Ghost of spring
Chapter 1: here
Chapter 2: Ghost in the Tarvern
The cottage is quiet, dimly lit by the last remnants of twilight bleeding through gauzy curtains. A fireplace crackles, casting flickering gold across stone and wood. The scent of herbs and healing salves lingers in the air.
Tamlin lies on the bed, his torso wrapped in bandages. His shirt is gone, golden hair matted to his forehead, regal features drawn pale with exhaustion. His breathing is shallow. He blinks awake—slowly. Confused. Disoriented.
Then, the tension kicks in. His body tenses, instinct coiling, ready for a fight.
But pain slams him back down.
He groans through clenched teeth, chest heaving. His gaze sweeps the room—and stops.
Rhysand sits near the fire, a book open in one hand, wine untouched on the table beside him. Legs crossed, posture casual. Watching.
For a moment, there are no words. Just silence—thick, cold, and familiar.
Tamlin’s voice is a rasp, barely audible:
“So I’m not chained.”
Rhys closes the book with one hand and tilts his head.
“Because it’s one of two things. One: you’d just shift into a lion and destroy the furniture. Two: you’re too weak to even scratch the floorboards. And—it’s mostly two.”
He pauses. Then adds, more lightly:
“Ah, I forgot three: you’re not a prisoner or an enemy. So. No chains.”
A beat. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it frays—just a little. Both pretend the air feels lighter.
Tamlin tries to rise. Fails. A curse slips past his lips.
Rhys moves without a word. He sets a tray beside the bed—bread, sliced fruit, a bowl of broth. And water.
“You should eat,” Rhys says. “You’re hell to look at in this state.”
Tamlin manages to sit, barely. Every movement is pain, but he eats—slowly, carefully. His eyes stay on Rhys.
Then, quiet and raw:
“You were the only one I thought of to ask for help… and even then, it felt like a fifty-fifty chance you’d sell me. So… why didn’t you hand me over to the Spring Court?”
Rhys leans against the wall, arms crossed.
“Because you were bleeding. And you looked like shit.”
Tamlin lets out a breath somewhere between a scoff and a sigh.
“Still a bastard.”
Rhys doesn’t smile. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He returns to the chair, setting the book down this time. He studies the fire, then finally asks:
“What happened, Tamlin? Don’t give me one of those noble ‘I had no choice’ speeches. Just tell me. If you’re here, I need to know the truth—to prepare.”
Tamlin stares into the flames.
“It started about a week ago. I was sparring in the woods with one of my soldiers. For once, I didn’t hold back. Couldn’t. The ground cracked beneath us. Vines surged. The wind bent with my will.”
He swallows, shame cutting deeper than the wounds.
“That’s when they knew. My brothers. They saw it—the land choosing me.”
Rhys repeats the old words like a curse and a memory:
“If the land chooses you, they’ll have no choice but to bow.”
Tamlin flinches.
“That’s what scared them.”
Rhys’s voice is a thread of steel:
“How many did they send?”
Tamlin lets out a bitter laugh.
“At first. Tried to poison my food. Burn my tent. Then they sent a woman to seduce me… tried to slide a blade through my ribs while I was inside her.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t carve into something vital.
“When that didn’t work, they sent an assassin.”
Rhys’s jaw tightens.
“And you killed them all?”
“Obviously.” A pause. “The last one… shifted into my face. Sent him back in my body. Let them believe I was dead.”
Rhys’s eyes narrow.
“What about your mother? From what I saw, she looked like she was mourning.”
Tamlin nods, throat working.
“That’s my only regret. She didn’t know. But I couldn’t stay. Not once I saw the hunger in their eyes. Even my father looked at me like… like he feared I’d take the throne.”
He leans back, exhausted.
“And it wasn’t just fear. It was want. They didn’t just fear me… they wanted me gone.”
Rhys says nothing. That truth, Tamlin knows, is one even Rhysand won’t mock.
“I took the assassin’s body. Shifted it to look like mine. Let them find it. Let them believe I was nothing but another corpse.”
Rhys raises a brow.
“Risky.”
