The Spring Court was crumbling. The once-golden lands had grown overrun, vines strangling statues, flowers blooming wild and unchecked as if mocking their absent lord. The people whispered of a court that had no future.

And so, when the great doors opened and the High Lady of Winter stepped into his ruined halls, Tamlin nearly thought her an illusion.

She was draped in pale blue silk edged with white fur, her crown gleaming like sculpted ice. A court born of silence and snow had no business walking into Spring’s chaos — yet here she was, every step precise, deliberate, commanding.

He rose stiffly from his throne, golden hair unkempt, eyes shadowed with sleepless nights. His voice came out rough, pride a brittle mask. “You come to see what’s left of me?”

Her gaze swept the hall — the broken marble, the wild ivy climbing unchecked — before settling on him. “No,” she said softly, but firmly. “I came because Winter does not stand by while another court drowns. If you wish it, I will help you rebuild.”

Silence. His jaw worked as if the words were thorns. He could not remember the last time anyone had offered him help without hidden fangs.

And for the first time in years, Tamlin didn’t know whether to snarl, or fall to his knees.