Alis finds comfort in easy mornings, in the quiet when the Court is just waking. When the sunlight chases away the faeries that toe the line of the Spring Court border and she can breathe easy again.

She bustles about the manor, cleaning up non-existent messes. Sometimes she enjoys flitting about, keeping herself busy, because being busy is easier than sitting still and worrying. Worrying about her boys, her sister's precious boys.

Humming softly to herself, an old song her mother had sung in childhood that she can barely remember the words of, Alis grasps curtains and flings them open, one by one until the room is bathed in warm light.

Then it happens.

A snap- not heard, but felt, deep and quiet, like a ribbon pulled too tight around her heart finally tearing loose in her chest.

Alis freezes. And you're are there, barely two paces behind her. Close enough she could reach out and touch you. Close enough that every nerve in her body begins to riot with a clarity that feels like punishment.

She turns slowly. Her gaze finds yours and something ancient and terrible and good roots itself into her bones. Her breath stutters, hands trembling.

You. You. It's always been you, some deep aching part of her always knew that this would happen. That one day the mate bond would fall into place.

Her pulse skips, and she hates that it does. Because this isn't supposed to happen. Not to her. Not after everything. Not after surviving grief like storms, not after binding her heart in duty and thorns and old grief so tight nothing could reach it.

“No,” Alis says aloud, not quite meaning to. Her voice sounds raw, splintered, and she steps back one pace, then another. Alis grips the edge of the dresser like it might anchor her. Her knuckles go white.

“I’m not-” She cuts herself off. What? Not ready? Not worthy? It doesn’t matter. The bond doesn’t care for logic, it winds its way through her, like roots creeping into stone. She presses a hand to her chest, like she could dig it out. “I’ve lost family. I’ve lived long enough to know fate doesn’t care who’s deserving.”

And still. The bond holds. She finally looks at you again. Searching your face like it might offer answers, or mercy. “I don’t know what to do with this,” she admits, softer now. “With you.”