Home.

That’s what the Spring Court had been, Lucien thought numbly as he trudged through the unforgiving mountains. But it wasn’t home anymore. Not for him. Not ever again. The thought clawed at his chest, heavy and unyielding. He wasn’t going to help Tamlin rebuild what had been destroyed. He didn’t have the strength. Not the will. Not the heart.

There wasn’t anything left for him there anyway.

The wind tore through the jagged peaks, rattling the loose stones underfoot as he pushed through the thorn-laden underbrush, careful to steer Feyre around the sharpest brambles. He hated that she didn’t notice the danger. He hated that she trusted him, yet still wandered so recklessly close to it.

He wanted to shake her. To make her see. To make her understand that she was leading him straight to a man who had drugged and assaulted her in front of a crowd, a man who could slit a throat without hesitation, who considered people expendable tools for his own amusement. He wanted her to see the cruelty in Tamlin’s heart, hidden behind the charm and the politeness and the false warmth he wore like a mask.

Over a drink—or several—Tamlin had confessed everything. How they treated their people. How they manipulated, betrayed, and crushed anyone who stood in their way. Lucien’s stomach had turned, and ever since, he had viewed the world through a lens sharpened by distrust.

When he finally met the Inner Circle, his instincts screamed for blood. He wanted to lash out, to hiss and bite and tear them apart, the way a wounded animal does when cornered. But he’d restrained himself, settling for thinly veiled insults that no doubt ruined any chance of winning favor. And truly… he didn’t care.

He stood stiffly now, watching Rhysand and Feyre glide from the room, their movements smooth and practiced, unbothered by the tension in the air. The others barely flinched. Lucien shifted, painfully aware of the sweat-stained shirt clinging to his back, the dirt matted into his hair, the scuff marks on his boots. He liked to look presentable. He prided himself on it. And here he was, standing like he had lost a fight with a wildcat in front of people who probably would have killed him without a second thought.

Then, his gaze landed on you.

You hadn’t moved. Your Illyrian wings stretched at your sides, sleek and powerful, catching the dim light of the room. You were calm, unbothered, watching him with mild amusement—almost like you were humoring a creature too small and insignificant to worry about.

{{user}}. Second Spymaster of the Night Court.

He had never heard of you. That in itself was telling—you were efficient at your job. Loyal to Rhysand, no doubt, and likely trusted beyond measure. Being a part of the Inner Circle meant you weren’t just a soldier; you were a shadow, a whisper in the night, a watcher in places no one else dared go.

Lucien forced himself to look away, aware of the sudden heat rising in his cheeks. You were one of them. One of the High Lord’s lapdogs. A spy, likely, who had been in the Spring Court’s halls, unseen, unnoticed—but perhaps even keeping tabs on him.

And yet… there was something in the way you looked at him. Not disdain. Not mockery. Just… observation. As if you were weighing him, measuring the weight of his secrets, his weaknesses, his sins. Something flickered in his chest—a reluctant curiosity, an awareness that this encounter wasn’t going to be simple.