room with the lazy, confident gait of someone who owns every inch of the space without needing to prove it. His steps were unhurried, the soft tap of his boots on the floor barely breaking the silence. He reached the coffee table, fingers curling around a glass of deep crimson wine resting on the tray. Without missing a beat, he swirled the liquid before lifting the glass, and then, with a sudden, playful lean, he pressed a quick, warm kiss to Gillie’s cheek. 

“-when were you planning to tell me you’re with a babe?” His brow lifted in mock accusation, eyes sharp but warm, like he was half offended and half delighted all at once.

Gillie felt a flush bloom across her cheeks, her lips twitched into a crooked smile, lopsided and unguarded. She was nestled deep into the worn, larger armchair, her legs curled up on the wide armrest, the fabric of her dress whispering against her calves. She closed the book she’d been reading, but left her glasses perched on her nose. Her hand slipped almost unconsciously to her belly, the subtle swell growing more visible since Tamlin had sent her home, protected beneath the watchful eyes of Rihard and a small detachment of sentries. 

“Who told you, may I ask?” Her voice was light, but edged with a tiny hint of defensiveness. “I assumed we took precautions for the secret to die between us.”

Eris took a slow sip from his wine, savoring the taste before setting the glass back down with a soft clink. He let his gaze drift over her again, slow and measured, as if reading the truth written across her curves and the subtle changes in her posture. “Taking into consideration that you look like you’re carrying a ripe watermelon under your dress,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a half-smirk, “I’d say the precautions should have been taken beforehand, not as a post-factum.”

Gillie laughed, the sound light and bubbling like a spring creek over smooth stones, the sound made the room feel warmer.

“My brother mentioned the Fire Night,” Eris said quietly, his smile softened, losing some of its teasing edge. “And since this house reeks of Tamlin differently than if he’d just fucked you, I’ve concluded that you, Blossom, are carrying a Calanmai Miracle babe.”

Gillie barked a laugh, sharp and full of amusement. “Calanmai Miracle, huh?” she teased, her eyes sparkling with delight. Eris snorted softly in response.

He raised his glass again, taking another sip before pulling a sheaf of papers from the front pocket of his cobalt jacket. Gillie reached for them, and skimmed the courtly notes. Her maid appeared silently with a tray—steaming tea pot and a delicate cup full with it already, another glass of wine for Eris, and a selection of snacks. The scents mingled with the faint perfume of blooming lilacs outside the window, wrapping around them in a cocoon of comfort.

Eris began to fill her in—their desperate Winter Court chase for Feyre and Lucien, the sudden, startling appearance of Cassian and Azriel, their unexpected declaration naming Feyre the High Lady. As Gillie pushed her glasses up and set them carefully atop the papers, she cradled her tea with both hands, the warmth seeping into her fingers and calming the flutter of nerves that danced beneath her ribs.

“To be frank with you, I didn’t expect Lucien would betray us, not for the—” He stopped mid-sentence, lifting the wine glass to his lips but letting the words hang unfinished in the air. Then, eyes glinting with mischief, he gave her a slow once-over. “Oh, you cheeky thing,” he said with an amused lilt, and a sly smile spread over Gillie’s face in response. But then he straightened, voice dropping to a teasing growl: “Nice try, Blossom…lying to me? That’s new. What game are you playing? What role does my brother play in it?”

Gillie swallowed a gulp of the hot, fragrant tea before reaching for a cookie from the tray—one with a jewel-like orange gem that caught the sunlight. The delicate sweetness and crumbly texture made her hum in satisfaction. “I cannot really say anything since it’s exclusively between me and your brother. I hope you understand, Muzzle.”

Eris threw his head back and howled in approval, unabashed and hearty, before snagging a piece of cheese and savoring it with a slow chew. “Canoodling behind the High Lord’s back… mmm… I like it. That is rich! Delicious, Blossom. I taught you well.” He wiped his hands with a napkin from the tray ad stood. “Very well. Have to run, but with these new developments, I have to caution you, Blossom: if you’re not going to invite me for the mating ceremony, I shall abduct your spawn.” He poked her gently but firmly in the soft curve of her pregnant belly and planted another quick kiss on her cheek.

“Eris,” Gillie laughed, breathless and light, watching him already moving toward the door. Then, softer, almost a whisper, she added, “The healer said it’s a girl.” Her voice trembled with the fragile pride and hope she’d been holding back. “Erinys, we shall name her… Tamlin approves.”

Eris paused, his usual smirk frozen just so, lips twitching with a secret only he could understand. But his eyes softened, the amber glow mellowing into something quieter, almost adoring.

“Sentiment is such a ghastly little thing,” he muttered, fingers twitching as he slid his hands into his pockets, trying to mask whatever tug was pulling at his insides. Then, with a wink and that same lazy, dangerous charm, he said, “Send for me if you will need anything.” And just like that, he vanished down the hall, leaving behind the lingering scent of roasted chestnuts.

***

“I’m not going, and that’s final.”

His voice was low, thick with that raw, guttural force that made it feel like the walls themselves shook in response. It was a storm rumbling through the very bones of her family home. Outside, the murmurs of the Rihard’s sentries drifting lazily through the garden during their smoking break fell abruptly silent. Heads snapped toward Gillie’s window, eyes narrowing through the dusk light, and she had to cross the cool wooden floor in a quick, tight breath to slam the windows shut, dragging the heavy curtains closed in one smooth, tense motion. The air thickened around her, the faint scent of crushed lavender mingling with the sharp tang of damp earth pressing through the glass.

Tamlin hadn’t darkened her doorstep in months. That was the way of things now, calculated and careful. For a solid hour, they’d been circling the same argument, the weight of Rhysand’s letter hanging between them like a bitter smoke.

Gillie sighed, the sound soft but edged with exhaustion that ran deep beneath her skin. “You can’t just hide from them. This war is bigger than your pride.”

Her fingers moved with a slow grace as she slipped off the velvet robe. Heat flushed her cheeks and chest, skin flushed beneath the robe, but when it fell away, she was left bare in a delicate nightgown—light, almost translucent—clinging to the swell of her belly. She gathered her long hair with a careless tenderness, twisting it into a messy bun that freed her neck, letting strands fall loose around her face. Her hand landed on her hip with a quiet defiance.

Tamlin’s eyes darkened, watching her with something fierce and hungry, but when he spoke, the fire dimmed briefly, replaced by a sharp wince. “Pride? You think this is about pride?” His voice cracked, a rough edge slicing through the tension. “They’ve already judged me. Sat in their courts and whispered behind their hands like I’m some traitor, like I handed over Prythian on a silver platter.”

Her shrug was careless, but the weight behind it was solid, undeniable. “Because, in their eyes you let Hybern in.”

“As well as I did it for her. For Feyre.” Tamlin’s voice dropped, raw and aching. “And look where that got me. My court in shambles. My name dragged through the mud.” His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white beneath the tension. “And now you want me to sit at a table with them—with him —and beg for their forgiveness?” He sighed, a deep, ragged sound, a surrender laced with bitterness.

“It’s not about forgiveness. It’s about doing what’s right. About stopping Hybern.” Her words dropped between them, firm but calm. 

Tamlin’s jaw tightened, the muscles twitching with every stubborn beat of his heart. “They don’t want me there. None of them do.” His voice was rough, a low growl against the quiet night. “They’ve already chosen sides, and I’m not on any of them. If they want me to play the villain, so be it. I’m done dancing for people who only want to see me fall.”

He dropped down onto the ottoman, the leather creaking beneath his weight, but Gillie stayed standing, feeling the coolness of the floor seep through her bare feet. The tension between them was thick like storm clouds ready to break. She felt the nervous twitch in the corner of her lips—a grin that barely masked the sharp edge of uncertainty—and Tamlin caught it too.

“What?” His voice was softer now, curious but cautious.

“How many of them do you think are on your side?” she asked quietly, folding her arms.

Tamlin rolled his eyes, rubbing the arc of his nose in a tired gesture. “What did you do?”

Gillie smirked with that wicked spark he knew too well. “Let’s just say, I’ve arranged a couple of visits with some irrelevant people who settled our affairs with the important ones.”

She moved gracefully to sit beside him, turning her whole body toward him. The air between them pulsed, the scent of her lavender hair mixing with the faint trace of earth and sweat lingering on Tamlin’s skin.

“Beron is on you,” she said with a grimace, the word tasting bitter. “I cannot go through that pig of a male in centuries.”

Tamlin’s disappointment was sharp, a visible crease knitting between his brows. “Gillie, I asked you to lay low, love,” he said, defeated, his voice low but edged with frustration.

“And I did?” she shot back with a sly smile, unapologetic and fierce.

“We are not going anywhere,” Tamlin said finally, cutting through the air like a knife.

“Tamlin, I respect your judgment,” she raised a hand between them.

“Here we go,” he sighed, bracing himself.

“And you are my mate and I love you—”

“Uh-huh—”

“But you are being incredibly stubborn,” she finished, voice light but sharp. “May I be frank with you, my Lord?” Gillie shifted, slipping into that courtly tone he hated—polished, mocking, yet still laced with genuine care.

“When aren’t you?” he shot back, playing along, eyes glinting.

“Nonetheless. I have to say—”

“You don’t have to.” Tamlin raised his hand, a silent command. Gillie caught it, folding his rough fingers into hers and settling his hand on her lap.

“My Lord... may I remind you that everyone was sharing your politics before Lady Feyre appeared in our Court? Your sentries were ready to lay their lives down for your cause. Your people worshipped you. Other Courts were honored to host me as the Spring’s representative. Things changed very quickly…”

He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head with a crooked grin. “Gillie, dearest. I’m aware this may be extremely rude of me to say something like this to a lady, but... respectfully, go fuck yourself.”

The words were sharp, teasing—he caught her other hand in mid-air just as she moved to slap him, the flicker of a smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

“Is this what they think we are? Is this the illusion they believe?”

“They don’t know we still have the armies prepared. I didn’t give it away,” Gillie assured him, eyes steady, voice cool but steady like a rock beneath the crashing waves.

Tamlin looked at her, eyes dark and considering. “I said what I said.”

“Well, I am going, whether you want it or not,” Gillie snapped, standing with a fierce flare. The cool air brushed her skin as she moved, wrapping the night around her like a cloak. “In light of what they do know, I am basically acting on my own accord while you’re crying over your runaway bride and your Court in shambles.”

With a swift motion, she crawled into bed, pulling the blanket up with a sharp swoosh that slapped Tamlin square across the face. He grunted, falling back with a soft thud, the room filling with the sound of the blanket’s final snap and the heavy, tense silence that followed.

***

The chamber was warm with sunlight and thick with waiting.

Gillie’s footsteps were a slow echo against the polished marble, her heels barely whispering despite the long hem of her gentle pink silk gown brushing with each step. The scent of peonies in her flower crown and sun-warmed soil curled around her, gilding the hush with a false sense of peace. The air had a bite to it—fresh mountain air laced with magic and the spice of scents of too many power-bloated males seated in a perfect circle, pretending not to size one another up.

She arrived just after Tarquin and Helion, her entrance purposeful but unhurried, every movement deliberate. Her flower crown—woven with pink and white peonies, ranunculus and soft tulips—sat proud atop her silvery-lavender hair, a reminder of exactly where she came from. She was alone, but not helpless nor she was useless.

“Lady Courtier,” Rhysand purred from across the circle before she'd even properly stepped within it. He inclined his head lazily, the shine of that violet gaze already dissecting her, roaming over the round solid swell of her belly. “What a treat, yet not a surprise your High Lord preferred to ignore the invitations and send his precious flower who does all of the work for him.”

Gillie didn’t pause. She returned his gaze with the same flat, unreadable poise she’d learned under Caelan’s roof. “Lord Rhysand,” she said with a shallow bow of her head, each word dipped in frost. “My Lord is extremely busy as of late, since there are adjustments to be made in our Court.”

Her attention slid straight to Feyre, acknowledging nothing, yet saying enough.

“Gillie, my dear!” Helion crossed the marble floor in a swish of golden robes and sweeping heat, arms outstretched. He swooped her up like a child, lifting her off the ground into a tight, spinning embrace.

She exhaled a laugh despite herself as her feet left the floor, air tugging at her sleeves, her crown wobbling.

“I’ve imported at least a hundred precious tomes you would die to look at, next time you are visiting,” Helion said with a wink as he set her gently back down and cupped her pregnant belly. The smell of sun and sandalwood clung to him like a second skin.

“I am grateful for the privilege, Helion,” Gillie replied with warmth, smoothing her gown back down as his hands slid off, admiring her with a soft glare.

Her gaze flicked to the other side of the room. “Lord Vanserra,” she said, lifting her hand in a poised wave.

Eris returned her greeting with a shallow bow, a warm smile curling his lips. Mor made a face like she’d bitten into something sour.

“My Lord sends his regards to all of you,” Gillie continued smoothly, “and hopes for this meeting to be highly resultative.”

“Of course,” Rhysand cut in cold, clipped. Wine sloshed in his glass, his fingers tight around the stem.