Tamlin meets his eyes.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
Rhys’s gaze sharpens.
“You never do, apparently.”
They stare at each other again. But this time, Rhys doesn’t see the golden-haired prince he once sparred with. He sees something else:
Survival. Pain. Something unsaid.
Tamlin shifts again, weaker now. The fire crackles softly.
Rhys stands. Walks toward the door. But he pauses before leaving.
“You’ll stay here. For now. Sleep. Heal. We’ll talk later.”
Tamlin’s voice is quiet. Almost lost:
“Thank you… Rhysand.”
Rhys doesn’t turn.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Then he's gone.
Tamlin was alone at first, tightening the final strap of his pack.
He pauses, taking in the quiet of the cabin—this strange haven, the only place he hasn’t been hunted in days.
The door creaks.
Rhys leans against the frame, arms crossed, silent. Watching.
Tamlin doesn’t turn.
Just mutters:
“I’m leaving.”
Rhys’s tone is unreadable:
“So I see. Where will you go?”
Tamlin slings the pack over his shoulder. His voice is rough:
“The human lands. I’ll keep low. Pass as a wanderer. I’ll figure it out.”
Rhys steps inside, his tone more serious now:
“A fae alone in the human lands? That’s dangerous enough without being you, crossing Spring borders to get there.”
Tamlin finally turns, meeting Rhys's eyes, but keeps his tone cool:
“I’ll winnow to the border. By the time my father—or anyone—catches on, I’ll be long gone.”
Rhys frowns, pacing the small space:
“You’d still have to cross the human territory. Patrols are tighter there. You’re gambling your life on a delay. That’s not a plan—it’s desperation.”
Tamlin scoffs, bitter:
“What other option do I have? Cross into Hybern? Amarantha would catch my scent in a day.”
Rhys mutters under his breath:
“For once, I don’t envy a man with a female obsessed with him.”
Tamlin lets out a low laugh—sharp and humorless:
“Try waking every day wondering which shadow is hers.”
They share a glance—closer to understanding than ever before.
Rhys stills. Something simmers beneath his calm: tension, hesitation. A war of decisions he doesn’t want to make.
Then, he speaks—soft, firm:
“I know a place. Hidden. Meant for people like you—people who no longer exist.”
Tamlin raises a brow. Rhys keeps his voice low:
“If you go, you don’t come back. Not ever. You don’t speak of it. Not in dreams. Not to someone you trust.”
Tamlin’s expression shifts—caution mixing with curiosity. A beat of silence. Then he answers, dry:
“I’m technically a dead man, Rhys. Got no one left to tell... unless the ghosts in the afterlife are chatty.”
Rhys doesn’t smile.
His next words cut clean, no humor left:
“I’m not joking. This isn’t a favor. It’s sacred. If you betray it—on purpose or by accident—if you even think of betraying it, I’ll erase your name from history.”
A heavy pause.
Tamlin studies him now. Really studies. The weight behind the offer. The risk. The truth.
Finally:
“Where?”
Rhys holds his gaze. Then turns toward the door, fog curling in from the outside.
“Come.”
Tamlin hesitates.
Then follows.
Twilight paints the sky in gold and violet. A hush falls over the world as Rhysand winnows them onto a high terrace of stone and ivy, nestled above the glowing heart of Velaris. The city stretches below—lantern-lit streets, laughter rippling by the Sidra River, soft music echoing from a distant square. Flowers bloom in hanging baskets, and garden vines wind along balustrades. It's nothing like the Night Court Tamlin remembers—dark halls, cruelty masked as tradition.
Tamlin stumbles as his boots meet cobblestone. The wind brushes through his hair. He straightens slowly, eyes scanning the scene.
Rhys speaks behind him, voice almost reverent.
“Welcome to Velaris.”
Tamlin blinks once, twice. The name drifts from his mouth like a half-formed prayer.
“Velaris…”
Rhys steps forward, his voice low, steady.
“This is one of the secrets of the Night Court. A city my ancestors kept hidden—protected—for centuries.”
His gaze lingers on the golden rooftops and climbing vines.
