Chapter Text
The humidity of late May hung heavy over the Spring Court, thick with the scent of crushed jasmine and blooming lilacs. Sunlight filters through the canopy, dappling the forest floor in shifting patterns of light and shadow. It was three weeks since Calanmai—a celebration that usually left the court in a haze of lethargy—but the vibrant energy of the woods felt restless today.
Celia spent her morning exactly where she felt most at home: lost in the sprawling oak forests that bordered the manor. She moved with a weightless, supernatural grace, her boots barely disturbing the mossy floor. She had spent hours gathering wild herbs for the kitchen, enjoying the way her body felt almost hollow, as if the gravity of the earth had forgotten to pull quite so hard on her today.
Suddenly, she stopped.
Something tugged at the invisible net she kept perpetually cast around her mind. It wasn't a sound, but a jagged discordance that rattled her teeth. The steady, low-frequency hum that usually sat at the base of her skull—a constant rhythm that let her know the world was in its proper place—suddenly spiked. It felt like a string on a gittern being plucked until it screamed.
She turned her head, her playful blue eyes, scanning the dense greenery.
Nothing. The forest was a sea of emerald shadows and golden light. She reached out with that internal tuning fork, trying to catch the frequency again, but the vibration had vanished as quickly as a breath of wind, leaving her mind feeling flat and unnervingly quiet.
"Probably just a puca looking for a snack," she muttered to herself, her fingers habitually flying to the obsidian and sapphire jewel at her throat. She pushed the feeling aside. There was too much work to do at the manor to waste time chasing ghosts in the brush.
By the time Celia returned to the manor, the sun was beginning to dip, casting long, amber fingers across the stone hallways. She didn't head for the grand entrance; instead, she slipped through the servants' quarters, stopping in the kitchen to drop off her bundle of herbs.
Annie, the head cook’s daughter and Celia's closest friend, was elbows-deep in flour.
"You look like you've been rolling in the brambles again, Lia," Annie teased, tossing a small piece of dough at her.
Celia caught it with a grin, feeling her internal hum settle back into a comfortable, domestic buzz. "And you look like you're trying to become a loaf of bread. Don't let Tamlin see you; he’ll think we’ve run out of rations."
They shared a quick, dry laugh—the kind of gritty humor that had sustained them during the rebuilding years. Celia helped Annie prep the evening's roast for a few minutes, enjoying the grounded, simple heat of the kitchen. This was where she felt the most useful—not as a "Moonflower" on display, but as a part of the Court’s living, breathing heart.
Leaving the kitchen, she nearly collided with Theon, one of the manor guards. He was lean, sun-bronzed, and possessed a smirk that he clearly used to get exactly what he wanted.
"Careful, Lia," he said, catching her by the arm. His touch was familiar and effortless. "I’d hate for you to bruise that pretty face. I have plans for it later."
Celia rolled her eyes, pushing him back playfully. "Your plans usually involve a lot of talking and very little follow-through, Theon."
They shared a look—a casual, wordless agreement. Their relationship was a series of late-night escapes and physical release, devoid of the heavy, suffocating "feelings" that seemed to drive the High Lords to madness. It was easy. It was safe. And most importantly, it was her choice.
Dinner was served in the smaller dining room, a space far more intimate than the echoing halls Tamlin had once prowled alone. The table was set with fresh linens and wildflowers, a testament to her mother’s touch.
Elara sat at the head of the table, her sun-ripened wheat hair caught in a soft braid. She looked every bit the High Lady Consort, her sky-blue eyes radiating a patient warmth. Opposite her sat Tamlin.
He looked younger these days, the lines of feral despair having smoothed into a warrior’s rugged handsomeness. But tonight, the tension in the room was palpable. Celia felt it like a static charge in the air.
Tamlin's hands were habitually flexing against the mahogany table, his claws occasionally nicking the wood. Beside him, Elara was smoothing the front of her lilac skirts with a repetitive, nervous motion. He hadn’t touched his food, his golden blond hair falling across his brow as he stared at the polished surface of the table. His typically vibrant green eyes were clouded, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. The air around him thrummed with barely suppressed energy.
"What is it?" Celia asked, dropping the pretense of eating. She didn't do "poised and quiet" well. "The air in here is vibrating so hard I can taste it. You’re both on edge."
Tamlin looked up, his green eyes flecked with gold, his expression grim. "There are rumors, Lia. Moving through the trade routes."
"Rumors about what?"
