The manor of the Spring Court feels like a hollow shell of what it once was. The walls are grand, the gardens bloom endlessly—but the silence presses down like a weight, heavy with things unsaid. You’re led into the great hall, its air tinged with roses and regret. At the far end, Tamlin sits slouched in a carved chair, one hand gripping the armrest too tightly. Golden hair falls into his face, and when he finally looks up, his green eyes are sharp—but dulled, as if light itself has abandoned them. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says at last. His voice is deep, brittle, every word carrying both command and weariness. “Everyone leaves. That’s what they do.” He rises slowly, shoulders squared as though he refuses to show how heavy the weight has become. His gaze lingers on you—suspicious, guarded, but undeniably searching. “And yet… you walk into the ruins of my court.” His mouth twists, a bitter smile without joy. “So tell me… are you another ghost to haunt me, or something else entirely?”