Bound By Starlight: Tamlin and RoseVela

In the magnificent Spring Court, amidst magical gardens, Tamlin and Rosevela lay side by side on the soft grass before the Pool of Stars. The golden rays of the setting sun mingled with the silver glow of the rising moon, casting an ethereal shimmer on their skin. They looked almost celestial—the chosen High Lord of Spring and the chosen High Lady of Night—bathed in the combined light of the sun and stars.

Their connection ran deeper than the courts they were supposed to rule. It was a pull, stronger than anything their families or destinies could tear apart, stronger than even a mother's mating bond.

Tamlin's fingers brushed lightly along Rosevela’s arm, a delicate touch full of silent promise. “You look like you belong here, Viola,” he murmured, his voice soft with reverence. “Like you’re one of these stars.”

Rosevela turned her head, her eyes reflecting the starlight above. “And you,” she whispered, her smile tender, “you’re like the earth itself. Strong, steady, and endlessly kind. How did I get so lucky?”

He chuckled softly, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

Silence settled between them—not awkward, but the kind that needed no words. Around them, pixies fluttered near the water, their laughter like the tinkling of bells. Little green goblins danced among the plants, adding to the dreamlike scene.

Rosevela sighed contentedly, taking it all in. “It’s so peaceful here. I could live in this quiet forever.” She glanced at him. “How have your brothers never found this place?”

Tamlin’s expression darkened for a moment, but there was a hint of humor in his voice. “Because they hate peace. They thrive in chaos and power. This place is too gentle for them. It’s why we’re safe here, Viola. They’d never think to look for us somewhere like this.”

Her smile faltered. “I wish I could stay here forever,” she whispered. “I hate it at home. My father’s always disappointed in me. Rhys and Cassian treat me like I’m fragile. Azriel… he’s even worse. Sneaking out gets harder every time.”

Tamlin grinned mischievously. “Why don’t you just kick their asses? I’ll help you out, especially with Rhys. I’ve been itching to punch him in the face.”

Rosevela laughed, giving him a playful shove. “Stop it, you goose. They’re still my brothers.”

“And you’re my woman,” he teased, his tone more serious. “I hate it when they underestimate you. You’re the chosen one, more powerful than any of them.”

She sighed again, frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s exactly the problem. I’m the chosen High Lady in a court that still clips Illyrian women’s wings. It’s ridiculous.”

Tamlin’s gaze sharpened. “Has your power grown?”

She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes. I don’t know what will happen if it becomes obvious to my family.”

“Rhys wouldn’t harm you for that.”

“Not Rhys,” she said, her voice trembling. “But my father… if he knew his heir was a girl…”

Tamlin’s eyes flashed with anger. “Let him try. I’ll—”

“Tamlin, no,” Rosevela interrupted, shaking her head. “Your situation isn’t much better. What about your power? Is your father still suspicious?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s starting to suspect. It’s getting harder to hide.”

They shared a look of understanding, the weight of their responsibilities and dangers pressing heavily upon them.

“Isn’t it ironic,” she said with a sad smile, “that we were both chosen and burdened with powers we never wanted? It feels more like a curse than a blessing.”

“Vela,” Tamlin whispered, his voice filled with emotion and unsure what to say.

Rosevela’s eyes softened, and she placed her hand on his cheek. “Tamlin, nothing keeps us here. Why don’t we just... run away?”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Neither of us is happy. Our powers, our courts, the rivalry between our families—it’s too much. We could leave it all behind. Find another court, somewhere no one knows us. I could paint, you could play music... We could live however we want.”

“Are you serious?” he asked, his heart pounding.

“As serious as I’ve ever been,” she said, his voice steady. “We could be free, Tam. Truly free.”

His smile faded, worry creeping into her expression. “But we’re the children of High Lords. No court would risk a war to protect us.”

Before she can says anything Tamlin stopped her by placing his index finger on her lips saying “We will never be free no matter where we go in Prythian, so this why we have to leave the whole continent”

Rosevela blinked, stunned. “Leave Prythian?”

“If we’re going to run, we need to do it right,” he said, a smile creeping back onto his face. “We can go anywhere, Viola.”

She hesitated for a long moment, then smiled softly. “If it means being with you, I don’t care where we go.”

"Crossing the humans land is too dangerous" Tamlin warned, his tone turning serious again. “but Hybren it's like the worst way of suicide.”

“Is it because of that vicious red-haired witch who lusts after you?” Rosevela’s eyes glinted. “I’ll break her neck myself.”

Tamlin laughed. “You don’t need to worry about her. You’re the only one I’ve chosen, isn’t that enough?”

“But......... you're right, crossing Hybern, or even the human lands, is risky.” she said.

“We’ll prepare for it. It’ll take time, but we’ll do it.”

She frowned, worry flickering in her gaze. “How much time? If your father’s suspicious, we may not have much left.”

He cupped her face gently, his eyes soft. “Please, Viola. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

“I’m not trying to be pessimistic, but… what if something happens before we can leave? I feel like everyone and everything is against us even tho the mother. What if… the Mother binds us to someone else?”

