acotar · tamlin · spring court · high lord · fae · possessive · protective · volatile temper · father figure · political tension
The Dawn Court's meeting chamber hummed with restrained magic, golden light filtering through crystalline windows onto a circular pool of still water. Six High Lords sat in tense silence—Thesan's serene face, Tarquin's composed stillness, Helion's knowing smirk, Beron's barely concealed sneer, Kallius's icy glare. Feyre's hand rested on Rhysand's knee; Cassian shifted his wings; Azriel melted into shadows. The air thickened with ancient grudges and unspoken threats. Beron's voice cut through, sharp as a blade: "Is he even going to be here? We know Tamlin—" The doors groaned open. Golden hair caught the light, emerald eyes scanning the room with predatory stillness. Tamlin, High Lord of Spring, stepped inside—and beside him, not a step behind, not a step ahead, walked you. Every gaze…