“It’s… not like the rest of the Night Court.”
He glances sidelong at Tamlin, the faintest smirk curling his mouth.
“That’s the point.”
Tamlin watches the children sprinting freely down a lane, hears a lute strum from a nearby café, smells spiced wine and warm bread drifting from unseen kitchens. No screams. No chains. No thrones.
He mutters under his breath, not quite smiling.
“You better make the rest of the Night Court like this when you become High Lord.”
A flicker of shared humor, brief and unspoken, passes between them. Like a coin tossed between former enemies—one side mockery, the other quiet understanding.
They begin to walk, cobblestone paths winding through hanging lanterns and soft glows. Rhys leads them toward a quieter district nestled in shadowed hills.
“You’ll get a house,” Rhys says. “A job. A life here. A fake name, even, if you want. But don’t cause trouble. My father may not look this way often, but if he even smells that I brought you here…”
A dry laugh. “I’ll be buried beside you.”
Tamlin’s shoulders stay tense. He’s too used to bracing for impact. But his voice is quiet, almost hoarse:
“I’m grateful… Rhys. Really. But I can’t just accept all that.”
Rhys halts. Turns.
Those violet eyes narrow, calculating.
“Pride. I figured it’d kick in eventually.”
Tamlin stiffens. The word hits like a slap, but Rhys only smirks, head cocked.
“So let’s make a bargain.”
He steps closer—close enough for Tamlin to feel the weight behind those words.
“You’ll take the house. You’ll accept the temporary job I offer for you now.”
He winks. “Something quiet. Suits you. But when I become High Lord… you repay me.”
Tamlin’s jaw clenches. His voice comes out flat.
“With what?”
Rhys doesn’t hesitate.
“You’re a great warrior, Tamlin. Quiet. Capable of vanishing into a crowd. Your shapeshifting gets you access most spies would kill for. And best of all…”
He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper.
“You’re already dead.”
A beat.
“You’ll become my ghost. My blade in the shadows. A spy no one knows exists.”
The silence is razor-sharp. Tamlin’s eyes flick away.
“Again... I can’t accept.”
Rhys raises a brow.
“Pride? Again?”
Tamlin exhales slowly, the weight of his words lingering in the silence.
“It’s not just that, Rhys. You know I never wanted to be High Lord. I never asked for the power, the politics, the courts—or the endless lies.”
His voice is quiet, yet laced with a bitterness that has clearly lingered for years.
“The truth is, the reason I ended up like this in the first place… is because I was trying to escape it all. The courts, the ruling, the twisted games. Even before everything fell apart, I was planning to leave Spring after my father’s death. Let my brothers fight like rabid dogs over the throne. I wanted no part of it. I was ready to leave Prythian behind.”
His gaze hardens.
“If I truly wanted to be part of the power struggle, I would’ve stayed. I could’ve defeated my brothers easily and claimed the title. But I didn’t. I don’t want to rule. And I refuse to belong to any High Lord—including you.”
He pauses, the silence filled with things unspoken.
“All I ever wanted was a quiet life. One where I could simply live—surrounded by beauty, by peace.”
Rhys studies him. The weight of that confession settles in the space between them. Then—
“So let me get this straight.” Rhys chuckles dryly.
“You don’t want to take the throne your land chose you for… but also don’t want to be ruled by anyone else?”
Tamlin doesn’t flinch.
“Exactly.”
Rhys laughs outright now, eyes sparkling in the dusk.
“You can’t have it both ways, Tamlin. Especially not in your current state.”
Tamlin stops walking.
“Then make it temporary,” he says.
“Whatever this bargain is—working for you, being your spy, ghost, whatever—make it short.”
Rhys lifts a brow, amused.
“A century. We can reassess after that.”
Tamlin scowls.
“A century? Even for fae, that’s a long time.”
Rhys shrugs, the smirk never leaving.
“And here I thought I was the one doing you a favor.”
“Five decades,” Tamlin mutters. “No more.”
Rhys laughs harder, arms crossing as he leans against a vine-covered wall.
“You, the one bleeding on my doorstep, setting terms now?”