"The Night Court," Tamlin growled, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "Reports of their inner circle moving along the borders. There are whispers that they’re looking to renegotiate territorial claims—claims that haven't been touched since the war ended fifty years ago."
Celia frowned. "I was in the village three days ago. I spent half the afternoon in the tavern and the other half at the market. No one is talking about the Night Court. If there was trouble brewing, the common fae would be the first to know. They hear everything from the traders."
"That's exactly what worries me," Elara added softly, her voice laced with concern. "If the merchants don't know, it means the Night Court is being surgical. Quiet."
Celia felt that "off" sensation again. Not just the presence in the woods, but a dissonance in the world itself. The vibrating web in her mind hummed low, a warning she couldn't quite decipher.
"Something isn't right, Tam," Celia murmured, her blue eyes narrowing as she addressed her stepfather directly. "The Night Court doesn't do 'quiet' unless they're planning something that’s going to hurt."
Tamlin’s jaw set hard. "We stay vigilant. No one leaves the manor without a guard until I know for sure what those shadows are whispering about."
Elara nodded in immediate agreement, her hand reaching out to cover Tamlin's. They weren't Mates. Celia knew that for a fact. And yet, they were happy. Watching them, she felt her usual surge of skepticism toward the "Great Mating Bond."
Why should the Universe decide who belongs to whom? she thought bitterly. I’ve seen what that ‘divine choice’ did to the stories of old. It didn't bring peace; it brought obsession and cages. I’d rather choose my own happiness than wait for a soul-bond to snatch it from me.
Celia, however, simply took a sip of her wine. She didn't argue. There was no point in picking a fight over a "rule" that only applied if she allowed herself to be caught. She knew the sentry rotations as well as she knew the herb gardens, and she could be over the manor wall and deep into the woods before the guards even finished their first cup of evening tea.
"Fine," Celia said simply, her voice smooth. "If it makes you feel better."
Tamlin seemed surprised by her lack of defiance, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. She finished her meal in silence, the taste of the roast long gone, replaced by the cold, metallic hum of a threat she couldn't yet see, but intended to find on her own terms.
~
The scent of the Spring Court was an insult.
To Azriel, it smelled of forced joy and overripe life, a cloying sweetness that felt like a thick film against his golden-brown skin. He preferred the salt-sting of the sea or the dry, biting chill of the Illyrian peaks. Here, among the lilacs and the endless, suffocating green, everything felt soft. Vulnerable.
He shifted his weight on the branch of an ancient, gnarled oak, his massive wings tucked tight against his back to minimize his silhouette against the silver-white moon. He was a creature of the periphery, a smudge of soot in a world of vibrant color. Around him, the darkness didn't just exist; it lived. The shadows of the night gathered at his shoulders, coiling around his neck like faithful hounds, hissing fragmented secrets into the hollows of his ears. They spoke of the wind’s direction, the heartbeat of a nesting bird three trees over, and the rhythmic footfalls of the manor sentries.
He hated being back here.
It had been decades, but the Spring Court still tasted like a mistake. It tasted like the hollow ache in his chest that had spent fifty years calcifying into a wall of ice. Every blooming rose reminded him of a garden in Velaris, and a female with soft hands who had looked at him with pity before choosing the sunlight of a mating bond he could never touch. Elain was happy now. She and the fox-eyed prince were "playing house" in the City of Starlight, their lives filled with the very domestic peace Azriel had once allowed himself to dream of.
He pushed the thought down, burying it under the cold, professional weight of his duty. He didn't have time for the ghosts of unrequited longing. Not when the whispers from the trade routes were turning sharp.
Rhysand was worried. The rumors of Tamlin seeking to renegotiate territorial claims—claims that had been settled in the blood of their ancestors—were a discordant note in the fragile peace they had maintained since the war. If Tamlin was moving, Azriel needed to see the first step before it landed.
The seven cobalt jewels embedded in his reinforced leathers thrummed with a heavy, liquid heat. He could feel the raw, killing power they tethered, a roiling ocean of energy that he channeled into the stillness of his body. They were the only things that kept his natural instincts—the urge to incinerate the uncertainty before him—at bay.
He had been staking out the manor for three nights, moving only when the sun vanished. His first attempt at a daytime reconnaissance had nearly been a disaster.
He remembered the female.
She had been moving through the woods with a terrifying, weightless grace, her honey-blonde hair a beacon of gold against the moss. He had been merged with the shadows of a cedar grove, invisible to any normal eye, but as she passed, something had happened. The whispers at his ears had turned into a frantic, jagged hiss.