Gillie turned her head slightly, her silver-gray eyes narrowing just enough to flicker. “Forgive me for frivolity, Lord Rhysand,” she said, tilting her head. “But as I am aware, you aren’t the one who deems it inappropriate or unacceptable to use your best people to do your job for you. Why the double standards?”

She stepped forward, one pace, and her voice dropped, velvety and sharp as a thorn. “Last time I checked, the courtier’s job is exactly that—to represent their monarchs at important events and negotiations, and deliver their interests and suggestions in good time where it is acceptable. Surely, I’m not the one to suggest you take a cold chip off your shoulder since you’re chasing a goal to unite the Prythian…”

A pause. She lifted one brow, just a touch. The rest of her breath froze in her chest, stifled before it could become a full laugh, because somewhere across the room, Eris snorted with his brothers joining him and Tarquin let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“…but then again,” she said, “I am indeed representing the interests of my High Lord and the Spring Court.”

Rhysand’s smile turned teethless and razor-thin.

“I think the Lady Courtier just delicately suggested you shut the fuck up, Rhysand,” Helion muttered, clearing his throat with a theatrical cough. “But that’s just me. I could misunderstand.” He raised his palms in mock surrender, barely hiding the grin tugging at his mouth.

Gillie kept her eyes pinned on Rhysand. Feyre’s expression had curdled into something sharp, something quiet and violent, her eyes betrying her and landing on Gillie’s belly every once in a while. That face screamed: next time we meet in a hallway, you better run.

“It was a joy to share a chat with you, Lady Courtier,” Rhysand said eventually, spitting the title like it left a foul taste on his tongue.

He turned without waiting for a reply, gliding toward his chair with shadows clinging to his heels.

Cassian lingered a moment longer, eyes flicking between her and Rhysand before stepping away. Gillie met his gaze with a soft half-smile, nothing more. It startled him enough to make him blink before following Mor and Azriel without another word.

Nesta watched her the longest. High chin. Coiled posture. Measuring. And then, slowly, Nesta nodded—short, stiff—and uncrossed her arms. She followed her sister without a word.

They all began to take their seats. Not one empty chair left. It said enough about Tamlin’s plans, about his intentions.

Gillie’s spine straightened as the marble began to hum.

She barely breathed as the air split like a wound torn open.

Tamlin did not use the landing balcony. He did not arrive flanked by warriors. He did not winnow with grace. He cracked into the chamber like thunder—raw, brutal, the scent of earth and storm flooding in with him. Magic slapped the floor in a silent shockwave. Shields shimmered to life in layers of light and heat and chill, a chorus of silent spells cast in less than a second.

The High Lords all froze. Even Rhysand’s bored expression twisted tight with something sharp.

Tamlin didn’t look at any of them.

He looked at Feyre and he smiled. That wolf’s smile, the one he wore when he was full of rage and absolutely calm. The one that said: I remember every name, every face, every cut made to my court, and I do not forget.

Gillie rose automatically, ready to give him his seat, her pulse in her ears. But Tamlin’s golden-green eyes turned to her. He lifted a hand, slow, palm down— sit. And then he dragged a spare chair from the outer circle, brought it beside hers with a screech against marble, and sat.

It was a tinge too small for him, it wasn’t fit for his rank, not the way the High Lord chairs were. But he didn’t adjust, didn’t fuss. He just sat beside her, elbow on the side of her chair, his shoulder brushing hers, anchoring her in place with the quiet weight of… 

You were right. Get over yourself , he sent down the bond.

Gillie blinked, her lips parting just slightly—then nodded, breath catching somewhere deep in her chest. They sat. Together.

And the room—already thrumming with power—shifted. Changed. Tensed.

Beron drawled, “I will admit, Tamlin, that I’m surprised to see you here.”

Tamlin didn’t look at him. Didn’t even blink. His gaze stayed on Gillie. On every breath she took, as if the rest of the room were blurred out and she was the only point of focus holding him steady.

“Rumor claims your allegiance now lies elsewhere,” Beron added lazily.

Tamlin’s eyes finally moved—to Feyre. To the ring on her finger. To the tattoo snaking under the sheer, icy-blue sleeve of her gown. Then up—to the crown perched atop her head.

Helion waved a scar-flecked hand, his voice bright and unbothered. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

Thesan cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the charged air. No one looked his way.

Not as Tamlin shifted his gaze again—lowered it to where Rhysand’s hand rested on Feyre’s knee. The loathing there—sharp, poisonous—simmered behind his golden-green eyes, quiet but unmistakable.

He opened his mouth. Gillie braced.

“It would seem congratulations are in order.”
The words were flat. Flat—and yet honed to a blade’s edge. Sharp as his claws, currently hidden beneath golden skin.

Feyre didn’t respond. Not a breath, not a flicker.

Rhysand looked past Tamlin, straight to Thesan, who had reclaimed his seat but still looked as if he were standing on a knife’s edge. “We can discuss the matter at hand later.”

Tamlin’s voice stayed smooth, almost polite. “Please, don’t stop on my account.”

Rhysand leaned back, his posture deceptively casual as he withdrew his hand from Feyre’s knee, fingers now tracing slow, idle circles along the wooden arm of his chair.

“I’m not in the business of discussing our plans with enemies.”

Across the reflection pool, Helion’s grin cut across his face like a blade—wide, wolfish.

“No,” Tamlin replied with equal ease, “you’re just in the business of fucking them.”

Tamlin , Gillie sent down the bond, sharp now, yanking his attention to her.

I have to say what I have to say, he growled back, the words coiled tight, bristling.

Rhysand’s inner circle was still as death. Not a twitch, not a whisper—but fury rolled off them like a heat wave. Razor-edged and ready to detonate.

Whether Tamlin noticed or cared that three of the most lethal people in the room were now carefully planning his demise, he didn’t show it. Not even a flicker.

Rhysand only shrugged, his faint smile returning like a slap. “Seems a far less destructive alternative to war.”

A single claw slid out of Tamlin’s knuckle.

“And yet here you are,” he said, voice low and venomous, “having started it in the first place.”

Rhysand blinked. 

Kallias tensed, his breath visibly hitching in the cold-drenched air around him. One pale hand drifted to the carved arm of Viviane’s chair, not touching her, but close—like instinct would shove him bodily in front of her if things went sideways. His jaw clenched, knuckles whitening against the frosted wood.

But Tamlin didn’t strike.

He only dragged a single claw down the ornate curl of his own chair’s armrest, the sound a slow scratch, delicate and deliberate as a blade over silk.

“If you hadn’t stolen my bride away in the night, Rhysand,” he said, voice low, saturated with old venom, “I would not have been forced to take such drastic measures to get her back.”

Feyre’s voice was quiet—icy. Controlled. “The sun was shining when I left you.”

Tamlin’s eyes slid to her then. Green, glassy, foreign. Not quite seeing her, not quite not. He let out a low, humorless snort, then turned away again. As if her words hadn’t touched him at all. As if they bounced off some thick, bitter armor he'd built inside himself long ago.

Kallias, still brimming with quiet restraint, asked carefully, “Why are you here, Tamlin?”

“I bartered access to my lands,” Tamlin said, voice hollow and rigid, “to get back the woman I loved from a sadist who plays with minds as if they are toys. I meant to fight Hybern—to find a way around the bargain I made with the king once she was back.”

He turned his head, gaze sharp now. Accusing.

“Only Rhysand and his cronies had already turned her into one of them. And she delighted in ripping open my territory for Hybern to invade. All for a petty grudge—either her own… or her master’s.”

“You don’t get to rewrite the narrative,” Feyre breathed. Her eyes burned. “You don’t get to spin this to your advantage.”

Tamlin angled his head toward Rhysand. The hatred in that look was thick and glistening. It clung to the air, heavy as oil.

“When you fuck her,” he said, voice just above a whisper, “have you ever noticed that little noise she makes right before she climaxes?”

Beron beamed like it was his name day.

Eris, stone-faced beside him, didn’t flinch—just studied. Measured. Waiting for someone to draw first blood.

Rhysand’s head turned, his gaze sliding to Gillie. A full, slow sweep from head to toe—measuring her, gauging her—then back to Tamlin. His posture remained loose, but the storm behind his eyes swelled dangerously.

But it wasn’t Rhysand who spoke. It was Azriel. His voice was soft, but it carried like death through the air, ice-cold and sharp enough to draw blood.

“Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.”

A pause. The tension in the room quivered. Then—

“There is no such thing,” Gillie said at last, and the crack of her voice across the room yanked attention toward her like a whip. Her tone wasn’t raised, but it was clear . Merciless. Just enough edge to sting like truth.

“Just because your brother proclaimed she is,” Gillie went on, “doesn’t mean she’s the equal of any High Lord sitting in this room. The title gives her no greater power—just the reassurance that her male will do whatever she pleases to keep her from nagging.”

A hush—then howls.

Whistles. Harsh laughs. Snorts of approval. Nods of agreement. Echoes of her words spilled into the room like spilled wine across a snow-white linen tablecloth—dark, staining. The High Lords, openly or not, drank it in like a toast.

Surprise flickered in Tamlin’s eyes—fast, fleeting—before something else swallowed it whole.

Rage.

It ignited in him like dry grass. The realization of what that tattoo on Feyre’s hand really meant hit him squarely in the gut, and the fury that followed was molten.

“It wasn’t enough to sit at my side, was it?” he hissed, a hateful smile twisting his mouth. “You once asked me if you’d be my High Lady. And when I said no…” he let out a laugh, short and bitter, “perhaps I underestimated you. Why serve in my court… when you could rule in his ?”

Finally, Tamlin turned fully—faced the gathered High Lords and their retinues, his voice ringing through the chamber, cold and cutting.

“They peddle tales of defending our land and preserving peace. And yet she came to my lands and laid them bare for Hybern. She took my High Priestess and warped her mind—after shattering her bones for spite.”

He let the silence sit for a moment.

“And if you’re asking yourself what happened to that human girl who went Under the Mountain to save us…”

He turned to Rhysand. Pointed with his chin.

“Look to the male sitting beside her. Ask what he stands to gain—what they both stand to gain from this war. Or the lack of one. Would we fight Hybern, only to find ourselves with a Queen and King of Prythian? She’s already proved her ambition—and you all saw how he served Amarantha like a lapdog to stay untouched.”

Rhys let out a dark laugh. A slow, rolling sound. A warning. “Well played, Tamlin. You’re learning.”

Tamlin’s face contorted and his focus snapped to Kallias.

“You asked why I’m here?” Tamlin said, his voice rougher now. “I might ask the same of you.”

He jerked his chin toward the High Lord of Winter, toward Viviane—toward the few members of their retinue who had stayed silent through it all.

“You mean to tell me that after Under the Mountain… you can stomach working with him?” He pointed a clawed finger— directly at Rhysand.

And the room went still again.

The silvery glow that always seemed to shimmer around Kallias dimmed, like a snow-drenched sky gone leaden. Even Viviane, bright as starlight at his side, seemed to fade—her light drawn inward. “We came here to decide that for ourselves,” she said quietly, voice low but sure.

Across the chamber, Morigan was staring at her. Not judgmental, not confrontational. Just a quiet question in her eyes. But Viviane didn’t return the look. For the first time since they’d arrived, she didn’t glance toward her old friend. Only at her mate.

Rhysand said, soft and clear, to them and to everyone, “I had no involvement in that. None.”

Kallias’s eyes flared, sharp as blue flame. “You stood beside her throne while the order was given.”

Rhysand’s golden skin paled, just slightly. “I tried to stop it.”

“Tell that to the parents of the two dozen younglings she butchered,” Kallias spat, the words clipped and hard. “Tell them you tried.”

Rhysand’s mouth tightened, the muscles in his jaw going sharp. “There is not one day that passes when I don’t remember it,” he said—to Kallias, to Viviane, to the icy-eyed soldiers flanking them. “Not one day.”

“Remembering,” Gillie said, her voice cutting through the thick silence like the sweep of a winter wind, “doesn’t bring them back, does it?”

Rhysand met her gaze, steady and stripped bare. “No,” he said simply. “No, it doesn’t. And I am now fighting to make sure it never happens again.”

Viviane’s eyes moved between Rhysand and Kallias, pain tightening her already still features. “I was not present Under the Mountain,” she said, her arms folded tightly around her waist. “But I would hear, High Lord, how you tried to stop her.”

It sounded more like a plea than an accusation. She, too, had been unable to protect her people while she guarded what little sliver of her court she'd been allowed to keep. And the grief of it still clung to her skin like frostbite.

Rhysand said nothing.

Beron snorted. “Finally speechless, Rhysand?”

Feyre leaned into her mate and said, without bothering to lower her voice, “I believe you.”

Beron’s lip curled. “Says the woman who gave up an innocent girl’s name in her stead—for Amarantha to butcher as well.”

Rhysand’s voice was raw when he turned back to Kallias. “When your people rebelled … She was furious. She wanted you dead, Kallias.”