“I don’t care about the Mother’s chosen mate for me if it isn’t you,” Tamlin said fiercely. He drew a dagger from his belt, cutting his palm. “I’ll make my own bond.”

He offered her the dagger, his eyes asking for her trust. She hesitated, then nodded, cutting her palm as well. He took her hand, their blood mixing together.

“I, Tamlin, give you, Rosevela, a part of my soul, my magic, my power. If I lose you, I’ll go mad before I ever love another.”

She felt his magic intertwine with hers, his power flowing into her veins. She was bound to him—and to the Spring Court. He had given her everything, without hesitation.

Her heart swelled, words failing her. She hugged him tightly, her head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He had given her everything, and she could only hold him close in return.

“I have the same fears as you,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her hair. “But we’ll make a bargain. One stronger than any magic.”

She pulled back, confused. “What kind of bargain?”

“With the Pool of Stars,” he said, glancing at the shimmering water. “It’s said to hold power older than the Cauldron itself.”

Tamlin looked to Rosevela like he wants her to look into his mind and she did. She saw what bargain he want to make, how far he want to go for her. And she accepted it .

She was ready to go with him to whatever land and risk everything, and this bargain is nothing compared to what she is ready to do for him.

Together, they rose and made their way down to the Pool of Stars, their injured palms extended over the shimmering water. Crimson droplets fell, mixing with the starlight reflected on the pool's surface, causing it to glisten with an ethereal glow.

“I, Tamlin, son of the Forest,” he declared, his voice resonating through the stillness of the night.

“And I, Rosevela, daughter of the Stars,” she echoed, her tone laced with solemnity.

“By the gods of this sacred pool, we beseech you,” they chanted in unison, “if one of us falls, let them be reborn as human. And no matter the distance or time, the other shall seek them out, restore their memories, and return them to their fae form. Accept our demand, and in time, we will return to you the glory and power stolen by the Cauldron.”

Their voices dissolved into the night, leaving only the quiet hum of the Pool of Stars. The water rippled, absorbing the magic of their words. A silvery light rose from the pool, enveloping them both. As the light faded, they felt a shift—a writing of the bargain etched in the very air. A constellation of stars traced a glowing mark on Tamlin’s palm, while roses bloomed across Rosevela’s hand.

Though the symbols slowly faded from their skin, they could feel the weight of the bargain anchoring itself deep within their souls. This was no ordinary bargain—this bond was forged by a magic far older, far stronger than anything they had known.

They turned to each other, eyes locking, understanding passing between them. Their fates were now entwined—irrevocably bound. Whatever the future held, they would find one another again, in life, in death, and beyond.

“I promise you,” Tamlin vowed softly, his voice thick with emotion, “I will never love anyone but you.”

“No matter what comes,” Rosevela whispered, her voice filled with unshakable conviction, “you are the only man I will ever choose.”

When are we gonna start questioning this blind trust in Lucien?

Can we please stop pretending he's just chillin’ as Rhysand’s loyal messenger boy?? Like?? This man is called Fox for a reason — and last time I checked, foxes aren’t known for blind obedience or playing fetch for High Lords they can’t stand.

He’s out here supposedly helping: 🔹 A man he clearly doesn’t like, who served Amarantha for 50years 🔹 A woman who literally destroyed the only home he ever had, mocked his new one, and then dipped. 🔹 A court that’s using his mate like a chain around his neck.

And y’all think he’s just fine with that?? Sweet baby Lucien, loyal Lucien? Nah. I don’t buy it.

I like to believe that deep down, Lucien is playing his own game. Maybe even pulling a secret alliance with Tamlin to rebuild Spring — not because he’s a villain, but because he’s smart, strategic, and not about to let any court use him like a pawn.

I mean, come on. He’s a fox. It’s time he starts acting like one. 🦊

When people hear Africa, they often picture stereotypes—dark skin tones and commonly portrayed traditions. But few truly know the rich and diverse cultures of North Africa, especially that of the Amazigh people.

We are not a monolith. In Tamazgha (North Africa), you’ll find people of all shades—white, brown, and black. Our diversity is what makes us unique. 💫

They call us Berbers, but our true name is Amazigh, which means "The Free People." It’s how our ancestors proudly described themselves. Our homeland is called Tamazgha, and we speak Tamazight, one of the oldest languages in the world—still alive, still spoken, still strong. 🗣️✨

Our flag tells the story of our land: 💙 Blue for the sea 💚 Green for the forests 💛 Yellow for the desert ❤️ And the red symbol "ⵣ" represents freedom, a value rooted deeply in our blood.

We are also known for our deep-rooted feminism. History remembers powerful Amazigh women like: 👑 Queen Dihya, who led fierce resistance against invaders 👑 Tin Hinan, the queen of the Tuareg 📚 Fatma Al-Fihri, who founded the world's first university in Fez

Our culture is rich with vibrant tattoos, beautiful language, and centuries of resilience.

While the world marks the year 2025, for us, it is 2975—and every year, we celebrate the victory of our Amazigh king Shah Chanak over Pharaoh Ramses II in Egypt. 🎉

We are Amazigh. We are the Free People. ⴰⵣⵓⵍ (Azul) from Tamazgha!