She had stopped. She hadn't seen him—he was sure of it—but she had felt him. She had turned those blue eyes toward his hiding spot, her hand flying to a jewel at her throat, and for a second, Azriel had felt a ripple in the darkness around him. It was as if her presence was a tuning fork, and he was the discordant note she was trying to flatten. He had retreated into the deeper shadows of the forest before she could investigate, but the encounter had left him unsettled.
Who was she? The reports mentioned a consort, Elara, but this female was younger, sharper. She moved like a predator disguised as a flower.
From his vantage point tonight, he watched the manor’s dining room windows. The light inside was warm, casting long shadows across the manicured grass. He saw the High Lord. Tamlin looked restless, his large frame hunched over the table, his hands flexing in a way that spoke of a beast barely contained within a man’s skin. Opposite him was the older female, her movements practiced and soothing.
And then, he saw her again.
She sat beside Tamlin, her posture straight, her expression unreadable even from this distance. She didn't look like a victim of the Spring Court’s history; she looked like its architect. When she spoke, he saw Tamlin flinch, then settle.
Azriel’s shadows thrashed at his shoulders, a chaotic blur of motion. They didn't like the way she looked. They didn't like the way the light seemed to cling to her, as if she were drawing it in.
“Something isn’t right,” the shadows seemed to murmur, a thousand voices overlapping into a single, chilling thought.
Azriel narrowed his eyes. He sensed the tension through the glass—the flexed jaw, the way the female’s eyes searched Tamlin’s face. They were discussing the Night Court. He didn't need to hear the words to know his own name was likely being used as a curse in that room.
He watched as the dinner ended and the young female stood, her movements so light they seemed to defy the very gravity of the stone floor. She left the room without a backward glance, heading toward the upper floors.
He stayed for another hour, watching the sentry rotation. He saw the guard, a vain-looking pup who spent more time checking his reflection in his spear-tip than watching the tree line. The Spring Court was becoming complacent again, hiding behind its beauty while the world outside began to shift.
The cobalt stones on his chest gave a sharp, cooling pulse—a signal of his own exhaustion. Maintaining this level of sensory immersion for hours was a tax on his soul that few understood. He needed to report back. He needed to tell Rhysand that while the rumors of a formal move were still just whispers, the Spring Court had a new variable. A female with a frequency that could pierce the dark.
Azriel shifted his grip on the hilt of the dark-metal knife at his thigh, the weapon a cold, grounding weight. He wouldn't come back during the day. Not until he understood how she had sensed him.
He stepped off the branch, but he didn't fall. Instead, he let the darkness rise up to meet him, folding the world between his steps. He merged with the shadows of the night, the sweet scent of jasmine fading as he traveled through the silent, cold pathways that only his kind could tread.
By the time the first hint of dawn touched the peaks of the Night Court, Azriel was standing on the balcony of the House of Wind. The salt-air of Velaris rushed into his lungs, a welcome relief. But even as he looked out over the city of starlight, the image of the blonde female in the woods remained burned into his mind.
She had felt him. And in the world of shadows, being felt was the first step toward being caught.
~
The morning light in the Spring Court didn't just shine; it poured, thick and golden like the honey Annie was currently drizzling over a tray of pastries. In the stone-walled kitchens of the manor, the air was a heavy, comforting blend of roasting seeds, fresh yeast, and the sharp, clean scent of the mint Celia was bruising into a paste.
Celia enjoyed the rhythm of the kitchen. Here, the world felt manageable. There were no ancient blood feuds to navigate, only the precise measurements of flour and the steady heat of the ovens. She had spent the last hour kneading dough until her shoulders ached, intentionally making herself feel heavy and grounded, anchoring herself to the wooden table so she wouldn't drift away into the intrusive thoughts of the previous night.
"You're going to kill that dough, Lia," Annie said softly, her moss-green eyes crinkling as she watched Celia’s vigorous movements. "It’s bread, not a commander of the Night Court."
Celia let out a short, dry huff of laughter, wiping a stray lock of hair from her forehead with the back of a floured hand. "Sometimes the bread feels like the only thing I can actually control, Annie. It doesn't talk back, and it doesn't keep secrets."
Annalise hummed, a low, melodic sound that harmonized with the bubbling pots on the hearth. She leaned over, her unruly chestnut curls escaping her green ribbon as she nudged Celia aside to inspect the dough. "Secrets are just shadows we haven't found the lanterns for yet. You’ve been quiet this morning. Is it the talk from dinner? My mother said Tamlin looked like he was ready to head back into the woods for a month."