Viviane went still as stone, all color draining from her face.

“I convinced her,” Rhysand went on, slower now, voice fraying at the edges, “that it would serve little purpose.”

“Who knew,” Gillie murmured, gaze unreadable, voice smooth, “that a cock could be so persuasive?”

“Lady Vaelaris , ” Eris warned, his voice quiet, but edged.

Rhysand kept speaking. To Kallias, only to Kallias.

“She backed off the idea of killing you. Your rebels were dead—I thought it was enough. I thought she was finished.” He inhaled. “I only found out when you did. I think… I think she viewed my defense of you as a warning sign. She didn’t tell me any of it. And she kept me… confined.”

A beat. His throat bobbed.

“I tried to break into the minds of the soldiers she sent. But her damper on my power—it held too strong. And by the time I realized what she’d done, it was already over. She sent a Daemati with them. To—” He faltered. His voice cracked. “To shatter them. Their minds.”

Rhysand swallowed hard. “I think she wanted you to suspect me. To keep us from ever allying against her.”

“Where did she confine you?” The question came from Viviane, arms still crossed, but trembling now.

He exhaled. “Her bedroom.”

The room recoiled silently—no gasp, no words. Just a tension that curled like smoke across the cold marble.

“Stories and words,” Tamlin said, lounging again in his chair, his legs lazily crossed. “Is there any proof?”

Cassian’s chair scraped against stone as he half-rose, wings flaring. “Proof—”

“ No, ” Rhysand cut in sharply, arm shooting out. Morigan blocked Cassian’s path with a firm hand to his chest, forcing him back into his seat. “But I swear it—upon my mate’s life.”

He placed a hand atop Feyre’s, their fingers curling together like armor.

Tamlin rolled his eyes—dismissive, but there was a strain beneath it, a flicker of something he couldn’t quite choke down.

Whatever Kallias read in Rhysand’s face… whatever truth or guilt lived there, he seemed to find it.

He turned again. To Tamlin. His gaze was cold. Direct. “Why are you here, Tamlin?”

A muscle ticked in Tamlin’s jaw. His voice was taut with effort. “I am here to help you fight against Hybern.”

“Bullshit,” Cassian muttered under his breath, not even pretending to care who heard.

Tamlin’s glare snapped toward him, golden eyes burning.

“Restrain your dogs, Lord Rhysand ,” Gillie said sharply, her voice laced with scorn. “If they can’t grasp the idea of courtesy, they may as well leave the room altogether.”

Cassian leaned back in his chair with a crooked grin, folding his wings in with precise, deliberate ease. He said nothing. Just kept smiling at her.

“You’ll forgive us,” Thesan cut in, his voice smooth and cool, “if we remain doubtful. And hesitant to share any plans.”

Tamlin didn’t flinch. “Even when I have information on Hybern’s movements?” he asked, one golden eyebrow rising, almost bored.

Silence followed. Heavy. Tarquin, across the reflection pool, didn’t blink. Just watched. Listened. Calculating. Letting the Night Court tear into itself while the rest of them assessed the carnage.

Tamlin smiled at Feyre, that tight, haunted kind of smile that didn't touch his eyes. “Why do you think I invited them into my house? Onto my lands?” A low snarl curled out of him. “I told you once—I’d fight against tyranny. Did you think you alone could turn me from that?” His teeth flashed—white and sharp. “It was so easy for you to call me a monster. After everything I did. For you. For your family.”

His eyes cut to Nesta. “And yet you saw what he did Under the Mountain. Watched him crawl to her, night after night—and still spread your legs for him. Fitting, I suppose. He whored for Amarantha for decades. Why shouldn’t you be his whore in return?”

“Watch your mouth,” Morigan snapped, voice like broken glass.

“Shut yours instead, would you be so kind,” Gillie said, quiet but clear, her tone more exasperated than outraged. All heads turned. Even Tamlin’s. Her hand was on her belly, instinctively—cupping low, like she could soothe the child growing there from all the poison in the room. She shifted in her seat, the discomfort of blooming pregnancy making everything feel sharper. 

Tamlin’s gaze lingered on her. He didn’t even blink at Morigan, didn’t see her. But at Gillie, he flicked a knuckle gently across her knee in a wordless check-in, like that moment with her grounded him, reminded him there were lines he still wouldn't cross. Then he gestured lazily toward Rhysand’s wings. “Sometimes I forget what you really are. Have the masks come off now, or is this all another trick?”

“You’re starting to become tedious, Tamlin,” Helion sighed, lounging like a cat with a crown. He rested his head on a hand. “Take your lovers’ spat outside and let the grown-ups talk war.”

Gillie winced slightly, her entire body tightening from the inside out. The babe kicked, hard. She closed her eyes for a second. What a cruel moment for it. She’d thought, fleetingly, that it should’ve happened when Tamlin was touching her . He should’ve felt it too.

And then—Tamlin’s hand slid over her belly. Like he’d read the thought straight from her skin. He caught the reverberation of the second kick beneath his palm, a deep ripple of life beneath the surface. His expression didn’t change, not much, but a soft sound escaped him. Almost a hum. His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. He didn’t meet her eyes.

She didn’t dare meet his either.

“No one said war couldn’t be profitable,” Helion said with a smirk, killing the moment in its cradle.

Tamlin’s hand lifted from Gillie like he’d been burned. His lip curled back in a silent snarl, teeth bared in a flash of fury.

“Enough,” Kallias cut in, his tone glacial. “We’ve heard the opinions. Now we need to decide how to act.” His stare was a razor when it landed on Tamlin. “Are you here as Hybern’s puppet or as an ally to Prythian?”

Something changed in Tamlin. The smugness bled away, replaced by something heavier, harder. “I stand against Hybern.”

“Prove it,” Helion challenged, still smiling like a snake.

Tamlin raised a hand. A stack of parchment shimmered into being on the table beside him. “Troop maps. Ammunition. Faebane stockpiles. Everything I’ve gathered in these months.”

Helion flicked a glance at the stack. “How noble. Who’s to say it’s accurate? Who’s to say you’re not Hybern’s dog, here to lead us straight into a trap?”

“And who’s to say they’re not?” Tamlin snapped, chin jerking toward Rhysand. “You trust them ? After he served Amarantha with a smile for fifty years? You think this—whole performance—hasn’t been designed to lull you into yielding before you even realize you’re on your knees?”

“Come on,” Nesta muttered. “You can’t be serious.”

“If we’re trying to form alliances,” Thesan said tightly, “you’re doing a piss-poor job of helping.”

“I’m warning you,” Tamlin growled, “that he’s been playing this game since long before any of you knew it was being played. He only turned against her when he thought she was losing. And look how well Velaris weathered Hybern’s assault—almost like they knew it was coming. Almost like they sacrificed a few buildings, a few lesser faeries, to sell the illusion of trust.”

Gillie shifted again, legs crossing slowly—one ankle bare now beneath her gown. “Why is it,” she said lazily, “that only the Night Court heard about the attack on Adriata in time to play savior?”

“They were warned,” Varian said coolly, voice slicing through the room, “because I sent word.”

Tarquin’s head snapped toward him. “You what ?”

Gillie didn’t flinch. “Perhaps you’re working with them too. Wouldn’t be hard to imagine—you’re next in line, after all.”

“You’re insane ,” Feyre spat, turning to Gillie. “Do you even hear yourself?” She pointed sharply at Nesta. “Hybern turned my sisters into Fae—after your priestess sold them out.”

“Maybe Ianthe was already under Rhysand’s thumb.” Tamlin’s voice was casual—almost amused. “And what a tragedy, that your sisters are now young and beautiful forever. You’re a good liar, Feyre. I suppose it runs in the family.”

Nesta let out a slow, venomous laugh. “If you’re looking for someone to blame,” she said to Tamlin, “maybe try a mirror first.”

Tamlin bared his teeth. Snarled.

Cassian’s growl answered, low and sharp. “Watch it.”

Tamlin’s gaze bounced between the two of them—lingered on Cassian. On the way his wings were tucked in tight behind him. His mouth curled in disgust. “Seems like other appetites run in the Archeron family, too.”

Feyre surged forward in her chair, fury lighting every inch of her. “What do you want, Tamlin? An apology? Should I crawl back to your bed and play the obedient little wife again?”

“Why would I want spoiled goods returned to me?” Tamlin hissed, voice splintering at the edges. “The moment you let him fuck you like an—”

He never got the rest out. One heartbeat, and the filth spilled from his mouth. The next—nothing. His jaw moved. His lips opened. But no sound came out. He tried again. Silence. Not even a snarl, not even a breath.

Rhysand didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. He leaned his head against the back of his chair, casual as anything, but his eyes gleamed with something ancient and cold. “The gasping-fish look suits you, Tamlin.”

“An apology would serve well, indeed,” Gillie said, voice quiet but hard as flint. She tried—failed—not to shake with the rage that buzzed under her skin like hornets. Rage for what they’d done to her mate. Her High Lord.

Tamlin’s eyes were molten green flame, that gold flickering beneath the surface of his skin, his magic straining against Rhysand’s grip like it had claws and teeth of its own. But he was locked down. Silent. Trying and failing to speak.

“Not happening,” Rhysand drawled. “If you want proof we aren’t scheming with Hybern”—his voice took on a deceptively pleasant tone as he turned to the rest of them—“just imagine how much faster this would be if I simply sliced into your minds and made you beg to fight for me.”

Only Beron scoffed, the prick.

Eris was already shifting in his chair, a movement so smooth most didn’t clock it for what it was: a barrier between his mother and whatever the hell came next.

“Yet here I am,” Rhysand said, not even sparing Beron a glance. “Here we all are.”

Silence. Full and deep and terrible.

Then Tarquin cleared his throat. “Despite Varian’s... unsanctioned warning,” he said slowly, gaze flicking to his cousin with just enough heat to singe, “you were the only ones who came. The only ones. And yet you asked for nothing in return. Why?”

Rhysand’s voice rasped like cracked glass. “Isn’t that what friends do?”

A beat passed. Tarquin looked at Feyre. Then Rhysand. Then the rest of them. “I rescind the blood rubies,” he said finally. “Let there be no debts between us.”

“Don’t expect Amren to return hers,” Cassian muttered. “She’s grown attached.”

Varian’s mouth twitched with a barely hidden smile.

But Rhysand wasn’t done. He faced Tamlin, whose jaw clenched hard enough Gillie could see the veins in his neck. No sound still. No claws, no threats—just breathing. Rhysand said, “I believe you. That you’ll fight for Prythian.”

Kallias didn’t look moved. Helion raised one brow, unimpressed.

Rhysand let the leash loosen—not all the way, but just enough that Tamlin could speak again if he wanted to. He didn’t. Just stared.

“War is upon us,” Rhysand said to the room. “I have no interest in wasting energy arguing amongst ourselves.”

Beron laughed under his breath. “You may be inclined to believe him, Rhysand, but as someone who shares a border with his court, I’m not so easily convinced.” His eyes glinted. “Perhaps my errant son can clarify. Pray, where is he?”

Even Tamlin’s gaze flicked toward the Night Court side. Toward Feyre.

“Helping guard our city,” she said coolly.

Gillie rolled her eyes so hard her head tipped slightly with the motion. Eris snorted, his stare slanting to Nesta, who held his gaze like a sword aimed at his throat.

“Pity you didn’t bring the other sister. I hear our little brother’s mate is quite the beauty.”

Morigan’s voice sliced through the air, all silk and menace. “You still like hearing yourself talk, Eris. Good to know some things haven’t changed in five centuries.”

Eris smiled, slow and vicious. “And you still dress like a slut.”

One moment Azriel was seated. The next, the air cracked open with power and blue light as he slammed into Eris. The chair exploded into splinters. Wood flew.

“Shit,” Cassian spat, already moving—only to rebound off a solid blue wall.

Azriel had sealed the fight in. His scarred hands wrapped tight around Eris’s throat, shadows writhing around them both. Eris flailed beneath him, gagging.

“Enough,” Rhysand said flatly. Azriel didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink . “Azriel,” Rhysand barked. “ Enough. ”

Maybe the shadows hid him from the binding magic. Maybe he didn’t care. But Gillie saw movement beside her. Tamlin, standing—edging himself between her and the fight, one hand slipping behind his back to take hers. Squeezing. “Call off your overgrown bat,” Tamlin snapped.

Feyre stood before Rhysand could respond. Her legs steady despite the weight of the room. She walked toward the shield, laid a tattooed hand against the curved surface of it. “Come, Azriel.”

Azriel stilled. Then, slowly, his head turned toward her. His fingers unlocked from Eris’s throat.

Eris gasped—choked—and rolled away.

Beron struck before anyone could breathe, but Feyre’s shield was already up, her power humming against his flames. She met his eyes, unbothered. “That’s twice now we’ve handed you your asses. I’d think you’d be sick of the humiliation.”

Helion laughed. Full and delighted.

“They’re my family,” Feyre said, defiant at the raised brows her words earned.