Okay, now I’m smiling like a dork 😭💖 Thank you for this! You just made my day 1000x better!

sending love right back at you! 💕✨

Elain vs. The Animals of Spring Court

The first time it happens, Elain doesn’t think much of it.

She’s sipping lavender tea in the garden, sunlight trickling through the canopy of wisteria vines, when a rabbit—fluffy, soft, and absurdly bold—hops right onto her lap. It twitches its nose at her, then promptly curls into a warm little ball.

“How polite,” Elain murmurs, stroking its ears. “At least you didn’t ask for an invitation.”

Lucien, lounging nearby with a book he’s not really reading, glances up with a crooked smile. “Charming. Just my luck, I bring you to Spring and the wildlife falls in love before you even learn the court’s anthem.”

She rolls her eyes. “Do courts have anthems?”

“Only the melodramatic ones,” he teases. “Tamlin wrote his. You should hear it. Lots of brooding drums and heroic horn flourishes, along with fidlle playing.”

“Very funny,” Tamlin says, strolling past them with an apple in one hand and a shovel in the other. “And for the record, my anthem slaps.”

“Like a bard with commitment issues,” Lucien mutters.

Elain hides her smile behind her teacup.

But the next day, the birds come.

Not one or two. Dozens.

They perch on her shoulders, chirp in her ears, nest in her hair like she’s some fae Snow White on steroids. Sweet, until she realizes they follow her. Relentlessly.

Lucien finds her standing in the hallway, frozen, a sparrow on her head and a bluejay nestled in the crook of her neck.

He blinks. “...Darling. Do you want me to start charging them rent?”

“They won’t leave me alone,” she says, voice tight.

Tamlin, who has taken up the habit of conveniently appearing during her mild catastrophes, strolls in with a glass of wine and an eyebrow raised. “Maybe they like your scent. You smell like rosewater and regret.”

“Excuse me?!”

“She smells like flowers,” Lucien corrects. “The regret’s probably yours.”

Tamlin snorts, settling into a chair with theatrical slouch. “Maybe you’ve been chosen.”

“Chosen for what?” Elain demands.

“To be their queen,” Lucien says immediately before tamlin says another akward weired thing, grinning as he flicks a tiny feather off her shoulder. “All hail Elain, Feathered Empress of Spring.”

“I will throw you into the pond.” that was tamlin

"are you jealous? I won't take spring from you" Elain wanted to says.

Lucien leans in, stage-whispers, “Still worth it.”

But when a massive deer appears outside her window the next morning antlers like polished ivory, eyes deep as shadow it stops being cute.

She closes the curtains.

It remains there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Following her like a massive, horned stalker.

Tamlin catches her sneaking through the servants’ corridor to avoid it and raises a brow. “He’s got taste.”

“I am not dating a deer,” Elain snaps.

Lucien, behind her, hums. “Can’t blame him. If I saw you wandering the woods in a dress like that, I’d follow you too.”

“You did follow me,” she mutters, and he winks.

That evening, the stag settles outside the window as she tries to enjoy her book.

“I think it wants to court you,” Tamlin deadpans from across the room.

Elain nearly throws her mug. “Not. Funny.”

Lucien’s lips twitch as he leans closer. “If it challenges me for you, I hope it at least brings flowers first. Or antler polish. Do stags have grooming routines?”

Tamlin lifts his glass in toast. “If it wins, I’ll officiate.”

Lucien chokes on his wine.

Elain throws a cushion. It misses, but the point is made.

"But how did it get into the manor in the first place" elain asks

"I'll tell them to strengthen the guard around the manor" tamlin says with a calm smile.

It only gets worse when the hawk arrives.

First, it drops flowers on her windowsill. Then a shiny button. Then—Elain stares in horror—a dead mouse on her breakfast plate.

“...Is this a threat?” she asks, inching back.

Lucien, without even looking up, pops a grape into his mouth. “No, darling. It’s trying to feed you. High praise from a raptor.”

Tamlin tilts his head. “You do look a bit… frail.”

Elain glares. “I am not helpless.”

“Then eat it,” Tamlin says, utterly serious.

She gasps.

Lucien nearly falls off his chair laughing.

The hawk, looking betrayed, snatches the mouse and swoops off in a huff.

She thinks that’s the end of it.

Then the wolf shows up.

Massive. White like midnight moon . Green eyes like emeralds. It appears outside her door one twilight and simply… stays. Silent. Watchful.

Elain starts talking to it. Secretly. Quietly.

And one night, after a particularly emotional day, she scratches behind its ears.

The rumble it gives? Unfairly adorable.

It’s almost cute.

Until one afternoon, as she’s out in the garden with Lucien—gathering herbs for no real reason except that it gives her an excuse to be outside—the wolf appears again.

Lucien stiffens mid-reach, blinking at the massive white shape padding silently into the clearing.

Elain turns, smiling. “Oh, there you are. I was wondering—”

“What the hell are you doing, Tamlin?” Lucien cuts in flatly, arms crossing as he stares the wolf down.

Elain blinks. “What?”

Lucien gestures lazily toward the beast. “That’s Tamlin.”

