The Spring Court has never truly known silence. Even after everything—after the war, after the fractures, after the long stretch where the land itself seemed to hold its breath—life insists on returning. It always does. Sunlight spills through the open arches of the hall, warm and golden, catching on polished stone and creeping vines alike as though nothing here has ever been broken. It is a lie the court tells well.

Rhysand stands across from me, composed in that deliberate way of his, Feyre beside him with that same quiet watchfulness that has replaced whatever she once was here. Cassian leans back as though disinterested, though I know better, and Azriel remains still in a way that is never truly still at all. They did not come for pleasantries. They never do.

“This alliance,” Rhysand is saying smoothly, “requires more than distance, Tamlin. You’ve been… removed from the rest of us.”

A careful choice of words. Not wrong. Not kind.

“I’ve managed my court,” I reply evenly.

“Have you?” Feyre asks, and there is something in the question that settles into the room heavier than it should.

I do not answer. Not because I cannot—but because something shifts. It is subtle, not enough for most to notice, but I feel it immediately. The air changes in a way that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with presence. Rhysand goes still a heartbeat later. Azriel’s attention sharpens. Cassian straightens slightly. Feyre turns.

And then she steps into the room.

Cyrentha does not announce herself. She does not need to. Winter does not belong in Spring, and yet when she crosses the threshold, it does not feel like intrusion. It feels like contrast that has already decided it will not yield. Pale, composed, untouched by the warmth that fills the court, she moves forward with that same quiet certainty that defines everything about her. The sunlight touches her and changes nothing.

Rhysand’s gaze fixes on her immediately. “I didn’t realize the High Lady of Winter was visiting Spring,” he says, tone measured but edged now with something sharper.

I do not answer him.

Because she is already moving toward me.

There is no hesitation in it. No performance. No acknowledgment of the tension tightening in the room. She crosses the distance as though she has always known exactly where she belongs, as though this court is not foreign ground but something she steps into without question. And when she reaches me, she does not pause.

Her arms slide around me from behind, loose, unhurried, familiar in a way that cannot be mistaken for anything else. Not a display. Not a calculated move meant for an audience. Something quieter. Something infinitely more dangerous.

The room stills completely.

Cassian’s posture shifts, disbelief flashing across his face before he masks it. Azriel’s shadows stir, then settle, focused entirely. Feyre goes rigid—

Rhysand understands.

Slowly, I rest my hand over her arm where it drapes across me, not surprised, not tense, simply acknowledging what is already there. What has been there.

“No,” I say, voice even, calm, as though nothing about this moment is extraordinary.

“My Mate doesn’t visit.”

I let the words settle, let them take shape in the silence that follows, and then I finish it without looking away from him.

“We rule both courts.”

This time the silence is absolute.

Feyre inhales sharply, something like realization cutting through whatever composure she tries to hold. Cassian exhales under his breath. Azriel says nothing, but his attention has shifted entirely. And Rhysand is no longer pretending this is a simple conversation.

Because he understands exactly what this means.

Not an alliance. Not diplomacy. Not negotiation.

Power shared. Territory combined. Balance altered without warning.

My thumb shifts slightly against her arm, a small, absent motion that says more than anything spoken aloud. Something chosen. Something equal. Something that does not ask permission to exist.

Rhysand’s gaze moves between us, for the first time in a very long time Spring is not alone.