“Oh, pardon me my uncourtly talk,” Gillie said, slithering out from behind Tamlin’s back, her voice sharp, “but no one gives a flying fuck, Feyre.”

Tamlin didn’t even try to hide his amusement.

Gillie went on, glaring at the Night Court with all the fire that lived in her belly and under her skin, “You don’t get to act like sanctimonious pricks and expect anyone to take your words seriously. Get over yourselves.”

The nerves made her chest tight, breath short. Her hand went to her sternum, to steady herself. Tamlin’s grip on her fingers tightened.

He shook his head— disgusted with the Night Court, with this whole charade. His claws slid back in, finally. He let her go gently, patted her knee once, and sat back.

But Feyre wasn’t finished. Her stare bored into Eris. “I don’t care if we’re allies. If you insult my friend again, I won’t stop him next time.”

Gillie snorted. Opened her mouth to throw something back—

Don’t , Tamlin’s voice murmured in her mind. She’s illiterate. Don’t expect her to comprehend the layers of your insults.

Gillie slapped a hand over her mouth to stop the laugh that burst out. Tamlin turned his face aside, clearly struggling not to laugh himself.

Thesan rubbed his temples. “This does not bode well.”

But Helion looked delighted. He smirked at Gillie, crossed one ankle over a knee, thighs flexing beneath his robes, and said, “Looks like you owe me ten gold marks.”

Gillie smiled, ice-cold, still watching the Night Court like she was deciding which of them to start with.

Helion flicked a hand, and Tamlin’s stack of carefully gathered documents floated to him in a drift of phantom wind. With a snap of his fingers—scarred and strong—more stacks appeared before every High Lord in the room.

He didn’t even look up as he flipped through them. Just clicked his tongue. “If all of this is accurate,” he said lazily, and Tamlin’s jaw twitched at the tone, “then I suggest two things. First—destroy the caches of faebane. If they’ve turned that shit into weapons, we won’t last long.”

Kallias’s voice was arctic. “How do you suggest we do that?”

“We’ll handle it,” Tarquin offered before anyone else could speak. Varian nodded once. “We owe them for Adriata.”

Thesan lifted a hand. “There’s no need.”

Everyone turned to him. Even Tamlin blinked.

The High Lord of Dawn merely folded his hands in his lap. “A master tinkerer of mine has been waiting for several hours. I would like her to join us now.”

Before anyone could speak, a High Fae female stepped into the circle like she’d been summoned by tension alone. She bowed quick and low—so fast Gillie barely caught more than a flash of rich brown skin and black hair that gleamed like oil in sunlight. Her clothes echoed Thesan’s—simple, utilitarian—but her sleeves were rolled up, her tunic open at the chest like she’d had to run straight from work. And her right hand—metal and gold, humming faintly with clicks and soft whirs—stole every gaze in the room. Not hidden. Not covered. Just there . Mechanical. Alive. Like Lucien’s eye.

Thesan smiled, warm and full of pride. “Nuan is one of my most skilled craftspeople.”

Gillie leaned back in her chair, a slow curl to her mouth. “You might know her better,” she said, tilting her chin toward Beron, “as the one who gave your so-called errant son back his sight—after Amarantha took his eye.”

Nuan’s nod was tight, her lips a thin, unamused line. She didn’t flinch from their eyes. She didn’t have to. She turned next to Tamlin—and Gillie—and dipped her head again. Not out of deference. Out of respect. History held her spine straight.

“And what does this have to do with the faebane?” Helion asked, sharp, irritated, already bristling.

His lover tensed beside him, but Thesan only lifted a hand—calm and clear. “We heard of it being used in the attack on Velaris,” he explained. “We thought to act before it became a fatal weakness.” He gestured toward the golden hand that still clicked softly with movement. “Nuan is more than a master tinker—she’s a skilled alchemist.”

Nuan crossed her arms, and the light caught her hand like it was catching fire. “Thanks to samples gathered after Velaris was attacked, I developed an antidote.”

Cassian stiffened. “How did you get those samples?”

Color rose in Nuan’s cheeks. “I assumed Lucien Vanserra was staying in Velaris—after what happened. I reached out.”

She didn’t look at Gillie when she said it.

But Tamlin noticed. His eyes snapped to Gillie, and he went still, muttering through the bond: I will kill you if you schemed behind my back.

Gillie’s spine went rigid, pulse low and dangerous. I have no idea what you’re talking about, she snapped back.

Tamlin’s gaze burned into her until she looked away, schooling her face, shifting her focus entirely back to Nuan.

“I contacted him a few days ago,” Nuan continued, “asked for samples. He sent them. He didn’t tell you,” she added to Rhysand quickly, “because he didn’t want to raise your hopes.”

Didn’t want to tell him , Gillie purred sweetly down the bond, because he doesn’t trust him, naturally.

Cauldron boil me, Gillie! Tamlin growled. How are you so calm about this?

Because I’ll explain later , she muttered and leaned further into her seat, letting her body stretch out—like she hadn’t just stirred a hornet’s nest and left it buzzing.

Thesan—reading the boiling silence—pressed on. “Nuan’s made a powdered version. Ingestible. In drink or food. It protects against the effects of faebane. Production has already begun in three cities.”

Tarquin frowned. “What about weapons? They had gauntlets tipped with it during the battle—used them to shatter shields.”

“They did,” Nuan agreed. “But the compound I created only protects your power. If you’re stabbed with something laced in faebane, having it in your system might help.”

“So,” Beron said, “we’re meant to trust her?” He looked to Thesan. Then to Nuan. “We’re supposed to ingest this… thing?”

Gillie leaned forward, voice silky. “Would you rather go to war powerless?”

“My master alchemists are no fools,” Thesan said tightly.

Beron didn’t blink. “Where did she come from? Who is she?”

Nuan’s voice was even, but there was steel in it. “I’m the daughter of two High Fae from Xian. They came here so their children could live better lives. If that’s what you needed to hear.”

Gillie’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

Beron shrugged. “If her family hails from Xian—who fought for the Loyalists—how do we know where her allegiance lies?”

Helion’s golden eyes flared.

“My own mother was from Xian,” Thesan said sharply. “Half of my court is. Choose your next words carefully.”

Before Beron could spit something uglier, Nuan lifted her chin. “I’m a child of Prythian. I was born here—on this land. Like your sons.”

Beron’s voice dropped into cold threat. “Watch your tone, girl.”

“She doesn’t have to watch shit, ” Feyre cut in. “Not when you spew that kind of horseshit.”

She turned to Nuan. “I’ll take your antidote.”

Beron rolled his eyes. But Eris turned.

“Father,” he said, and that alone made the room still. The way he said it—neutral, careful.

Beron narrowed his eyes. “You have something to say?”

Eris didn’t blink. “I’ve seen what faebane does.” A glance at Feyre. “It renders us helpless. If they wield it again…”

“We’ll face it.” Beron snapped. “I won’t risk our people testing out some theory.”

“It’s not a theory,” Nuan said. Her metal fingers curled into a fist, a faint hiss and click in the silence. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t tested. Proven.”

“I’ll take it,” Eris said.

Tamlin nodded once. “I will, too.”

Beron sneered. “No, you won’t. I’m sure your brothers will be devastated to hear it.”

Rhysand’s voice cut through: “Then don’t. My court will. My armies will.” A pause. “Thank you, Nuan.”

Thesan nodded in dismissal and gratitude. Nuan bowed again and vanished like smoke behind them.

And then Tamlin spoke. “At least you have armies to give it to.” His eyes didn’t leave Feyre. The smile on his face was slow. Ugly. “Though maybe that was the plan all along. Cripple my court. Watch my people burn. Or was it just for sport?”

Gillie tilted her head. “You turned the High Lord’s forces against him. What did you think would happen to the rest of our court?”

“You primed my people to fall,” Tamlin hissed, the words like knives. “And they did. Those villages you were so desperate to rebuild?” He looked to Gillie then. “Cinders. Ashes. While you all brewed antidotes and postured as saviors, I’ve been clawing my court back from nothing. Piecing together what I can—gathering my people in the East. Where Hybern hasn’t reached.”

A beat of silence. Then—

Thesan cleared his throat. “Helion. You said you had two suggestions.”

Helion flicked invisible dust from his golden sleeve. “Indeed. Though it seems Tamlin’s already halfway there. The Spring Court must be evacuated.”

All eyes turned.

“Surely,” he said to Tarquin and Beron, “your northern borders can offer shelter.”

Beron snorted. “We don’t have the resources.”

“Right,” Viviane snapped, “because every jewel in your trove needs constant polishing.”

Beron turned with a sneer. “Wives were invited as a courtesy , not as consultants .”

Viviane’s sapphire eyes lit with fury. “If this war turns, we’ll be bleeding out next to you. We get a say in that.”

Beron’s smile was cold. “Hybern will do worse than kill you. Especially a pretty little thing like you.”

Kallias didn’t speak—but his snarl rolled across the reflection pool, made the surface shudder.

Beron looked unbothered. “Only three of us here fought the last war.” He gestured to Rhysand. To Helion. “And we remember what Hybern did to females. What he saved for the High Fae who fought against him.”

His hand—gnarled and red with rings—clamped over his wife’s paper-thin arm.

Feyre said to Beron, “Get out if you’re not going to be helpful.”

The words were sharp, final.

At Beron’s side, Eris had the sense to actually look concerned. But the ripple of shock that moved across the table didn’t break Gillie’s stare from Feyre. She leaned forward, voice low but cutting enough to cleave clean through the room.

“Did you know,” she hissed, “that while your mate was warming Amarantha’s bed, most of our people were locked beneath that mountain?”

The silence that followed was so sudden, so thick, it seemed the world itself flinched. Even Rhysand didn’t speak.

Gillie didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared at her, at Feyre, and let it sit there—let the truth of it hang in the air like blood-steam off fresh snow. Her hands were folded on her belly, but her knuckles were white.

“Did you know,” she repeated, quieter this time, more to herself than anyone, “that mothers in Spring died trying to protect girls who looked like you from being carted off to that court? That while you were solving riddles and making bargains, we were coughing on soot and screams, digging our own graves with our bare hands because no one—not even the Night Court—came for us?”

Tamlin’s jaw locked. He didn’t look at Feyre. Didn’t look at Gillie. Just stared straight ahead, as if afraid that meeting anyone’s gaze would make him break apart completely.

Feyre said nothing. But her breath had gone tight. And Rhysand—

Rhysand’s shadows curled around his fingers, but he didn’t lash out. He just looked at Gillie with something too unreadable to name. Not regret. Not guilt. Just—stillness.

Beron was smiling again. That awful, cruel little smile like a wolf watching pups wander too close. “What a delightful reunion this is,” he murmured.

“Did you know that while he had his head between her legs,” Gillie said, her voice low and venom-laced, “most of them were fighting to keep their families from becoming the nightly entertainment?”

“That's enough, Lady Vaelaris,” Tarquin murmured.

But Gillie didn’t so much as blink in his direction. Beron was watching her with open delight.

“I was in chains as well,” she went on, ignoring them all. “Tortured. Beaten until I bled. Drugged. Stripped of every shred of magic. And now Rhysand wants to play hero.” Her hand drifted to her belly, cradling the swell of it with a kind of brutal irony. Her voice was a blade now, her smile pure ice. “Amarantha’s whore becomes Hybern’s destroyer. But if it goes badly…” A sharp, cold grin twisted her mouth. “Will he get on his knees for Hybern? Or just spread his—”

Flame detonated from Feyre.

Raging, white-hot light shot across the room like a spear. Tamlin was on his feet in a heartbeat, throwing his shield wide, throwing himself over Gillie—arms wrapping her. The blast hit him first, his sleeve caught on fire. Her arm was hit after, thrown up over her stomach, it sizzled as raw heat peeled away the freckled skin.

The room exploded into chaos. Chairs screeched. Magic surged. Voices shouted.

Feyre stood at the head of it all, her power a furnace of wrath, and lifted her arm to the reflection pool. A tidal wave rose, curled, and slammed into Beron’s chair—encasing him in a sphere of water, a bubble with no air. She twisted her hand. The flame inside flared. Water boiled into steam.

Gillie pressed into Tamlin’s chest, eyes wide. He kept her behind him, his magic bracing like iron around her, even as she trembled in his arms.

“She’s going to kill him,” Gillie breathed.

Beron’s flame barrier fought back, licking against the water like a dying sun. Then—Feyre’s power shifted. Became light . White. Blistering and ancient. A spell-breaker. A ward-cleaver. The magic of Day .

Beron’s eyes blew wide. His shields frayed. The water began to close in.

“You’ve proved your point, my love,” Rhysand said quietly, appearing at Feyre’s side, cupping her face with his hands.

The others were already on their feet. Helion lowered himself back into his seat with the kind of slow grace that only came from millennia of surviving rooms like this.

“That was how you got through my wards,” Tarquin murmured.

Beron looked like he might vomit flame.

Helion tapped his jaw. “I wondered where it went—that little piece. Just a sliver. Like a fish missing a single scale. But I felt it. Every time something brushed against the void it left.” A slow smirk. “No wonder you made her High Lady.”