She gawks. “You’re joking.”

Lucien raises a brow. “You didn’t know? Gods, Elain, that was obvious.”

The wolf sits with an unnecessarily smug posture, tail flicking like a cat who’s just won something.

Elain’s jaw drops. “It was you the entire time?! You were the wolf?!”

The wolf blinks slowly, then shifts.

And just like that, Tamlin is sitting on the grass, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You scratched my ears, it felt good” he says casually, clearly unbothred by being naked.

Elain lets out a strangled sound. “Why would you do that?!”

“It was funny tricking you,” Tamlin replies, completely unbothered, as if that explains everything.

Lucien sighs, muttering, “Dark Cauldron save me,” under his breath "tamlin wear some damn clothes."

Elain learned important thing here. Nudity was common thing between fae and especially spring, and it high lord is no exception.

Elain glares at both of them. “I hate you.”

“You think you do,” Tamlin says smugly, standing and strolling back toward the manor like he hasn’t just obliterated her sanity.

Later, when she and Lucien are alone in the shade of the veranda, she eyes him suspiciously. “Does he… do that often?”

Lucien stretches out on the bench with a lazy sigh. “All the time. Especially when people don’t recognize him and start treating him like a real animal. You should be thankful he hasn’t tried shifting you yet.”

Elain freezes. “What?! What do you mean ‘shifting me’?”

Lucien grins wickedly. “He has this… little habit of turning people into the animals he thinks they are.”

Elain’s voice is faint. “Has he—has he ever done that to you?”

Lucien goes dead silent.

Elain leans forward. “Lucien?”

He slowly, dramatically, plucks a grape from the table, pops it into his mouth, and looks away like he’s trying to make peace with the universe.

“...To what did he change you?”

Still chewing.

“Lucien.”

He groans. “A fox, alright?! For a week. I couldn't even open a door.”

Elain bursts out laughing "So this is how people started calling you a fox"

Lucien glares at her, completely betrayed. “Don’t you dare tell anyone.”

She just laughs harder.

The Spring Court may still be in process of healing.

But she thinks she might like it that way.

And with Lucien’s laughter beside her and a wolf lurking in the trees that may or may not be her new dry, sarcastic brother figure, it doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.

@elainweekofficial

Spring Court. Late Aftenoon

The garden is too quiet. The birds are singing, the roses are blooming, the sun is shining... and Elain knews Tamlin is about to do something weird.

She’s trimming a vine when she hears him behind her.

Tamlin: “You know, if someone buried a body under the daisy patch, no one would ever suspect.”

Elain: (not turning around) “I’m begging you to start a conversation like a normal person for once.”

Tamlin: “This is a normal conversation. In my head.”

Elain: “Have you considered therapy?”

Tamlin: “Briefly. Then I considered just raising a few ghosts and talking to them instead.”

She sighs and finally turns to face him. He’s leaning against a tree, arms crossed, expression unreadable—except for the faintest twitch of a smirk that makes her deeply suspicious.

Elain: “I swear, you are getting weirder day by day since I moved in.”

Tamlin: “That’s bold coming from the girl who sings lullabies to her bread dough.”

Elain: “That dough has feelings, Tamlin.”

Tamlin: “And I have intrusive thoughts.”

Elain: “...Like what?”

Tamlin: “Like whether I could fake my own death and haunt my enemies just to scare the hell out of them and make them think of me all the time.”

She drops the vine she was holding.

Elain: “That’s not funny.”

Tamlin: “I wasn’t joking.”

Elain: (quietly) “Are you okay?”

Tamlin: (blinks, caught off guard) “I’m fine.”

Elain: “‘Fine’ like High Lord fine or ‘fine’ like ‘I talk to the crows and they answer’ fine?”

Tamlin: “They don’t answer me. They just listen very politely.”

Elain: “Okay. That’s it. I’m making tea. You’re going to sit down and not mention death, ghosts, or hypothetical murders.”

Tamlin: “Even if the tea tastes like betrayal?”

Elain: “If it does, I’ll know you made it.”

Tamlin: “I’m sensing a lot of hostility.”

Elain: “I’m sensing a lot of unprocessed trauma.”

Tamlin: “Touché.”

She sighs again but grabs his arm and pulls him toward the manor like she’s done this a thousand times. Maybe she has. It’s exhausting—but he follows, obedient in his own odd way.

And as they walk, she mutters:

Elain: “You ever say something normal, I’ll faint on the spot.”

Tamlin: “Then I’m saving lives by being deeply unwell.”

Bound by starlight: chapter 4

Chapter 4: The exile

Tamlin stands amidst his court—not in ruins, but in the midst of transformation. The lands of Spring remain lush, its forests humming with life, the rivers still winding through fields of gold and green. The manor, though scarred by battles past, still stands, its halls no longer empty, but filled with the quiet stirrings of renewal. The court has suffered, but it has not fallen. And neither has he.

Yet when night falls, when he is alone in his chambers, the silence is not empty—it is filled with the ghost of a melody only he remembers. His fingers trace the strings of his fidlle, the same instrument that once carried the music of his heart, the songs he played only for her. Rosevela.