Celia leaned back against the floured table, watching her best friend’s nimble fingers work. The relationship between them was the one thing in the manor that required no masks. Annalise didn't care about Celia's "Moonflower" status or the heavy politics of High Fae bloodlines. To Annie, she was just the girl who shared her honey cakes and helped with the heavy lifting when the kitchen staff was shorthanded.
"Tamlin is flexing his claws again," Celia admitted, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He and my mother spent the whole meal acting like the sky was about to fall. Apparently, the Night Court is being 'surgical.' Whispers on the trade routes, but nothing specific."
Annalise paused, her brow furrowing as she smoothed her apron. "That’s the strange part, isn't it? I was at the market yesterday for the spice delivery. I spent an hour talking to the vendors from the Summer Court and the travelers coming up from the south. Usually, if a High Lord sneezes in Velaris, the merchants here have three different stories about what color his handkerchief was before sundown."
Celia frowned, her playful eyes clouding. "And?"
"And nothing," Annalise said, her voice dropping as she leaned in. "Not a word. I asked the weavers about the trade routes, and they just talked about the price of silk. I asked the blacksmith about the patrols, and he said everything was as quiet as a tomb. No one is talking about the Night Court, Lia. Not even a whisper of renegotiating claims."
Celia felt a familiar ripple across the back of her mind—that invisible, vibrating web she kept cast around her consciousness. It shivered, a low-level static that made the back of her neck itch. It was the same discordance she’d felt in the woods, only now it felt muffled, like a bell ringing under deep water.
"It doesn't make sense," Celia murmured. "If Tamlin is hearing it from the High Fae channels, the common folk should have heard the echoes by now. They hear everything first. If the village is silent... it’s because someone is keeping it that way."
"It’s unnerving," Annalise agreed, a breathless quality entering her voice. "It’s like everyone is looking at the same map, but half of us are seeing a different country. It’s making the other servants jumpy. Even Theon was quiet this morning—though that might just be because he forgot to check his reflection in the hallway."
Celia snatched a cooling almond cookie from a nearby tray, the sweetness a sharp contrast to the bitter thoughts in her head. "Theon was probably just mourning a split end in his hair. But the silence in the village... that’s what bothers me. It feels like the air is being squeezed out of the room."
They spent the next hour working in a comfortable silence, the kitchen filling with the scent of browning butter. Annalise spoke of the gardens and how Tamlin had been helping the landscapers; how Elara’s influence had turned the 'beast' back into a High Lord who actually listened to the staff.
"He's a respectable male, Lia," Annalise said, her voice filled with a quiet reverence. "He wants this peace to last as much as we do. He's good to us."
Celia nodded, finishing the last of the mint paste. "He is. Which is why we can't let him go back to being a ghost in his own house."
As they finished the final batch of honey cakes, Celia slid the trays onto the cooling racks. The physical work had settled the restless energy in her limbs, but the unanswered questions still thrummed at the base of her skull. The internal web was quiet now, but the silence felt deliberate—a held breath.
"I'm going to head out," Celia said, wiping the remaining flour from her hands and adjusting her sapphire necklace. "I need to see it for myself. If the village is this quiet, maybe I just need to ask the right people the wrong questions."
"Be careful, Lia," Annalise warned, though she offered a supportive smile. "Tamlin's guard rule is still in place."
"I know," Celia replied with a playful wink. "And I'll be sure to tell the guards how much I appreciate their 'protection' while I'm slipping through the west gate."
She grabbed a small basket of the fresh rolls they had baked, a perfect excuse for a visit, and waved goodbye to Annie. As she stepped out of the kitchen’s warmth and into the stone hallways, she felt the low-frequency hum in her mind recalibrate. The Manor felt solid, but as she looked toward the distant rooftops of the village, she knew that the real truth was waiting somewhere in that unnatural silence.
~
The stone hallways of the manor were cooler than the kitchen, providing a brief respite from the humid May morning. Celia walked with a light, effortless stride, her boots making almost no sound against the polished floors. She was covered in a fine dusting of flour, a white ghostly layer over her practical green tunic, and she was headed for her bedchamber to change before making her way to the village.
As she rounded the corner of the west wing, she felt a familiar, heavy pressure in the air. The door to the High Lord’s study was ajar, and the scent of cedar, old ink, and the sharp tang of suppressed power wafted into the hall.
Celia stopped. Through the gap in the door, she saw Tamlin.
He was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, his hair disheveled as he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders were bunched, his muscular frame looking weighed down by the very air of the room. He looked less like a ruler and more like a man trying to hold back a landslide with his bare hands.