“I made her High Lady,” Rhysand said, lowering his hands from Feyre’s cheeks but staying close, “because I love her. Her power was the last thing I considered.”

Helion turned to Tamlin. “You knew about her powers?”

Tamlin didn’t even glance at him. He was staring at Feyre like he might explode. Every breath that left him hit Gillie’s belly in short, shaking bursts. “It was none of your business,” he said, voice flat. “It still isn’t.”

Beron bared his teeth. “The power came from us . I think it damn well is .”

Gillie was still gripping her belly. Her arm was red, angry, beginning to blister. But her face was blank. Cold. She didn’t flinch.

Feyre sat back down and said, voice hoarse, “I’m sorry.”

Gillie lifted her eyes slowly. They were wide, dark with fury. Her mouth didn’t move.

Tamlin said, low and savage, “Don’t you dare to talk to her, you traitorous whore.”

The air snapped.

Rhysand shattered through Tamlin’s shield like a sword through a wall.. Power collided—a dark, roaring surge that slammed Tamlin backward, almost knocking Gillie to the side in the process. Tamlin didn’t even get a word in before punching him across the face, the impact sending Rhys sprawling at Feyre’s feet.

Rhysand growled, wings unfurling with a crack , and launched himself. They rolled into the pool, fists flying, claws slashing. Water exploded upward in glittering arcs. Then Rhysand froze Tamlin mid-swing—pinned him in place with daemati power.

“Don’t ever,” Rhysand snarled, fists bunched in Tamlin’s tunic, “ speak to my mate like that again .”

Tamlin’s eyes burned. “She hurt mine ,” he snapped—and with that, Rhysand faltered. Released the hold. Tamlin’s punch landed square in Rhysand’s jaw.

Rhysand staggered back, crashed into the water again. Tamlin climbed out, soaked and fuming, ignoring everyone. He took his seat, wet tunic clinging to him, water dripping steadily onto the stone floor.

Without hesitation, he reached out and held Gillie’s hand—placed it right over her belly. Claimed her with it.

Beron shoved to his feet, rage curdling his features. “This meeting is over. I hope Hybern butchers you all.”

But Nesta rose. Calm. Deadly. “This meeting is not over.”

Even Beron paused at her tone. Eris clocked the sudden, dangerous shift in the room—the measured way Nesta straightened her spine, the way the weight of silence tipped in her favor.

She stood tall, every inch steel. “You are all there is,” she said to Beron, to all of them. “You’re all that stands between Hybern and the end of everything that’s still good. Still worth something.” Her gaze locked on Beron like a blade to the throat. “You fought in the last war. Why are you hiding now?”

Beron didn’t answer. Didn’t even twitch. But he didn’t leave, either. Eris motioned to his brothers—subtle, smooth—and they sank back into their seats.

Nesta took it in, pulse thrumming at her throat. Her words had landed. And they were waiting. Listening. “You can hate us,” she said, quiet but cutting. “I don’t care if you do. But don’t stand by while innocents suffer and die. At least stand for them. For your people.” Her voice cracked like thunder. “Hybern will make an example of them. Of all of us.”

Beron sneered. “And you know this how ?”

“I went into the Cauldron,” Nesta said, voice flat and dead-cold. “It showed me his heart. He will bring down the wall. He will slaughter everything on either side.”

Truth or lie—no one could tell. No one dared call her bluff.

She turned to Kallias and Viviane. “I’m sorry for the children. For that kind of loss.” Her throat worked around the words. “But under the wall, I watched entire families starve. And I would’ve died with them—if not for my sister.”

She jerked her chin toward Feyre, a reluctant nod.

“Too long,” Nesta rasped. “Too long have humans suffered while you all sat in your courts and played politics. Not just during her reign—” That word— her —dripped with venom. Even the name Amarantha seemed too vile to utter. “Long before that. So fight. Now. Fight for someone besides yourselves. Let them know they’re not forgotten. Just once.”

Silence pooled, slow and sticky.

Then Thesan cleared his throat. “While a noble sentiment, the Treaty didn’t require us to care for human lands. We obeyed.”

Nesta didn’t sit. Didn’t blink. “The past is over. What matters now is what you do next. You were given power for a reason.” She swept her eyes over them. “How can you not fight for the land you swore to protect?”

Her stare landed last on the Autumn Court. The Lady of Autumn’s lips had parted, like the words Nesta spoke had cracked through something brittle and long-dormant inside her. Eris looked the same—like he was seeing something new in Nesta. Something he hadn’t expected.

Beron just muttered, “I’ll consider it.”

He didn’t look at anyone when he vanished.

His sons followed. Eris was the last to go. There was something on his face—regret, maybe. Or something less clean. Something aching. Then he, too, was gone.

Nesta sat, slow and stiff. The cold slid back over her like a mask. But whatever fury still lived in her—it hadn’t burned out.

Kallias broke the silence. “Did you master the ice?” he asked Feyre, low and quiet.

She gave a nod. Barely there. “All of it.”

Kallias ran a hand down his face, wearied to the bone. Viviane rested her hand on his wrist. “Does it make a difference, Kal?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured.

But Tarquin turned to Feyre and said, “You saved us Under the Mountain. A piece of magic seems a fair trade.”

Helion arched a brow. “She didn’t take a piece. If she nearly drowned Beron while fighting through his wards, she took more than that.”

Thesan’s voice cut through. “What’s done is done. Unless we’re planning to kill her” Rhysand’s power surged across the room, a dark wave crashing against every mind and bone. “—there’s nothing we can do.”

His tone wasn’t conciliatory, there was sharpness in it. 

Feyre stood, gaze level as she faced them all. Thesan. Helion. Tarquin. Kallias. Her voice rang clear.

“I didn’t steal anything. You gave me those powers when you saved my life. I’m grateful. But they are mine. And I will use them how I see fit. I will use them to burn Hybern to the ground. To drown them. To freeze them. To shatter every inch of their defenses. I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.”

A soft sound cut through the silence—Gillie’s derisive snort. Not cruel. Not angry. Just disgusted.

“If you’re worried about who’s holding a sliver of your magic,” Gillie said, curling her lip, “you’re all idiots and your priorities lay in the wrong places.”

No one answered.

But Viviane rose first, chin high. “We should fight. Together. It’s time.”

Cresseida stood next. “I agree.”

Both of them turned to their courts. Tarquin and Kallias stood without hesitation.

Then Helion, laughing under his breath, shaking his head at Feyre and Rhysand like they were the most infuriating, brilliant people alive.

Finally Thesan stood, more slowly. And beside him—Tamlin.

He said nothing. Didn’t even look at Feyre. Just extended a hand to Gillie, helped her to her feet, and stood with her in silence. His other hand settled over the curve of her belly, protective and firm.

Their alliance though did not get off on the right foot.

Even after they talked for what felt like hours—two full ones—the bickering didn’t die down. The back-and-forth was endless, a war of sharp words and clipped retorts. With Tamlin there, none dared to spill the real numbers, the weapons they held, or the cracks in their ranks. Behind their backs, they all played the spy game, weaving alliances and mistrust like a tightrope act. No one trusted who was friend or foe, and that suspicion made every word feel like a dagger.

As the afternoon faded into evening, Thesan pushed his chair back with a quiet sigh. “You’re all welcome to stay the night and pick this up again in the morning—unless you’d rather head back to your courts.”

Gillie whispered to Tamlin, “We’re staying.” She needed time. To talk. To pry loose truths from the others. Judging by the looks around the room, everyone else felt the same; no one seemed eager to scatter just yet. They were shown to their suites—the sunstone glowing a rich, molten gold in the dying light.

Tamlin and Gillie were led first, escorted by Thesan himself and a visibly nervous attendant. Tamlin hadn’t thrown a single blow at Rhysand or Feyre during the meeting. His cold refusal to even acknowledge them hadn’t escaped notice, but he didn’t care. Walking stiffly, gripping Gillie’s unburned arm, his face was a mask. No words passed between them as they moved down the hall.

Their suite was exquisite—centered around a plush sitting area and a private dining room. The walls carved from that shimmering sunstone, draped in jewel-toned fabrics that swallowed the room in color. Cushions were piled like clouds on thick carpets. Ornate golden cages hung in the corners, filled with birds of every shape and size. Peacocks strutted through the courtyards and gardens they’d passed—some preening lazily beneath potted fig trees, their feathers shimmering in the fading sun.

Thesan’s voice cut through the quiet. He looked Gillie over, eyes sharp. “I’ll send a healer immediately,” he said, nodding toward her burned arm and Tamlin’s bruises and singed skin.

Gillie nodded, voice steady. “Thank you. That would be much appreciated.”

Closing the door gently behind them, Thesan leaned close, voice low and curious. “I expected them to come asking for my alliance sooner or later... But how did you know it would play out this way?”

Tamlin didn’t hesitate. “We had our suspicions.”

Gillie nodded, “And the rest was just careful plans, laid out from start to finish. We prepared for every scenario.”

Thesan’s smile deepened into a wink. “Well played. Just to be clear—Beron’s out of the picture?”

“No,” Tamlin said flatly. “We didn’t even bother with him. But if he won’t march to the battlefield, I’ll drag him by the scruff of his neck.”

Thesan chuckled softly, opening the door. “Enjoy your time. Let me know if you need anything.” And then he was gone down the hall.

Tamlin turned to Gillie, voice low and rough. “You’re a menace.” He lifted her arm carefully, tracing the edges of the burn. “I should’ve strangled that bitch in her sleep when I had the chance.” His voice dropped to a hiss as he kissed the unmarked skin around the angry wound stretching from elbow to wrist.

His fingers lingered on the slight burn on her belly, where the delicate silk had blackened. He cupped the curve of her pregnant belly, leaning in for a kiss when a sharp knock shattered the moment.

Tamlin growled but landed a quick peck on her lips before swinging the door open.

Kallias stepped in, cool and sharp, crossing to the sofa. Viviane followed with a grin, settling beside him.

Tamlin’s voice was a low hiss. “What is this? A sleepover? My mate is tired and injured—”

Gillie cut him off, voice firm, “I’m fine.” She sank into the armchair near the sofa, holding herself steady.

All eyes snapped to Tamlin. He rubbed the tension from his face and dropped into the armchair beside Gillie, the weight of everything pressing down on him.

Chapter Text

Tamlin stood on the precipice of the battlefield, the earth sloping just enough to give him a view of the storm he’d brought with him. The ground beneath his boots was dry, brittle with frostbite and bloodshed, crunching faintly as he shifted his weight. From somewhere to his lower left, the long, raw scream of a battle horn tore through the air—Patrik’s call. The sound wasn’t just heard—it was felt, reverberating in Tamlin’s ribs like a second heartbeat, high and sharp and full of violence. It split the wind annoucning their arrival.

His arm twitched. That same arm that had yanked Beron off his fucking throne, tearing through centuries of ceremony and cowardice, dragging the High Lord by the scruff of his pride and making him move—making him listen. That twitch now was less a flinch and more a leftover echo of the rage that had ignited everything.

Tamlin watched as Beron’s forces finally began to inch forward—slow, reluctant, like rusted gears grinding to life—but they moved. They obeyed. His own troops had already mobilized, now flooding the land outside Beron’s estate like a living tide, rolling from the Spring Court’s border all the way to his damned doorstep. It was a wave none of them had anticipated. Certainly not Beron, certainly not anyone else who had written Tamlin off as a rabid, toothless cur.

He smirked, lips quirking bitter and satisfied as he watched the five distinct columns cut through the landscape of buzzing battlefield—bannered, armored, brutal in their unity. Like fingers of a single clenched fist. All under his banner. 

The purplish gleam of House Willow caught the afternoon light first—leather and steel kissed by lilac dusk, their sigil half-concealed beneath war paint and splatters of travel-mud. Gillie’s House, her blood, her lineage. But she wasn't leading them, it was Rihard riding at their helm, posture taut and elegant, every inch a commander forged under her bloodline.

Beside them, the blinding, opulent golds of House Magnolia shimmered like sunlight over fields of wheat. Leandro’s men, rigid with ceremonial discipline, but the dirt caking their boots proved they were more than ornament. Shoulder to shoulder, they marched with the storm-grey-and-russet troops of House Dogwood—Ellio’s men. His twin. 

House Oak came behind them, red-brown armor dulled with grit and ash, unyielding as bark. Patrik’s House. Earthy. Steady. A heartbeat of war itself. And finally, the silver and bone-white gleam of House Hemlock—ghostlike in the morning haze. Miro’s men, riding like phantoms through the edges of vision. At their center, Miro himself on a pale, powerful steed, as if the wind itself had shaped his path.

All of them flying under one banner now. A sage-green field and in its heart: a single white rose, fully bloomed. Tamlin’s sigil. His court. Not just Spring, not anymore.

