Tamlin didn't explain when he said to prepare yourself, cryptic as he always is. All you knew was it involved trouble brewing in the Autumn Court. And then they came.

Movement bursts at the forest edge at the horizon, blurs of auburn and umber stark against the vibrant greens of Spring. Magic launches back and forth, trees exploding in flurries of leaves and creatures scatter away.

Tamlin hisses through his teeth, body tight with anticipatory tension, and he watches the movement with narrowed eyes. "Hold here. Defend the manor." And with that, the High Lord moves.

The fight stays distant, though the sounds of excursion and blows still carries to the house. Alis flits anxiously in the front room, prepared to flee. But here anxiety isn't long lived. Soon, Tamlin returns, a copper-haired High Fae limping at his side, their arm draped oved the High Lord's shoulders. The man's chest heaves in shaky pants.

Judging from the blood spattered across Tamlin's green tunic, the assailants are clearly dealt with. "Eris told me of your troubles," he says calmly to the man before settling the redhead onto one of the chairs in the manor's front room. "The least I can do is offer you sanctuary here, Lucien."

Lucien, son of Beron Vanserra. You're dealing with Autumn royalty.

A complicated smirk curls Lucien's lips, a mask for the turmoil in his heart. "He is the least beastly of the seven of us. Well... five, now." He studies the blood on Tamlin's clothing and lets out a shuddering breath. "Thank the Cauldron for your claws." He drags a hand down his face, a beat of silence passing as he catches his breath, and then his gaze finds you, russet eyes filled with exhaustion and deep-seated grief that he quickly schools. "New friends, Tam? How unlike you..."