Her name is never spoken, but it lives in every unguarded thought, in every dream that ends with him reaching for someone who is no longer there. He does not know if the goddess kept her promise, if she was truly reborn. But he searches.

Some nights, he crosses the border into the human lands, wandering nameless streets, watching faces in the crowd, hoping—fearing—that he might see a trace of her in someone new. But he never does. He tells himself that if she is out there, he will find her. That he will recognize her, no matter what form she takes.

But the waiting is a slow kind of agony, one he endures in silence.

He does not command loyalty with words. He earns it with deeds. Brick by brick, trust by trust, he restores his court—not to what it was, but to what it should have been all along. The people who stays do so not out of obligation, but out of belief. Old sentries who once fought by his side, courtiers who remember the prince he used to be, gather again within Spring’s borders. They do not see a beastly ruler, but a man who is trying, who is standing despite everything.

Yet not all are willing to see change. Those who once served his father—those who thrived in a court built on control and cruelty—or who's stayed of them look upon him with doubt, with barely veiled disdain. To them, he is not a ruler, but a beast wearing a crown, a cursed thing unworthy of leading. They whisper behind his back, questioning his decisions, his vision.

And then there are those who openly oppose him.

A tense meeting takes place with Bron and Hart, two of his father’s last remaining loyal sentries. They stand before him with their arms crossed, their gazes sharp and assessing. They do not offer him the respect once given to his father, nor do they hide their skepticism when they learn what he has done.

“You freed them?” Hart’s voice is laced with disbelief—disbelief, and perhaps something sharper.

Tamlin doesn’t waver. “Yes.”

Bron scoffs. “Your father built this court on strength, and you undo it with one command. Do you think mercy will earn you loyalty?”

Tamlin meets their gazes, unflinching. “Strength built on chains was never strength at all.”

Silence stretches between them.

He does not expect them to understand, not yet. He does not expect their loyalty, nor does he beg for it. He has spent too long trying to be the ruler others wanted him to be. No longer.

“I will lead this court to what it should be,” he says, voice steady, unwavering. “With or without your loyalty.”

The words settle between them, final and unyielding.

There is no plea in them. No desperation. Only truth.

Spring will rise again—not on the foundation of its past, but on something new, something stronger. And whether they choose to stand beside him or walk away, Tamlin knows this:

He will not fail this court, he didn’t choose to be it high and never wanted to. But when this title is forced on him he’ll do anything but fail his peoples

And for those who are willing to believe, hope stirs in the heart of Spring.

Night settles over the Spring Court, quiet but heavy with unseen eyes. The manor is bathed in dim candlelight when a courier, cloaked in shadows, slips past the outer gates. He moves quickly but not quickly enough—Tamlin’s sentries seize him before he can take another step.

The figure does not resist, does not plead. He only extends a gloved hand, offering a sealed letter. Tamlin steps forward, wary, and takes it. The moment his fingers brush the parchment, the courier crumbles into dust, scattering into the night air like ash on the wind. A spell. A message left without a trace of its sender.

Tamlin turns the letter over in his hands, the wax seal unmarked, unfamiliar. He breaks it open, unfolding elegant yet foreign script.

I know you share much with the youngest heir of Autumn—a tyrant father, a love deemed forbidden. His lover was slain, and now he is hunted at your borders. Just as you once were.

You might want to help him.

A sharp breath hisses between Tamlin’s teeth. His jaw tightens, his grip nearly crushing the paper. Viola. The name slashes through him like a rusted dagger, old wounds tearing open anew.

Who could know? No one. He had told no one—only Amarantha had known.

Damn Amarantha.

Tamlin forces the thought away, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. This is not the time to dwell on the past. He strides to the fireplace and tosses the letter into the flames. It curls and blackens, reduced to nothing—but its words refuse to burn away. They cling to his thoughts like shadows.

He must check his borders.

The night air is thick with the scent of charred leaves and blood. Tamlin moves swiftly, his steps near soundless as he tracks the disturbance at the edge of his lands.

The scene unfolds before him in a brutal display—Lucien, ragged and barely standing, his once-vibrant flames flickering weakly. Two of his brothers close in, their blades glinting with intent. The younger heir of Autumn has been running for too long, and it shows.

One of them sneers, circling Lucien like a predator toying with wounded prey. “Did you think love would save you, little brother?”

Lucien doesn’t answer, only raises his blade in trembling defiance.

Tamlin steps from the shadows, his voice low, edged with quiet authority. “You have exactly one minute to drop him and get the hell away from my sight—or be treated as trespassers.”

One of the brothers scoffs. “This is family business, beastly High Lord. It has nothing to do with you. Once we finish, we’ll leave.”

Tamlin doesn’t wait. His claws flash in the dim light, and before they can react, one of them lies dead at his feet.

The second lunges at Lucien, but the younger heir is faster. His blade finds its mark, slicing through flesh, and blood spills onto the autumn leaves.

Lucien staggers, breathless, his chest heaving as he stares at Tamlin. “I won’t stay long. Just enough to heal. I won’t cause problems.”

Tamlin holds his gaze. “You won’t cause problems. You’re welcome as a Spring Court citizen.”