Beside him, astride a towering black steed, Eris sat tall and still. The horse’s breath came in hard white clouds, hooves scuffing impatiently at the dirt. Eris didn’t look at him at first—his crimson cloak whipped violently behind him in the wind, a smear of blood against the pale sky, the fabric snapping and curling like flame. When their eyes finally met, it was only for a breath. A nod, no words were needed, this alliance was stitched together with tension and old grudges, but it held stronger than anything .

Then Eris leaned forward, one sharp motion, and his horse responded like it had been struck. With a roar of wind and thundering hooves, Eris shot forward, his brothers falling in behind him with a garrison of cavalry, like red comets streaking across a war-torn canvas. They were heading straight for the faebane carts, straight to rip them apart.

Tamlin watched it all unfold with the quiet, dark satisfaction of a beast who had waited far too long to sink his teeth in again.

***

His daughter was born in the middle of the chaos—right in the thick of the screaming metal and the guttural cries of war. He didn’t know it in that moment, didn’t hear her first breath or feel the warmth of her skin against his chest. But he felt something . A jolt of ancient, prickling power tearing through his body like lightning cracking through the bones of an old oak. It was quick—sharp—a sting just under his ribs. Like something sacred had been pulled from him, something small and impossibly precious, and the empty space it left behind hummed with absence.

He didn’t know what it was. Not then. Just that something inside him had shifted.

The battle had reached a fever pitch. His armies were holding their line, pushing with teeth bared and armor drenched in blood—Spring Court soldiers tearing through bodies like vines reclaiming dead earth. But the tide, fucking hell, it just kept swinging back. No matter how hard they pushed forward, it felt like they were shoving against an ocean that kept spitting them out.

Tamlin, hulking and massive in his beast form—fur slicked with gore, claws dulled from tearing through armor and bone—was a thing of pure destruction. He tore through lines of enemy soldiers with a ferocity that bordered on rabid, as if the violence itself was the only thing keeping his mind from fracturing at the seams.

The end came like a sudden gust of silence after a scream.

He stood panting, blood dripping off his maw in thick, slow drops. Shifted slowly back into his Fae form, muscles twitching, vision still slightly red at the edges. Around him: scorched ground, the stink of burnt flesh and shit, blood in the mud.

Feyre was on her knees, covered in soot and ash, grasping Rhysand’s limp body as if she could drag him back to life with sheer will. Her sobs were the kind that scraped the throat raw, feral and cracking. The other High Lords had gathered, silent, solemn. His generals hung back behind him, winded, wounded, waiting.

Tamlin stood over them, and… sighed.

Not in satisfaction nor in the victory he’d once fantasized about on the worst nights—watching them both broken, defeated, crawling. That dark glee didn’t come. It had always been a lie, hadn’t it? A fantasy to soothe the wounds when rage was the only thing he could keep down. But now, looking at them—torn apart, clinging to each other—there was no satisfaction in it. Only… exhaustion.

When the High Lords stepped forward again, one by one, pouring the kernel of their power into Rhysand’s still chest, Tamlin didn’t move.

He hesitated.

His power churned under his skin like it was unsure whether to bloom or burn. He could just stand there. Let them give theirs, and keep his tucked away like a loaded weapon. He owed them nothing . Not after what they did to him. What they took. What they destroyed.

He clenched his jaw so tight he tasted blood.

“Better the devil you know,” he muttered to himself. Gillie’s voice, not his own, whispered it in his memory. That favorite idiom of hers, spoken with that little smirk like she knew too damn much.

He rubbed his face hard with blood-caked palms, smearing muck across his mouth and cheeks. It flaked off like dried paint. He didn’t disagree, not entirely. Fuck, the temptation to just walk away was so strong. To spit on Rhysand’s dead stupid face and be done with it. Let the bastard stay dead. Let Feyre suffer . Let them all finally taste what they made him live through. Let the pain echo. Let them rot.

His hands shook, but then—he remembered the hollow throb in his chest. His daughter. His daughter was breathing in Gillie’s arms probably. Had been born into the middle of this nightmare, screaming her arrival into a blood-stained world. And she would be waiting. For him .

The thought hit like a hammer to the spine.

She was waiting to meet him, and he wasn’t going to be the kind of male she'd look at with pity. Or hatred. He wouldn’t be a name she spit out like poison when someone whispered “your father.” He wouldn’t be the villain in her story. He couldn’t be. He wanted—no, needed —to be better. First for her. Then for Gillie. Then, if there was anything left, for himself.

“... Fuck me… ” Tamlin whispered, the words tasting like copper and ash on his tongue.

He stomped forward, boots sinking into the churned mud and gore as if the earth itself wanted to pull him down. The air was thick with magic and death, with the scent of singed wings and bitter spells still hanging low in the fog. Feyre didn’t look up as he came closer.

He didn’t speak to her directly. “Be happy, Feyre,” he said, voice hollow, almost distant—like the echo of a man he'd once been.

Then he loosed the kernel of his power. It shimmered in the air—green and gold, the smell of crushed thorns and the wild wind of Spring—and landed on Rhysand’s chest like a drop of warm rain. It sank into the male’s flesh, and Tamlin turned away.

He walked off without another word. Just left the scene, shoulders squared, rage trembling under his skin with nowhere left to go. He wanted to go home . Whatever that meant now.

Wanted to see her. His daughter. Hold her. Breathe her in. Smell her hair and count her fingers and whisper apologies she’d never understand. He wanted to see Gillie’s face again—see if the light was still in her eyes or if war had stolen that from her too.

But no.

Fucking Feyre and her Court of Painted Idiots couldn’t let anything end cleanly. Of course not. Of course there had to be another fucking High Lords meeting. Another room full of smug speeches and self-congratulating sycophants sipping shitty wine and pretending to give a damn.

Tamlin exhaled through his nose, hands clenched into fists. He’d give them their damned performance. Then he’d go find his family, and nothing —not Rhysand, not politics, not the fucking past—was going to stand in his way this time.

***

Tamlin stood in the doorway like he’d been nailed to the threshold, his broad frame casting a long, unmoving shadow across the room. Time warped—bent around him—stretching seconds into something that felt like a lifetime as he stared at the small crib nestled beside Gillie’s bed. The pale wood had been sanded smooth, smelling faintly of fresh varnish and lavender oil. A tiny garland of dried chamomile and wild rose hung from one of its posts, already wilting at the edges, like it too had held its breath waiting for him to come.

Gillie lay asleep in the bed, exhaustion still clinging to her like a sheen of dew. Her skin glowed faintly, sun-warmed and soft, scattered with those ethereal freckles that shimmered like petals caught in moonlight. Even now—tired and hollowed out—she looked clean, calm, so heartbreakingly serene it made his knees lock.

The room wasn’t quiet. Healers moved softly about the space, murmuring to each other under their breath, the low clink of glass vials punctuating their conversations like wind chimes in a breeze. The scent of antiseptic herbs hung thick in the air, cut only by the powdery sweetness of milk and fresh linens. They’d let him in. Briefly. Watched his limp, bloodied knuckles, the dark bruises like oil stains under his golden skin. Urged him to wash, to scrape off the mud and dried sweat and stench of battle before approaching his family. The babe’s immunity, they said, was still delicate. She was too new. Too small.

So he had. He'd scrubbed himself raw until the coppery scent of blood and pine and violence had been replaced with nothing but the sting of soap and regret. And now—now he stood motionless. Paralyzed. His body remembered how to breathe but his mind didn’t know what to do with the ache blooming in his chest. His heart fluttered violently, painfully, like a caged bird slamming into bone, drowning out every coherent thought.

He would kill for them. There was no poetry in it. No romantic edge to it. Just a raw, simple truth. If his baby girl so much as hinted—giggled, smiled, pointed—at something she desired, he would burn Prythian to its foundations to get it for her. He would rip the world apart, gut every beast, slaughter kings if it meant keeping Gillie safe. Keeping them safe. He’d already done worse.

And as if pulled by a thread spun from his heartbeat, Gillie stirred. Her lashes fluttered like soft wings, and then those silver-gray eyes opened, still heavy with sleep. She found him instantly, like she’d known the moment he’d crossed the threshold. Her freckled face lit up with something that cracked him open. Worship, maybe. Or just the quiet kind of love that didn’t need declarations.

Her lips parted and one arm lifted weakly toward him, fingers curling like a flower leaning toward sun.

Tamlin’s face twisted. He smiled, but it felt like too much—like his skin wasn’t made to stretch this way anymore. He could feel the pressure behind his eyes, the heat behind his nose. That damn smile was all teeth and tremor, but it was real. He stepped forward at last, breath shallow, and leaned over her, bracing himself against the edge of the mattress like the earth might tilt.

He kissed her like he was starving. Like she was the first breath after surfacing from a drowning sea. His lips trembled against hers, and his breath hitched when she kissed him back just as desperately—needy and grateful and real.

When Gillie pulled away, her hand lingered on his jaw. Her eyes—wide and awestruck—searched his face like she still wasn’t convinced he was here. That this wasn’t some dream. She studied every line, every shadow, as if willing him not to vanish.

“Go meet your daughter, darling,” she whispered against his mouth. Her voice was hoarse, velvet-soft but frayed at the edges. Then she kissed him again—gentle, sure, devastating in its tenderness.

Tamlin turned slowly toward the crib, his heart thundering again. His hands moved to his hair, smoothing it back with sharp, nervous fingers. He tugged at the hem of his tunic, straightened the collar, brushed invisible dust off his sleeves. It was ridiculous, he knew. But he felt like he was about to meet the Mother herself, summoned into some sacred, quiet temple where nothing harsh or loud was allowed.

He took one step, then another. Stilled.

And there she was.

The most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

Not in the ethereal, glowing way people spoke of infants. No—she was raw and red and wrinkled, bald and a little blotchy, her skin almost translucent in places. But fuuuuck, she was his . And her eyes—green and gold like sunlight through leaves—stared up at him with such unflinching, unblinking focus that he felt stripped bare. And her frown, just the faintest little wrinkle between her brows, was already exactly like Gillie’s when she was about to scold him.

He huffed a laugh through the sob climbing his throat and leaned down slowly, like she might shatter if he moved too fast. The baby cooed with a soft, curious sound and went perfectly still, watching him with those enormous eyes, her tiny fingers curling into the folds of the blanket as though assessing his worth.

Tamlin slid his arms beneath her, cradling her close, every muscle in his body tense with a fear that he might do it wrong, hold her too tight, not tight enough. But she melted into him like she’d always been meant to be there. So warm. So small. So fucking real.

His throat constricted. A single tear escaped and rolled down his cheek, hitting his lips with a bitter, salty tang.

“I shall slaughter the continent for you,” he whispered, the words slipping out like a vow carved into flesh. His lips pressed to the fine, downy skin of her forehead with a kiss so soft it trembled. His voice cracked on the tail end, rough and splintered, as if torn from some raw place deep inside him. A wound that never quite healed.

Gillie stirred slightly in the warm cradle of pillows, her skin still flushed and faintly dewy from the effort of bringing life into the world. Her brow pulled into a quiet frown, but the corners of her mouth lifted, just enough. That little half-smile of hers, that smile that didn’t need to be wide to be honest.

He turned to her fully then, his gaze dragging over the shape of her—disheveled, glowing, utterly exhausted—and still the most ruinously beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Their daughter lay against his chest, impossibly small and warm, swaddled in a cream blanket with faded lavender embroidery—Gillie’s handiwork, no doubt, delicate and precise. He held the babe like something sacred. Like one wrong breath would shatter her.

Moving slowly, reverently, Tamlin crawled into the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight with a soft groan of springs, old and familiar. The floral curtains shifted in the breeze from the half-open window, carrying in the scent of peonies and dry grass. Dust motes danced in the golden light like sleepy little spirits.

Gillie made a quiet sound as she shifted to make space, her body heavy with ache and recovery. She turned into him, her skin brushing his with a softness that made his breath hitch. Her head found its place in the crook of his shoulder, her lips grazing the tension there—so gently it undid him. A kiss that wasn’t quite a kiss. Just warmth and presence. A balm on the fraying edge of his mind.

And that was it. That was the moment that cracked him open.

He could’ve died right there, wrapped in this stupid, overfull moment. In this bed, in this room, in this too-much life. Too much love. Too much fragility. Too much everything. It clawed at his ribs and made his throat tighten, made his heart ache like it was being remade in real time, unbearable and precious. Maddening. He would burn the world for this, just to freeze it in place.

“We shall arrange you gals moving back to the manor in the nearest days,” he murmured, glancing down just as their daughter’s lashes fluttered closed. Her breathing softened into a rhythm that matched the pulse in his wrist. He felt it everywhere.

“Yes, my Lord,” Gillie teased, her voice low, tinged with dry amusement.

He gave a soft, knowing snort, but didn’t rise to it. Just looked back at the babe, eyes caught on the tiny curl of her fingers around the edge of his shirt. Fuck him. He’d never felt so undone by something so small.

“There’s a mating ceremony to organize for us,” he said, almost absently, then added, “and a celebration for her.” His gaze lingered on the baby's sleeping face, moon-pale and perfect. “And I will not call her Erinys,” he sighed heavily, catching the way Gillie’s mouth twitched downward.