Celia didn't hesitate. She pushed the door open, the hinges giving a soft, familiar groan.
"If you pull your hair any harder," she said, her voice dry and filled with its usual straightforward wit, "you’ll have to start wearing that mask again just to hide the bald spots. And I don't think emeralds go with your current 'brooding warrior' aesthetic."
Tamlin let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his hands to the desk. He attempts a smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He didn't look angry—just exhausted, not even looking up as he spoke. "It’s nothing you should worry about, Lia. Go back to your baking or your village friends."
Celia walked further into the room, her movements so light she felt as though she were skimming the surface of the floor. She sat on the edge of the desk, forcing him to look at her. "We’ve discussed this. When you carry a mountain on your back and refuse to let anyone help, you just end up crushed at the bottom of a ravine. By sharing the worries, you won't have to carry them alone. That’s what family is for, isn't it?"
Tamlin finally met her gaze. His green eyes were clouded with the "off" sensation she had felt earlier—a mix of paranoia and a deep, protective fear. He habitually flexed his hands, his claws occasionally nicking the dark wood of the desk with a sharp scritch.
"The rumors are becoming more consistent," Tamlin admitted, his voice a low rumble. "My scouts at the northern border confirmed what the traders hinted at. The Night Court is moving. Not just patrols, but their commanders. Rhysand is tightening his grip on the mountain passes." He paused, his jaw setting hard. "If this escalates... if he’s looking for a reason to break the treaties, it will be another war. And I won't risk it. I won't risk a war that could result in me losing you. Or your mother."
His "Failure as a Protector" fear was vibrating off him in waves, a heavy, suffocating shield of power that made Celia’s own mental hum spike in alarm.
Celia reached out, placing a steadying hand over his flexed fist. "We survived the previous war without you by our sides, Tam," she said, her voice softening with a rare moment of compassion. "We are resilient. My mother is a survivor, and I am... well, I am me. If a war comes, we would surely survive the next one with you by our sides. You aren't the same male you were fifty years ago."
She felt the truth of her own words. She didn't like the Night Court. Every time she thought of that place of "starlight," she thought of the butcher who had sired her and the cold cruelty that lived in their royal blood. But as much as she loathed them, she loathed the idea of a scorched Spring Court even more.
"There must be another way," Celia said firmly. "A way to avoid the risk of war entirely." I’d be willing to put my personal feelings aside to avoid seeing this manor burn again. I’d do anything to keep the peace we’ve worked so hard for.
She looked at the maps spread across his desk—territories marked in ink and blood. "Don't you think it would be wiser to simply have a meeting? Invite them to a neutral ground. Clear things out. If they want to renegotiate, let them talk instead of sharpening their blades."
Tamlin tensed. It was a sudden, rigid freeze—the kind of stillness that preceded a storm. His breath hitched in a sharp, audible gasp, and Celia felt the air in the room turn cold and heavy as his power flared. He growled low in his throat, a sound more beast than man.
"No," he said, the word like a crack of thunder. "You don't understand the evilness that lives in the Night Court, Lia. They always lie. They wrap their poisons in pretty words and starlight, and by the time you realize you’ve been bitten, the venom is already in your heart. I will not sit at a table with Rhysand and listen to him lie while he plans our destruction."
Celia didn't flinch. She allowed her internal web to settle, the jagged vibrations of his anger washing over her without finding a grip. She met his gold-flecked eyes with her own steady, blue gaze.
"We don't have to believe every word that comes out of their mouths," she countered, her voice calm and unyielding. "But we could at least listen. Maybe find some truths hidden in their lies. If we know what they’re searching for, we can defend against it. Right now, we’re just swinging at shadows in the dark."
Tamlin’s jaw set into a hard, immovable line. The air around him hummed with a raw, protective pressure that signaled the end of the conversation. "I said no. I will protect this court my way. You will stay within the manor walls until the borders are secure."
Celia stood up, her movement fluid and graceful. She didn't argue further; she knew that when Tamlin’s fear took the reins, he became as unbending as the oak trees outside. But she also knew that a locked door was only a challenge, and a "no" was just a perspective she didn't share.
"Fine," Celia said simply, her head held high as she walked toward the door. Her voice was flat, an emotionless monotone that she reserved for the moments she was done humoring his obsession. "I’ll go prepare for another war then. I suppose I should start by sharpening my 'baking' knives."
She left before he could answer, her boots clicking rhythmically against the stone.