Lucien blinks, exhaustion dulling his sharp features. “Why?”

Tamlin’s voice is quiet but firm. “I once cursed the High Lords for refusing to shelter those in need. I will not be like them.”

The journey back is silent. Lucien does not speak, does not ask questions. The once-proud heir of Autumn is unrecognizable—stripped of his arrogance, of the fire that once burned so brightly in him.

Tamlin notices the way his steps falter, the exhaustion in his every movement. He does not comment on it.

The manor doors close behind them, sealing the night outside. Lucien looks around, his amber eyes scanning the once-golden halls. “It’s different.”

Tamlin only inclines his head. “Everything is.”

Lucien doesn’t ask what that means. He simply nods.

Days pass, and though he does not pry, Lucien watches. He sees the way Tamlin carries himself—not like a ruler basking in his returned power, but like a man weighed down by ghosts. He sees the way the High Lord avoids certain rooms, how his fingers sometimes tighten around the hilt of his sword for no reason.

One night, unable to sleep, Lucien wanders the halls. He hears the soft, mournful sound of a viola. The melody drifts through the corridors, its notes aching, filled with something that feels almost like longing.

He follows the sound.

In the dim glow of the hearth, Tamlin sits alone, his hands resting on the aged instrument. Old letters are spread before him, some of them so worn they threaten to crumble.

Lucien’s gaze flickers over the firelit parchment. A single name stands out, inked with careful precision: Rosevela.

Lucien knows that name.

The music stops. Tamlin exhales, his shoulders tense, but he does not turn.

Lucien takes a step back, silent, before Tamlin can notice.

He does not need to ask. Some wounds don’t need words to be understood.

*****************************

After good time of studying the magic of the vanished courtier Tamlin found the source. He follows the lingering threads of magic, tracking its source to the exact border between Spring and Autumn. The air is crisp with the scent of fallen leaves, and the golden glow of dusk casts long shadows over the land. And waiting for him—exactly where Tamlin expected—is Eris Vanserra.

The eldest son of Beron leans against a gnarled oak, arms crossed, a smirk already curving his lips. He looks as if he has been expecting Tamlin for hours, perhaps even amused by the predictability of it all.

“You figured it out faster than I expected,” Eris remarks smoothly. “Impressive. Or maybe just desperate about the night’s daughter?”

Tamlin doesn’t take the bait. His golden eyes remain fixed on Eris, unreadable, though his voice is edged with quiet steel. “Quite the provocation. You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Eris lets out a soft chuckle. “Oh, come now. I thought you’d be thanking me. After all, I handed you the chance to play a savior.”

Tamlin ignores the dig. He takes a slow step forward. “How did you know about Rosevela?”

Eris’s smirk widens. “Straight to the heart of the matter. No pleasantries. No pretending you aren’t dying to know.” He exhales through his nose, eyes gleaming with something sharp and knowing. “I thought you’d ask why I helped my brother first. Or perhaps—who else I’ve told your little secret to?”

Tamlin’s claws slide out, just enough to make a point. “Don’t play games with me, Eris.” His voice drops lower. “I buried one of your brothers days ago. If you want to be next, keep talking in circles.”

Eris raises his hands in mock surrender. “Calm yourself, High Lord.” He tuts, shaking his head. “So predictable. That temper of yours will get you in trouble one day.”

Tamlin says nothing. He just stares, his silence more menacing than words.

Eris sighs, as if indulging a stubborn child. “Fine. If you must know, it was a coincidence. You and your lover weren’t quite as discreet as you thought when you snuck around for your rendez-vous in Autumn.” His gaze sharpens. “I noticed.”

Tamlin’s muscles tense. He doesn’t let the flicker of emotion show, but Eris sees too much. Knows too much.

“How did she die, anyway?” Eris continues, tilting his head. “Are the rumors true—that you and your father played a hand in it? Rosevela’s death”

Tamlin takes another step closer, his voice dropping into something dark and dangerous. “Say her name again, and you’ll choke on it.” He gets more closer “does your father has any communication with Amarntha? “

Eris studies him for a long moment, then hums. “So it wasn’t your father.” A pause. A calculated shift. “Amarantha did it, and you now taking all the blame”

Tamlin doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

Eris clicks his tongue. “Hmph. Thought so.” His smirk falters just slightly, replaced by something almost thoughtful. But it’s gone just as quickly. “Well. Tragic.”

Tamlin clenches his jaw. He wants to end this, to leave. But something keeps him rooted to the spot. Some instinct warning him that Eris is not finished.

Eris glances at him, amused again. “I assume you burned my letter?”

Tamlin doesn’t blink. “Of course.”

Eris laughs softly. “Good. Now, no one has proof that I helped Lucien.” He takes a step closer, lowering his voice. “That means you owe me, Tamlin.”

Tamlin doesn’t flinch. “If anyone of us owe the other, it’s who owe me.”

Eris raises a brow. “You accepted my help, didn’t you? You let Lucien in. And you know he can be big help for you as new high lord.”

Tamlin narrows his eyes. “I didn’t do it for my advantge.”

