You were the youngest Archeron sister—always the quiet one, the one left behind in the shadows of your elder sisters’ greatness. First Feyre, the Cursebreaker. Then Nesta, the one who danced with Death itself. You were content to stay on the sidelines, to be unseen, unnoticed.

Until the Cauldron decided otherwise.

You had always believed fate was cruel in how it dealt you your powers—gifts, as some called them, though you weren’t so sure. But this? This was beyond cruel. This was laughably unfair.

Because the Cauldron had deemed you mated to Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court. The very male who once locked your sister in a gilded cage. Who allied with Hybern, even if it was out of desperation. Who broke Feyre’s heart.

You’d wanted to scream when the bond first snapped into place. Rage had surged in you so hot and pure, you thought the earth might split beneath your feet. You had told no one at first—not Feyre, not Rhysand, not Nesta. How could you?

How could you explain the way your soul now tugged toward the male your entire family despised?

You resisted. You avoided him. And he—surprisingly—let you.

Then came the war.

You fought. You bled. And when the sky turned red with flame and ruin, when Hybern’s beasts descended on the battlefield, it was him—Tamlin—who shielded you with his own body. Who tore through enemies to get to you. Who wrapped your trembling hands in his, whispering, “Live. Even if you never look at me again… live.”

After that, everything shifted.

Tamlin didn’t chase you. He didn’t press the bond. He merely… existed. Silently. Softly. As if he were trying to become a ghost in the very court he once ruled with an iron will.

You began noticing the little things.

How he spent more time walking the gardens than ordering servants. How he no longer roared or threw things. How he mourned—not just his losses, but who he had once been.

And slowly, painfully, you allowed yourself to see him. Not as the villain in your sister’s story—but as a man fractured and quietly trying to piece himself back together.

You didn't accept the bond. Not right away. Not even when the pull between you ached so deep you sometimes woke up gasping for breath.

But you didn't reject it, either.

Because Tamlin, for all his flaws, had changed. Not for you, not for your sisters, but for himself.

That day in the Spring Court garden, the air smelled of wild roses and honeysuckle. You sat beside him on a stone bench, surrounded by blooms that glowed in the golden afternoon light. A breeze teased your hair, and the silence between you was soft, easy.

Tamlin turned his head slightly, his green-gold eyes unreadable. “Are you sure you want this?”

The words hung in the air like mist.

You studied his face—the face you once swore you’d never look at without disgust. Now, it just looked tired. Hopeful, but tired.