Chapter Text
Tamlin didn’t remember when the silence had started to feel heavier than sound. He walked the garden paths anyway. Or what was left of them. Roots had cracked the stones long ago, vines pulling down trellises like they were dragging the Court into the earth with them.
There was a fountain he used to like. He found it again without meaning to—just turned a corner, and there it was. Empty. Choked with leaves and something oily across the surface. It had once been the magnificent centerpiece of this garden. There used to be music here, and not just from water. He stared at it for a long while, ran a thumb along the stone lip, letting the damp moss smear his skin.
The garden didn’t greet him anymore. The land used to answer to his magic with life—blooms opening just from the heat of his palms, branches bending toward him like loyal things.
Now it was just quiet. Not dead. Worse than that. Dying.
Feyre came back to him in pieces—her laugh in the curve of a cracked bench, her scent in the memory of honeysuckle. Her voice, never when he wanted it. Only when the guilt hit hardest. And always, always the look she’d given him at the end. That don’t touch me look. That you’re not who I thought you were look.
He’d wanted to protect her. That was the truth of it. But his love hadn’t been enough to keep her safe. Love didn’t make you right. Love didn’t win over a mating bond, at least not this time. He had sought to shield her from the world’s cruelties, but in doing so, had only bound her tighter to them. His protection had turned to imprisonment, his love to a chain that had driven her away.
He swallowed down the thought. Let it pass. He’d stopped trying to argue with ghosts.
His magic flinched inside him. He curled his fingers and felt almost nothing. A whisper of power, buried too deep to matter. The Spring Court’s High Lord. That’s what they still called him, probably, if anyone even bothered.
But he knew better and the gardens around him were proof.
He thought about the past more than he should. About when he was young, when he could run his hands through soil and feel something stir. Back when things grew just because he wanted them to. His mother sang then, always half a tune behind. She told stories about men who came from nothing and changed everything. He used to think he might be one of them. But whatever that spark was—it went out somewhere along the way. Now it just felt foolish. He had stood alone for his convictions and now he was alone, his court abandoned.
Had it been worth it?
He let go of the thought and shifted into his beast. And he ran.
Amawyn couldn’t remember when the Spring Court had ever been so silent. Maybe after the last neighbor left. Maybe before that. Hard to tell now.
She was the last of her house. That much was true. Her father was buried in the orchard behind the cottage—if you could still call it an orchard with only three trees standing. He had died in the war against Hybern. The others… had either died in the war, or left because of it, or the years cursed, or both. And there was no one left to say his name out loud anymore. Just her.
Everyone else—friends, cousins, neighbors who used to bring baskets of fruit during festival weeks—they’d scattered like seeds in a storm. Fled to the Summer Court, or the Day Court, or anywhere warmer than this hollow place. But she stayed. For reasons that never seemed quite good enough when she tried to explain them.
She’d been born in this house. Had walked these woods long before she'd ever heard the word “war.” This land had once felt safe. Sacred, even. Now it just echoed. Empty fields. Empty roads. Empty hearth.
The Spring Court had gone strange in the years since. Broken in ways she couldn’t quite name. Everyone talked about the High Lord—the decisions he made, the ones he didn’t. Some said he’d lost his mind. Others said he’d lost something worse. She didn’t know. She’d never really spoken to him, not outside of courtesies or polite pleasantries. But she still paid his tithe, because it was expected. Because it was structure. And when the world falls apart, you cling to structure, even if it doesn’t make sense anymore.
But this season… she wasn’t sure she’d make it.
There weren’t enough buyers left. The vegetables she had were going soft before they even left the ground. Calanmai was still weeks away. After that, things would grow better—healthier, stronger. They always did. But right now?
She glanced at the spinach on her counter. The leaves were starting to brown.
Amawyn hesitated, then reached out. Pressed her fingertips gently to the wilting pile. Magic stirred low in her chest. She coaxed it out—almost forcefully. Her magic had never been very grandiose.
The spinach brightened. Color crept back into the leaves. It looked fresh again.
But her knees went loose. She caught the edge of the table to steady herself, jaw clenched as she waited for the lightheadedness to pass.
Too much, too fast.
She took a breath. Then another. At least it might hold long enough to offer. If the tithe was still happening. If someone still remembered she was here.
She gathered the vegetables that hadn’t spoiled, wrapping them with a cloth and tucking them into the basket. Her best dress wasn’t much—just a blue one that still held its shape. She braided her long dark hair, tight and clean, and pinned it back. No earrings. No perfume. Not anymore.
The village was quieter than she remembered, and she hadn’t thought that was possible. Only two fae stood near the fountain in the square, deep in a half-hearted conversation. She hesitated, then approached them.
“Are you here to pay the tithe?” she asked, her voice low but steady.
The older one gave her a kind look. Worn around the eyes. “No tithe today, luv,” he said. “Tamlin’s not collecting. Not enough of us left to bother.”
She frowned. “He collected it last season.”
“Go knock if you want,” said the other, his smile crooked. “Maybe he’ll take it. Maybe he’ll throw you out. Wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve seen this year.”
Amawyn didn’t answer right away. No tithe meant there was less structure than she had hoped for. It felt... wrong, for it to just stop. The last time it had stopped, the Spring Court had been cursed by Amarantha.
She shifted the basket in her arms. “Where is everyone?”
“Gone,” said the older fae. “Summer Court. Dawn. Even Autumn’s looking better than here, if you believe that.”
“You should leave too,” added the other. “This place is done.”
She nodded, because it was easier than arguing. “Thanks,” she murmured, and turned away.
But she didn’t leave. She kept walking.
The path to the manor was overgrown, the grass high enough to brush her knees. The gate hung loose, creaking in the breeze. The building itself looked almost shy—like it didn’t want to be seen like this, stripped of its grandeur.
Amawyn stopped just shy of the steps, basket still in hand.
She wasn’t sure if anyone would answer. Wasn’t sure if it mattered.
But she was here and she was still a member of the Spring Court.