“I thought we had an understanding,” she said, her tone light but edged, quiet and pointed.

“We did,” Tamlin replied with a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. He ran his finger gently along his daughter’s tiny knuckles. “I mean, I shall not use her full name. We should call her something softer…” He trailed off, lips pursed in thought. Then: “Nesy,” he declared. “She shall be Nesy for me.”

He looked at Gillie, waiting for her reaction.

She huffed a quiet laugh, the sound more breath than voice. Her fingers reached to brush back a damp strand of hair from his cheek, eyes warm, amused, tired beyond reason. “We can’t throw a celebration for her this early,” she said gently, like she was reminding him the sky was still blue.

“How about we celebrate both our mating ceremony and her birth on the same day?” he offered. “Winter Solstice is in a couple of months. Enough time for me to handle the post-war mess and organize a proper party.”

“You meant enough for us to handle the post-war affairs and organize a party?” Gillie arched her brow, and the look was so familiar, so Gillie—smart and sharp and fucking there —he almost smiled.

“No,” he said, unfazed, his tone gentle but firm. “I meant me , as I said.” He leaned in, voice like velvet. “You have to rest. Be beside her for now. Enjoy your vacation,” he murmured, and the kiss he pressed to her lips was tender, slow, grounding. 

Gillie blinked, slightly dazed by the feel of him, the heat of his mouth. She looked up at him and nodded—softly, slowly—because she knew when he was serious, when he meant it in that deep, rooted way he rarely spoke aloud.

Outside, the wind rustled through the meadow grass, cicadas humming somewhere in the distance. The day was bleeding into dusk, turning the edges of the sky amber and plum. In the stillness of the room, the world was small, and held together by breath, heartbeat, and the softness of skin against skin. The three of them—suspended, for a moment, in the kind of peace that felt stolen from time itself.

Chapter Text

With Winter Solstice just a breath away, the manor hummed like it was alive—hearths burning low and golden in every hall, pine and spice clinging to the air. Outside, the skies were swollen with gray and bruised lavender clouds, threatening warm rain that hadn’t yet dared to fall. The scent of juniper smoke, roasting chestnuts, and cold iron mingled with the clamor of preparation, as if the mood of winter itself was being stitched into every breath the land took.

Tamlin oversaw it all like a war general dressed for a feast, his usual sage tunic swapped for a light cream silk shirt embroidered with gold thread, the laces at the chest untied and hanging loose. His trousers were soft, loose around the thighs and tucked neatly into knee-high leather boots that creaked with every step. 

Every cart was inspected, every list cross-checked twice, sometimes thrice, his mind restless and hungry for control. Lined along the gravel drive, wagons brimmed with wrapped parcels and woven baskets—gifts for every village and hamlet under the Spring Court’s rule. The load this year was more generous than the last, thoughtfully so. With the scars of war still fresh on the land and the quiet choke of depression curling through the villages like fog, it was more than a tradition now. It was a message. A carefully wrapped declaration that the High Lord and his Lady hadn’t turned away. That they still saw their people, and stood with them—not only in rulership but in grief, in recovery, in the weary, crawling hope of healing.

Tamlin wanted them to celebrate, to feel joy, even if it was fleeting. But he also wanted them to mark this moment with him—the formal celebration of his mating to Gillie, the birth of his firstborn. Not just as nobles tucked away behind gilded walls, but as a court. As a people bound together, still breathing together. 

He did all of it with Erinys comfortably tucked against one arm, her tiny body balanced with the ease of someone who’d been held like this a thousand times before. Her chubby fingers had first fixated on the laces of his shirt—tugging and twisting them with the solemn concentration only a babe could muster—until her interest wore off. Then she discovered his hair. Silken strands caught between her fingers as she tugged with quiet determination, cooing softly, her cheek pressed to his collarbone, breath warm against his skin. He didn’t seem to mind. Not the drool, not the pinching. Not even the sharp, gleeful tugs. He carried her like she belonged there—like she was the center of it all.

Then, with the lazy whisper of power splitting the air, Tamlin felt the familiar prickle before he even heard the voice.

“Impressive,” Eris purred, smooth and dry as vintage wine, his voice cutting in like a blade dipped in honey.

Tamlin didn’t bother flinching. His spine straightened, breath sharpening, even though the bastard had already made his presence known in the way the temperature seemed to shift, the air tightening with magic. He turned to face him, jaw taut, his expression somewhere between vague irritation and calculated indifference. Erinys remained silent at his side, though her fingers flexed slightly on Tamlin’s arm.

Eris stood a few paces away, hands tucked behind his back, red hair tousled artfully by the wind as if he’d planned it. His amber eyes flicked to Tamlin’s, then—unexpectedly—dropped to the babe cradled in his arms.

“Aha, you little trouble, here you are,” Eris drawled, voice dipping lower.

Tamlin sighed, already resigned. He shifted his hold on Erinys slightly, carefully transferring his daughter into Eris’s outstretched arms. The baby made a small, squirming sound of protest—a squeaky snarl that didn’t quite belong to a four-month-old, but then, she was no ordinary child.

Eris took her gingerly, like she was a particularly suspicious parcel of meat someone had handed him without warning. Two arms remained awkwardly outstretched between them, the baby blinking up at him with a wide, drooly stare.

“You look… like any other babe I’ve ever seen,” Eris muttered, sounding vaguely betrayed by the lack of grandeur. He wrinkled his nose. “Does this thing talk yet?”

As if on cue, the baby gurgled, letting out a wet coo and blowing a perfect bubble of spit that caught the sunlight just enough to shimmer like a tiny orb of glass.

Eris’s eyes widened in something that looked a little too close to awe.

“She’s four months old, Eris,” Tamlin said, arching a brow, arms folding across his chest like they were trying to restrain amusement. “They only start saying their first words around ten to eighteen months.”

A long pause.

“Take it away,” Eris snapped, extending the child like she’d repulsed him.

Tamlin chuckled under his breath, the sound rich and rare. He scooped his daughter back into his arms, and her little body melted instantly into the familiar cradle of his chest, her head tucking into the space just above his heart. A quiet sigh escaped him, almost involuntary.

“How am I supposed to communicate with it, then?” Eris asked, scandalized, shaking his head like this was some personal slight against his existence.

“She understands you… more or less,” Tamlin said with a shrug. “But with time, she’ll use gestures, sounds, babble. Soon enough, when she will start babbling and kicking things to check if they work, you two’ll be on the same level of intelligence.”

Eris narrowed his eyes. His lips twitched once—then twisted into a grimace of disbelief.

“Cauldron, boil me. Was that a joke? From the mighty High Lord of Spring?” he scoffed, folding his arms tight against his chest.

“What is not a joke,” Tamlin said, his tone cooling to something sharp and glinting, “call my daughter it again and I will—” he turned slightly, casting a look toward Erinys, then continued with disturbing calm, “—break every bone in your body one-by-one.”

He finished the threat with a sugary smile aimed at his daughter, who squealed and kicked one leg at the tone of her father’s voice, her fingers clutching his shirt with sleepy determination.

Eris hummed low, the sound wrapped in amusement, but not without consideration. “Fair,” he said, brushing invisible lint from his shoulder. 

“Now, what’s so important that you had to be here personally?” Tamlin asked with an indifference on his stoic face. 

“Nothing,” Eris said with an offhand shrug, tilting his head to catch the sun glinting off the baby’s fine, gold-tinged curls. “Had some time. Wanted to meet Erinys properly and see Gillie before she shatters her life for a dull mating ceremony with the most devious bastard in Prythian.”

Tamlin’s eyes flicked up at that, sharp and green. But the baby, curled against his chest, chose that exact moment to smile up at Eris, small and toothless, with cheeks like ripe peaches. Her drowsy gaze landed on him with alarming precision.

Eris flinched. “She is smiling at me,” he said in a tone not unlike someone discovering their shoes were on fire.

“Odd,” Tamlin said, eyes dancing. “I don’t recall giving you permission to roam free in my Court.”

“If you think that ever stopped me,” Eris said, smirking, “then you really are as dimwitted as people whisper you are.”

Tamlin’s lips curled, but it wasn’t entirely unfriendly.

“She is divine,” Eris added, pointing vaguely at the baby as if that might ward off whatever soft emotion was creeping up behind his ribs. “And I will kill for her. What is this feeling?”

“Affection,” Tamlin said dryly.

Eris looked horrified.

“Gillie’s at a meeting,” Tamlin added, turning toward the archway that spilled out into the southern gardens, sunlight breaking through the clouds just enough to bathe the flagstones in a weak, gold sheen. “We can wait in the garden. She usually takes her tea there.”

He nodded toward the ivy-laced path, and Eris followed, his boots crunching softly over the gravel beside him.

“I assume you’ll be attending the celebrations tomorrow,” Tamlin said, his tone bored and pointed all at once.

“Wouldn’t miss it in a million years,” Eris replied without missing a beat.

Their eyes met. And, in that moment, something like a smirk passed between them—sharp-edged and almost fond.

***

The sun had dipped low, spilling molten gold across the hills like blood leaking from a slit throat, staining the horizon in hues of fire. The last light curled lazily through the trees, catching on the gilded edges of the manor's roof, and the shadows that followed were thick, creeping, already whispering secrets of the night.

And as if summoned by the pull of dusk itself, Rhysand arrived, the way only a creature of the twilight could. A flash of magic sliced through the humid air near the border, and then he was there, flamboyant as sin. Wings spread, dark and glorious, he soared above the manor with a kind of theatrical elegance only he could pull off without looking absurd. A gust of wind rolled off his landing, rustling the hydrangea bushes that framed the manor steps and scattering the drying petals of the nearby rosebeds. The scent of spring roses clashed with the cooler, headier note of night-blooming wildflowers stirred by his arrival.

He landed neatly on the front steps just as Tamlin stepped out from the open double doors above. The High Lord of Spring stood framed in golden light, already waiting, arms loose by his sides, the fading sun catching in the strands of his hair and making it glow like something alive. His expression, though, was carved from marble.

“You are completely out of your mind with your bloated power complex if you think this is alright,” Tamlin said, calm and dry as ever, voice low and firm like the earth just before a quake.

Rhysand's mouth curved. That usual dark, razor-thin smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he looked up at Tamlin as if he were amused by a child’s tantrum. “You know me, Tamlin,” he said, voice lazy. “It isn’t enough to dress to impress. A memorable entrance is already halfway to winning the battle.”

The way he said it — smug and silken — it begged to be slapped down. Tamlin didn’t bother.

“Winning the battle?” he echoed with a derisive huff, stepping forward a little, the light brushing over the soft silk of his tunic. It shimmered like fresh riverwater, catching tones of moss green and old gold with every shift of his shoulders. His hands remained tucked in the loose pockets of his dark trousers, casual, infuriatingly unimpressed. “So what was your excuse for dying in that battle, then?”

There was a pause. Rhysand’s skin didn’t quite pale, but something flickered across his face. If the words cut, he didn’t let it bleed. He only tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Can we talk?” he asked, purring it more than speaking.

“Talk,” Tamlin nodded.

“Here?” Rhysand’s brow lifted, smirk twitching back into place.

“Right here,” Tamlin murmured, shifting his weight and leaning against one of the massive carved columns at the top of the stairs. He looked relaxed now, like he had all night to wait, like he wasn’t even curious.

Rhysand let out a slow breath and stepped up the final few stairs until he stood beside Tamlin. His wings moved with a sound like heavy fabric sliding across stone as he tucked them just enough to not knock over the columns themselves. 

“Here’s the deal,” he began, throat clearing with a small, quiet rasp. There was tension under the smooth words, but then he smiled again. All teeth, sharp and glinting. “But before, can I trouble you for a cup of tea?”

The silence that followed was almost comical.

“No,” Tamlin said flatly.

“How about if I ask your mate? She’s the one valuing the courtesies, maybe she may serve me a cup or two?” Rhysand offered, that smooth, barbed lilt curling in his mouth like a snake about to strike.

Tamlin’s jaw flexed. Slowly, he ran a hand through his already-mussed hair. His other hand curled around the opposite bicep, arms folding tight across his broad chest. He looked carved from storm-hardened oak — lean, dangerous, still simmering.

“I am really in a good mood today, Rhys,” he said, tone low and deceptively pleasant. “So I will not hurt you. Yet. Unless, you mention my mate again—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The air pulsed with the weight of the unspoken.

Rhysand’s head dipped slightly in acknowledgment, but his smirk didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened.

“Please, Tamlin,” he said with a flick of his wrist, as though swatting away a speck of dust. “I’m here merely to maintain the peace.”

Tamlin snorted, the sound bitter and heavy with mockery. “What peace?” But then he paused. “You won,” he said, the words sharp, cutting. “You got your mate. Is that not enough?”

“No.” Rhysand said it like it was final. Like it had weight. And it echoed — not just in the open front yard but in the hollowed-out space between them that once might’ve been friendship. “No,” he repeated, and now there was no smile. “You nearly destroyed her. In every way possible.”