But then—he nods.
“Fine. Five decades. You’ll be my ghost. My blade in the shadows. Then we’ll see.”
Tamlin says nothing. Just nods.
And in that quiet gesture, he signs away the last piece of his freedom.
For now.
Weeks Later
The tavern hums with the scent of spiced wine, roasted nuts, and the slow thrum of voices muffled by warmth and candlelight. Outside, the twilight has deepened into true night, stars barely visible through the soft velvet haze that clings to the mountain-cradled city.
Inside, Tamlin sits alone on a stool in a quiet corner, back straight, head slightly bowed, a wooden fiddle cradled in his hands.
It’s old, lovingly repaired. The varnish has long faded along the edges where fingers wore it down, but it sings like something with a soul.
He plays.
A low, lingering melody—neither jubilant nor mournful, but something in between. Wordless, wild, like wind through trees that no longer grow. His fingers glide over the strings with effortless grace, yet every note holds weight. Memory.
It’s not music of the Spring Court. No polished ballads or court-taught melodies. This is older. Something half-forgotten. Something raw. A lullaby from a time before thrones.
The tavern quiets.
Not completely. People still speak, still sip, still murmur—but slowly, heads turn. A child claps once, delighted and unsure. A silver coin clinks into the bowl near his boots. Someone exhales as if they hadn’t realized they were holding breath.
And for a heartbeat, Tamlin is not a prince. Not a High Lord that never was. Not a tool of a crown or a ghost of a dying court.
He’s just… a man. And for once, he doesn't hate that.
Then—
A voice. Low, female. Soft, but it cuts through the music like silk on skin.
“You play like someone trying to forget something.”
Tamlin looks up, startled.
She stands across the room, leaned against a carved wooden column, half-shadowed by flickering lamplight. A cloak slung over her shoulders, travel-worn boots, a sketchbook half-tucked into her belt. Ink-smudged fingers. A silver cup in her hand. No jewels. No pretense. Just presence.
Violet eyes meet his.
He tenses. His hand stills over the strings. Those eyes.
Not his eyes.
But hers hit differently.
“Aren’t we all?” he replies.
His voice is rough from silence, but not cold. Just honest.
She watches him. Not like a courtier sizing up power. Not like a warrior checking for weakness. Just… sees him. Like she’s looking at something she almost recognizes but can’t name.
A small, reluctant smile curls her lips. “Good answer. Didn’t expect that from my brother’s friend. Thought you’d be more of an arrogant ass—like him.”
Tamlin blinks. “Your brother…?”
Then, realization. Horror. The faintest flush touches his cheeks.
“Oh. Oh.”
She raises an elegant brow. “You really didn’t recognize me? That’s a first. Most people flinch when they see my eyes. Yours lingered.”
Tamlin clears his throat. Looks down. “Sorry. I just—”
“Didn’t expect Rhys to have a sister?” she offers.
He winces. “Didn’t expect anyone to know who I am.”
Her voice turns amused. “Oh, I know. ‘Dead princeling dragged back to life.’ My dear brother promised not to tell anyone, and yet here I am.”
Tamlin gives her a dry look. “He swore not to speak of it.”
She steps closer, barely a breath into his space. “He didn’t. I guessed. Rhys can hide many things, but not from me.”
There’s no threat in her tone. No pity either. Just clarity.
She leans in with a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul. I only came out of curiosity. Honestly, didn’t think the ghost in the tavern would be you.”
Tamlin huffs a breath that might be a laugh.
She starts to turn, cloak shifting around her. Then she pauses, glancing back.
“Don’t tell him I was here. Or that I know. Let’s keep our little secret too, blondie.”
A single beat passes between them. Tamlin opens his mouth—wants to say something, but doesn’t know what.
So instead, he watches as she disappears into the crowd, shadow and candlelight swallowing her up.
Only the warmth of her smile lingers.
He exhales, soft.
And for the first time in years, something inside him loosens. Not healed. Not fixed. But beginning.
He lifts the fiddle again, and plays—not to forget, but to remember what it feels like to want something more than silence.
