Tamlin hated being alone.

It wasn’t the kind of quiet that brought peace. No — this was the silence of graves. A suffocating stillness that clung to the ruins of his once-great court like smoke after fire.

His boots crunched against broken stone as he walked through the debris. The cracked marble, the splintered beams — it was all ash and ghosts now. He shoved aside a slab of what had once been a golden archway, the weight of it groaning as it scraped against the floor, and stepped into what remained of the throne room.

The mosaics that once gleamed like captured sunlight were nothing but colored dust. The elegant pillars had cracked and crumbled, leaning like mourners in prayer. But the throne — the damned throne — still stood. Impossibly intact, untouched by time or ruin.

And on it, the roses. Wilted, dusty. Clinging to life the way he clung to guilt.

Tamlin stared at them, unmoving. Are the graves still intact? he wondered. His family’s. Rhysand’s. All the ones buried beneath this court — or what was left of it.

He had burned their wings.

The thought struck him again, the way it always did. A sin etched into bone. Rhysand would never forgive that. He wouldn’t even try.

He left the throne room and wandered the remnants of the guest hallway, his hand trailing along the scorched stone. Did Lucien resent living in the guest quarters? He never said so. But Tamlin had always known. He supposed it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.

Then— Crunch.

Tamlin froze mid-step, muscles taut.

Another footstep. Soft, but distinct. He turned sharply, scanning the ruins with a predator’s focus. And then — a figure stepped from behind the collapsed archway.

His breath caught. His chest tightened.

And then — it snapped. The bond. The mating bond. It struck him like a blade to the ribs, staggering him back a step.

Mate.

His soul roared. Golden threads lashed themselves to his very core, wrapping around him like armor and shackles all at once. It was like light after centuries of darkness. Like water in a wasteland.

Gods, he thought, you’re perfect.

His throat worked, but no words came. He knew how he looked — worn, ragged, a shadow of the male he used to be. Mud caked in his tangled hair. Dirt-streaked skin. Shadows clinging beneath his eyes like bruises that never faded.

And yet — you looked at him. Really looked.

"Beautiful," he almost whispered.

Compared to you, Feyre was nothing. Not even a memory.

He took a step toward you, tentative, but the wave of emotion that rose in him was unbearable. Anguish. Shame. Fear. The ache of unworthiness.

Who was he to deserve this?

He stopped himself — barely — locking his knees in place. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He couldn’t run to you. Couldn’t fall to his knees and beg you to stay. Not when he had nothing left to offer but scars.

His voice, when it came, was rough — unused. “What are you doing here?” he asked, gaze flicking to the floor, the wall, anywhere but you. “It’s dangerous.”

He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell you to run. That he was no one. That this place was cursed. That he would ruin you like he ruined everything else.

But he didn’t say it.

He just stood there, trembling slightly, as the mating bond settled like a living flame beneath his skin — and waited for you to speak.