“Perhaps not, and no one owe the others” Eris concedes, smiling like a fox. “But debts have a funny way of creeping up when you least expect them.”

Tamlin exhales sharply, done with this game all what he want is punch him in the face. He turns on his heel, but Eris calls after him, “Not even a single question about why I helped my brother? He migh be threat for me as an heir”

Tamlin stops. Not because he wants to, but because he knows Eris wants him to leave without asking. And Tamlin does not give Eris what he wants.

He glances back over his shoulder. “I don’t want to know anthyng about that neither about what in your head.” His voice is steady, calculated. And then, with the cruelest twist of a smirk, he adds, “And before you ask—I won’t tell Lucien.”

Eris’s smirk doesn’t falter, but something flickers in his gaze.

Tamlin doesn’t wait for a response. He disappears into the shadows of the Spring Court, leaving Eris alone at the border, the crisp wind rustling through the leaves.

*****************************

Over the following weeks, Tamlin watches Lucien closely.

He had always known Lucien was clever. But now, stripped of his title, his wealth, and the family name that once shielded him, the younger Vanserra proves to be more than just clever. He is strategic. Observant. A survivor.

Lucien moves through the manor with ease, learning its halls, its people, its rhythms. He listens more than he speaks, his sharp amber eyes missing nothing. He does not flaunt his knowledge or press where he is unwelcome, but he files everything away, tucking each piece of information into whatever vault exists within his mind.

Tamlin takes note. And one morning, over breakfast, he finally speaks the thought that has been lingering for days.

“Spring doesn’t have an emissary.”

Lucien, who is halfway through a piece of toast, smirks without looking up. “Oh, really? This is a thing I didn’t know about.”

Tamlin add “I’m not good in talking with peoples.”

Lucien leans back in his chair, smiling. “this is a thing I do know well”

Tamlin exhales sharply. He hates talking in circles. “Be my emissary.”

Lucien stills, his cup pausing at his lips. Then he lowers it, studying Tamlin with something unreadable in his gaze. “You’re not joking.”

Tamlin meets his stare head-on. “No.”

Lucien lets out a dry laugh. “That would only make things worse between you and Autumn. You took me in—that’s already enough to make Beron furious. If you make me your emissary, it’ll be seen as an open insult.”

Tamlin’s expression doesn’t change. “I don’t care what Beron thinks.”

Lucien scoffs. “That’s easy to say, but you should. Beron isn’t just going to fume from his throne and let this slide. He’ll retaliate. Probably through politics first, then through more underhanded methods.” He tilts his head. “And if the other High Lords see this as an invitation to challenge you…?”

Tamlin doesn’t blink. “I do what’s best for my court. No matter the cost. Also you know that your father is a coward, believe me when tells you he’s too afraid from me to do anything to my court”

Lucien shakes his head. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” Tamlin says evenly. “Spring has no emissary. You are more than capable. And despite everything, you still have ties to other courts. I need someone who knows how to handle politics.” His gaze sharpens. “I’m not asking you to be a warrior, Lucien. Even that you have the power to be one but I need a diplomat. Someone who understands words as well as war.”

Lucien exhales, rubbing his temples. “And if I say no?”

Tamlin shrugs. “Then you say no.”

Lucien studies him for a long moment. “And if I say yes?”

Tamlin finally takes a bite of his food. “Then you’ll have a position. A purpose. And no need to say this is your home regardless you accepted the position or not.”

Lucien tenses slightly, just enough for Tamlin to notice. The word ‘home’ lingers between them, heavier than it should be.

Another long pause.

Then, finally, Lucien nods. “Fine. But if Beron tries to burn this court to the ground over it, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tamlin smirks. “Let him try.”

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of court dealings, Lucien and Tamlin find themselves alone by the hearth. The flickering flames cast long shadows across the room, the soft crackling of wood the only sound between them. The weight of their respective losses hangs in the air like a thick mist, unspoken but felt deeply by both.

Lucien leans back in his chair, swirling his wine slowly, as though the simple act of stirring the liquid gives him something to focus on other than the gnawing emptiness inside him.

“There are rumors,” Lucien begins quietly, his voice carrying the faintest trace of something heavier than curiosity. “About Rhysand’s mother. His sister.”

Tamlin’s hand freezes mid-motion, his grip tightening around his glass. The sharpness in his jaw betrays the silent pain he’s trying so desperately to control. For a brief moment, Lucien sees it—the vulnerability that Tamlin hides so well.

“And?” Tamlin’s voice is cold, flat, almost mechanical.

Lucien takes a slow sip, watching him. “People say you were responsible.”

The room suddenly feels colder, despite the fire crackling brightly before them. The air seems to grow thick, oppressive. Tamlin doesn’t flinch, but the weight of those words lands on him like a stone, sinking into his chest. His eyes harden, his jaw tightens, and for a moment, there’s a stillness between them.

“Some things are better left buried,” Tamlin says, his voice final, like the last breath of something long dead.

Lucien doesn't push. He understands the weight of silence too well. The grief he saw in Tamlin all that time, the letters also, he’s aware that there is something between Tamlin and that woman more than people know.