Tamlin’s lips pulled back from his teeth — not a grin, not even a threat. It was animal. A warning.

Rhysand bared his own in answer. And he let a thread of his power hum out from his skin, rippling over the stone steps, the gravel path, the flowering hedges like a silent quake — making the air heavy.

“She survived it, though,” he said, voice colder now. “Survived you. And you still felt the need to humiliate her, belittle her. If you meant to win her back, old friend... that wasn’t the wisest route.”

Tamlin actually laughed with a breathless, humorless bark, then turned like it was all beneath him.

“Get out,” he spat over his shoulder, laughter still dripping from his mouth like venom.

But Rhysand wasn’t done. 

“You deserve everything that has befallen you,” he called, his voice sharp and cool and soaked in finality. “You deserve a pathetic, empty house. Ravaged lands. I don’t care if you offered that kernel of life to save me. I don’t care if you still love my mate. I don’t care that you saved her from Hybern or a thousand enemies before that.”

He said it slowly. Deadly. Each word a stone laid on a grave.

“I hope you live the rest of your miserable life alone here. It would be a far more satisfying end than slaughtering you.”

Tamlin froze. His shoulders stiffened, and slowly, his head turned—just enough for the edge of his expression to twist into something dangerous.

“Are you threatening Gillie’s life?” he asked, voice low and laced with a trembling, lethal edge. “Are you threatening my daughter too?”

Rhysand didn’t blink. He turned toward him fully, head cocked like he was bored.

“I don’t care for either of them,” he said, flatly. “So look at it this way — if there ever arises a choice between getting what I want and making you miserable... they will not stand in my way. No matter the outcome.” That smirk curled back on his lips — something too amused, too calm.

And Tamlin snapped.

“Oh, say it again ,” he hummed sweetly, the rage underneath it barely leashed. His voice had gone sing-song, the kind you hear right before a wildfire devours your home. “ Say it again , Rhysand.”

Rhysand opened his mouth to reply, something cruel and flippant no doubt perched on the tip of his tongue — but he didn’t get the chance.

Tamlin’s fist landed with the force of thunder. It cracked across Rhysand’s face, sending him flying backward into the rosebush lining the path. Thorns and petals exploded around him as he grunted — deep and furious — like a wounded beast. Blood smeared over his cheek as he launched from the tangled roses, wings flaring violently wide.

But Tamlin was already unsheathing a sword, claws blooming from his knuckles, elk horns rising in a glorious, terrifying arc from his skull. His eyes glowed with a wildfire-green light.

Rhysand barreled into him like a hurricane. Full speed. Full force.

They hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud, Rhys straddling Tamlin and landing blow after blow — seven punches, sharp and fast, aimed at that perfect face until blood was flying.

Then Tamlin's fist connected with his jaw, breaking the rhythm. And then came the crack of his nose. Rhysand staggered, rage boiling, but Tamlin only laughed — wild and breathless and completely fucking unhinged — and shifted into a fly.

Rhysand barely caught his breath before Tamlin was back — a blur of motion and green-gold power — slamming both feet into Rhys’s jaw and sending him crashing to the stones

“Have you had enough?” Tamlin called from a few paces away, circling, just out of reach. 

“No,” Rhysand snarled, spitting blood as he staggered to his feet—

Only to take another punch. This time Tamlin tackled him fully, twisting one of those powerful wings back in a sickening angle. Rhysand howled, gritting his teeth, hissing through the pain as Tamlin pinned him, claws poised for the final blow, eyes gleaming with delight.

And then, he had to look up as if he felt her eyes on him.

Gillie stood on the balcony above, calm and fierce, the dying light of sunset lighting up her silver-lavender hair like it was spun from the dusk itself. Erinys lay in her arms, peaceful as a sleeping star.

Come on, love, do I have to? Tamlin asked through the bond, breathless.

I wish no blood spilled on my freshly arranged gravel path on the eve of our mating ceremony, so yes… Tamlin, you have to let him go. Now! Gillie answered dryly, eyebrow lifting in quiet command.

Tamlin groaned, rolling his eyes but obeying. Her word was final. Always.

He clicked his tongue and straightened, reaching into his pocket. A small wooden box appeared in his palm — dark polished oak, wrapped in delicate metal vines shaped like thorned roses. He dropped it to the gravel in front of Rhysand’s bruised, bloodied face.

“Open it,” Tamlin said, voice rough as broken stone.

Rhysand wiped the blood from his mouth and slowly rose, expression shuttered. He picked up the box, snapped it open—

Inside were two plump emeralds, gleaming and cold—one for The High Lord of the Night Court and one for his Lady. Just as the Summer Court sent blood rubies to their enemies, this was Spring’s answer to theirs. Beautiful and venomous.

“I just have to let you know,” Tamlin muttered, low and dangerous, “before you relax your arsehole and play the hero of Prythian — your wife will pay for hurting my mate.”

Rhysand spat. A glob of blood-red spit hit the gravel at Tamlin’s feet. The High Lord of Spring sighed, already hearing his Lady complaining about it. 

Rhysand’s face twisted froma a fury born from pride, from the bitter burn of powerlessness.

“Run,” Tamlin growled.

But Rhysand didn’t run. He turned, intentionally slow, limping just slightly as he walked. Then paused, glanced back, and gave Tamlin a smile — all teeth, all fury — before shooting into the sky with a mighty beat of his wings, vanishing into the blackening sky.

Tamlin swore under his breath, low and rasped like a growl half-formed in his chest. He stood over the bloodstain on Gillie’s “ precious fucking gravel path ,” hands braced on his hips as his chest rose and fell. A smear of Rhysand’s blood was seeping into the pale crushed stone, staining it in the same place she'd insisted the symmetry had to be just right.

He tipped his head back, jaw clenched so tight it ticked at the hinge, eyes closing briefly to the sky as though the young stars could swallow his rage whole.

“Mother’s fucking tits and cunt, damn it,” he muttered, barely audible over the wind rustling the cypress trees lining the courtyard.

By the time he got control of his breathing again and turned back toward the manor with the intent to order the entire fucking yard re-done — again — he caught the flicker of power across the border. A pulse of magic less than a kilometer from his estate, then the rush of air as Lucien winnowed in.

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders going rigid as Lucien stepped out from the forest line. Nesta was beside him — tight-lipped and unreadable as ever — and behind her stood two other females: a lean Illyrian with clipped wings and a copper-haired female wearing the soft robes of a priestess.

Tamlin didn’t slow. Bruised, bleeding, shirt torn halfway down the side from where Rhysand had torn into him — he walked toward them like a man who had nothing left to lose.

He stopped just short of Lucien, close enough to breathe the same air. His eyes raked over his former emissary — who stood straighter now, sharper. Still familiar. Still his , in some small, stubborn part of Tamlin’s chest that refused to give that up. Then Tamlin leaned forward, his mouth twisting, and spat blood — wet and thick — directly onto Lucien’s boots.

Lucien flinched, more from the shock than the mess.

Tamlin’s voice came out hoarse and feral. “What do you want in here?”

Lucien just stared at him, his vibrant eye wide, like he couldn’t quite piece together what the hell he was walking into. Because as far as he knew , Tamlin didn’t know. Not about the double-dealings. Not about the game he and Gillie had been playing behind his back. Not about the truths delivered in silence to Night Court hands. And that made the moment even more terrifying. 

The tension stretched, taut and trembling, until it felt like even the trees were holding their breath. And then Tamlin suddenly barked a loud wild laugh… Before Lucien could react, he yanked him into a crushing rough hug. Fingers digging into the back of Lucien’s coat, as if testing whether he was really there.

“I’ve missed you dearly, my friend,” he muttered, mouth close to Lucien’s ear. Then he pulled away just as quickly, like the moment had never happened.

Lucien blinked, half-dazed. “Good time to come back home?” he asked, lifting a brow, his voice dry as flint.

“Always,” Tamlin said. His eyes slid to the side. “Nesta.” She barely inclined her chin. “Wasn’t expecting you to step into my court ever since—”

“Can we move on from that and get to the point?” she muttered, unimpressed, arms already crossed over her chest. Her dress, storm-grey, high-necked, rustled softly with the movement.

Tamlin exhaled sharply. “Of course.” His tone cooled instantly. He turned his gaze on the other two females. “And who are your friends?”

“Emerie and Gwyneth,” Nesta said. 

Tamlin offered a nod, just enough to count. “Pleasure to meet you, ladies.”

Both blushed, though whether from the weight of his gaze or the tension still thick in the air, it was hard to say.

Lucien stepped in. “I told the ladies that you’d be able to harbor them here. In our Court.”

Tamlin’s brow lifted. His eyes met Lucien’s, something darker twisting beneath it.

“That isn’t a problem,” he said, voice even. “But... how would I know you’re not placing a threat under my roof? That you’re not acting on Rhysand’s orders?”

Nesta laughed. “Please. I would rather sit on a hot metal pole with my exposed arsehole than listen to any horseshit that egocentric little man tries to sell.”

That got a real chuckle out of Tamlin. He huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. “And you, ladies?” he asked, tone a touch gentler, glancing to Gwyneth first.

“I... I’m originally from around here,” Gwyneth said quietly. “I think.”

Tamlin’s gaze flicked to Emerie, still silent, still watching him like she was waiting for him to show his teeth.

“No offence intended, but should I even answer your question, Lord?” she asked, pointing to her clipped wings. Her voice was dry, but steel flickered in her eyes.

Tamlin’s expression didn’t shift, but he looked her over again, longer this time, more calculated. “We may seek to fix those for you.”

Emerie blinked. Her chin lifted, but there was something glassy in her stare, something fragile and fierce all at once.

“Very well,” Tamlin said, brushing the moment off with a shrug. “Lucien, you know your way around. And since you are going to be back to your responsibilities, see to it the ladies are given quarters until we find them a place of their own.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucien said with a grin. He bowed low, deep enough to make a point. Tamlin rolled his eyes and slung a heavy arm over his shoulder. “Can I meet the little one before everything else though?” Lucien asked quietly.

Tamlin’s entire face lit like a damn sunrise. His grin split wide, bright and proud. “You will shit yourself,” he said, beaming. “She’s the most beautiful little bug I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”

Lucien snorted. “Will you explain your look, though?” He tilted his chin toward Tamlin’s bleeding nose, the bruises starting to bloom down his neck and collarbone.

Tamlin wiped a smear of blood off his cheek. “For that,” he muttered, already walking toward the manor, “we’re gonna need a stiff drink... and a big meal.”

Chapter Text

The first Moon of Winter was meant to be the most breathtaking, opulent ball the Spring Court had hosted in centuries—perhaps ever. The air itself shimmered with magic, threaded with gold and the spiced sweetness of peony wine and orchard pears mulled in cinnamon. Lanterns floated above like stars, suspended by threads of starlight, casting shifting patterns of silver and amber across the silken canopies and glassy marble floors.

On the raised dais at the side of the hall—half hidden behind silken curtains and a veil of moonvine—Nesta stood, fingers entwined with Gwyn’s trembling hands, both of them slick with sweat. Gwyn’s entire body was damp, her coppery hair curling at the temples as perspiration gathered along her collarbone, glinting under the faelight like dew on fresh petals. Emerie stood behind her, digging practiced, slow circles into Gwyn’s tense shoulders with her thumbs, even as her brows tugged low with concern.

“Breathe,” Emerie sighed, her voice a low thrum of calm, though her gaze darted to the entrance arch as if expecting something to explode from it.

Gwyn was pale, nearly green under the cheeks, lips parted like she couldn’t quite figure out how to draw air anymore. “I haven’t ever performed a mating ceremony,” she whispered, voice high and cracking as it rushed from her like steam from a kettle. “And this one’s for Tamlin, girls... Tamlin — The Tamlin!”

Nesta tightened her grip, trying not to wince as Gwyn’s nails dug in. She forced a faint smile. “It’s going to be fine.”

But Emerie leaned in, her tone dark with mock-theatrical warning. “What if he gets mad... and eats her face?”

Gwyn jolted. “HE WILL WHAT? ” she screeched, her voice cutting like a startled gull over the murmurs of the gathering crowd.

“Emerie!” Nesta choked, trying and failing to smother a laugh, shoulders shaking. “He’s not going to eat anyone’s face!” She glanced sideways at Emerie, brow arched. “Maybe just his mate’s. And not in the way Emerie stupidly suggested.” The pointed look she gave Emerie could’ve burned through steel, but it only made her friend smirk.

“Oh, Mother, it’s starting—he’s there!” Gwyn gasped, hand flying to her chest, as though trying to trap her heart before it vaulted from her ribs. She was sweating profusely now, the bodice of her gown clinging damply to her torso.

“Get it together,” Emerie muttered and gave her a soft slap on the cheek, but just enough to jolt her.

Gwyn turned to her like she'd been doused in ice water. Wide-eyed, betrayed, mouth flapping.

“Sorry,” Emerie winced.