He knows grief—real, raw, unrelenting grief—and he knows when to back away, when to let the other man carry his burden alone. Instead, Lucien lifts his cup, his eyes meeting Tamlin’s across the flames.

Tamlin hesitates, just a heartbeat too long, before he raises his own glass, clinking it gently against Lucien’s in a silent toast.

Two broken men.

The fire crackles, and for a few moments, neither of them speaks, each lost in their own private sorrows.

Lucien leans forward, his gaze flickering to the flames as the memories rush in, unbidden. He thinks of Jasminda, her soft smile, her warmth, the life they had planned together before it was shattered so suddenly. The ache is still fresh, as raw as the day she was ripped away from him. The pain of it sits heavy on his chest, pressing down on him with every breath.

“I still hear her sometimes,” Lucien says quietly, his voice breaking the silence. “In the wind, in the quiet moments... It’s like she’s still there, just beyond reach.”

“I still hear her voice too“ Tamlin says in hollowness

Lucien swallows hard. “I can’t shake the feeling that if I had been there… maybe things would have been different.”

Tamlin’s gaze flickers to him, something soft passing through his eyes, before it disappears, masked again by the cold exterior. He knows that kind of grief—the kind that gnaws at your soul, never letting you forget, never giving you peace. He knows very well

“I’ve felt that way,” Tamlin mutters, his voice low and almost unrecognizable. “When I lost her.”

Lucien turns to face him fully now, his eyes searching for something in Tamlin’s expression. For the first time, he sees it—the grief that clings to Tamlin like a second skin. He sees how deeply it’s carved into the lines of his face, the way his eyes harden when the past is mentioned, how quickly he pushes everything back down.

“The daughter of the night, you’re talking about, isn’t her“ Lucien asks even though he figure it ou alone.

“Stars“ Tamlin correct him “she is daughter of the stars, not the dark night“

The past is a ghost Tamlin cannot escape, no matter how hard he tries to bury it.

Tamlin doesn’t elaborate, but Lucien doesn’t need him to. He understands the unspoken pain.

Another silence falls between them, thicker this time, as both men stare into the flames, their hearts heavy with the weight of all they’ve lost.

Finally, Lucien speaks again, his voice softer now. “Do you think it ever stops hurting?”

Tamlin stares into the fire, his face expressionless. But in his eyes, there’s a flicker of something old and deep, a truth he hasn’t shared with anyone. “No,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “It doesn’t.”

The grief remains, a constant shadow at their sides, but in that moment, they both understand that they are not alone in it. The silence between them is no longer uncomfortable. It is simply the shared space of two broken men, bound by loss, by pain, and by the unspoken knowledge that, for better or worse, they will carry their burdens until the end of time

@tamlinweek

Okay, but let’s talk about Tamlin’s mystery friends.

In ACOMAF, Tamlin actually introduced Feyre to some of his friends, but we barely got anything about them because she didn’t really pay attention. She even mentioned forgetting their names right away. Which is kinda wild, considering how much focus was put on Rhysand’s inner circle later.

It’s like the story never really gave Tamlin’s friendships a chance to exist on the page.

And what’s even wilder is that Feyre herself described them as noticeably more chaotic and untamed than the other party guests. Isn't that a glimpse into Tamlin’s real personality? the person who was never meant for this polished, stiff royal life the person who all what he wanted is freedom from royalty stuff.

He hated being a High Lord stuck in a gilded cage of rules and expectations. And yet, somehow, he still did his duty, even when it was killing him inside.

But the real kicker? When Feyre met Rhysand’s Inner Circle, her first thought was, Wow, his friends aren’t afraid to challenge him. Not like Tamlin’s.

Hold up—how would you even know??

You never saw Tamlin with his actual friends! You only ever saw him interact with soldiers, servants, and Lucien.

and Lucien never was the kind of soldier or emissary who's too afraid to challenge Tamlin, I think we can all agree on that. They were actual friends, without all the rank nonsense between them.

In fact, in ACOTAR, Rhysand himself told Tamlin to stop being so friendly with his sentries, and Tamlin was the one who straight-up said, I don’t enforce ranks in my court.

And what did Rhys do? He laughed. Of course, we know he was putting on his mask at the time 🙄, but the point is—Tamlin wasn’t ruling like some untouchable king on a throne. He actually wanted to be close to his people.

And now here’s my biggest question

where were those friends when Feyre left the Spring Court?

The same ones who fought alongside Tamlin for years? The ones who, according to lore, begged him to let them die to break Amarantha’s curse? They just vanished.

Either they actually abandoned him (which, tbh, I doubt because why stay through Amarantha’s reign and beg to let you die to break the curse only to dip when Feyre peaced out?), or—and hear me out—they died during Hybern’s attack. Because ofcourse Feyre weakened the wall, dipped, and never looked back. She wasn’t there to see the aftermath.

If that’s true? That’s just another tragedy on Tamlin’s shoulders. The guy already lost everyone once. Imagine finally breaking free from Amarantha, trying to piece your life back together, and then boom—war comes, your people die, and the one person you thought you saved leaves you to drown in it.

I’m just saying, there’s a lot of missing pieces here. And I kinda want some damn answers.