Chapter Text
Kore was born among ruins.
The Spring Court—once a paradise of eternal blossoms and golden rivers—had been ravaged by war, pride, and the consequences of choices made long before she existed. The trees still bloomed, but their branches trembled beneath the wind of distrust, and the birdsong carried something like mourning.
But for Tamlin, redemption had come in the shape of a new love.
Years after the events that shattered him—Hybern’s lies, the betrayal of allies, the hatred of Feyre and Rhysand—Tamlin was a ghost of the High Lord he had once been. Until a young noblewoman of his own court, known for her gentleness and unwavering loyalty to Spring traditions, crossed his path.
She didn’t have the eyes of a warrior, but the steady calm of someone who believed deeply in the old ways. She didn’t question the roots of Spring—she strengthened them.
Her name was Ilyena, descended from one of the oldest houses of the Spring Court—a respected noble, trained to uphold tradition, and one who despised anyone who dared disturb the natural order.
Especially the Night Court.
Especially Feyre and Rhysand.
Tamlin did not love her with the wild fire he once knew, but with earth. With patience. With gratitude.
Friendship became companionship. Companionship became a marriage without burning passion, but with respect and stability. Together, they tried to rebuild Spring.
And from them came Kore.
The girl was a living mirror of her father’s beauty—hair golden like sunlight, eyes as green as early-season leaves, and a charming, disarming smile. But in spirit… she was something else entirely. Fierce. Bright. Free.
Kore grew among broken gardens and silent halls.
She never knew the glory of the past, only the melancholic murmurs of old lords who longed for what had been lost. Smiles were bitter. Whispers spoke of war. And eyes always drifted toward Velaris with a mixture of envy and resentment.
But Kore never mourned what she had never seen.
She loved her Court.
Its forests, its fountains, its people.
She loved the way her father lifted her into his arms even when exhausted beyond speaking, as if she were the only reason he kept breathing.
Tamlin loved her with a quiet, grateful love he had never managed to give anyone else. And because of that, Kore grew certain she had a duty to honor him.
Her mother, Ilyena, was strict. She raised Kore with unbending discipline, ensuring she learned every tradition, ritual, and protocol of the Spring Court. Kore respected it—but she flourished in the presence of someone else…
Thalia, Ilyena’s younger sister, was everything her mother was not: vibrant, daring, sharp-tongued. Widowed since the war with Hybern—in which she lost her only son, a young warrior who believed in Tamlin’s alliance—Thalia had never truly healed.
She blamed Feyre for destabilizing the Spring Court, for using it as a pawn in her personal revenge, for leaving their borders vulnerable to Hybern’s invasion.
For Thalia, the war had never really ended—it had only gone cold.
But when Kore was born, she saw a new chance.
“You are my light. But you will also be my blade.”
She said that to Kore when the girl was still small, taking her into the woods to teach her to track, to spar, to ride alone, to speak with her chin raised.
Where Ilyena taught restraint, Thalia taught strategy.
Where Tamlin taught tradition, Thalia taught quiet rebellion.
And Kore loved them all. She loved her mother with dutiful respect. Loved her father with tenderness and a fierce need to protect him. But she adored Thalia—with admiration, affinity, and hunger for knowledge.
Now, at eighteen, Kore was the brightest promise the Spring Court had seen in generations. Her wild beauty drew whispers everywhere she went—but it was her presence that unsettled the old lords.
She walked like she knew her worth.
Spoke often, but with precision.
Knew when to smile—
and when to let silence speak for her.
She knew she would rule one day.
She would let no one steal that from her.
Never.
And she prepared for it tirelessly.
She learned everything—strategy, politics, dance, languages, tactics. She traced the maps of the neighboring courts with her fingertips and memorized every magical inheritance that Spring bestowed upon its children.
And yes, she knew Feyre’s story. She knew that the woman adored as a queen in Velaris was the same one who had invaded her home, lied, manipulated, and left an entire court shattered.
Kore felt hatred.
But it was a calm hatred.
Sharp.
A bowstring pulled taut.
She did not crave destruction.
She craved surpassing them.
⸻
Moonlight poured through the towering windows of the House of Wind, silvering the marble floor. Below, Velaris breathed—alive, pulsing, glittering as if every star had come down to walk its streets.
But at the top of the world, between ancient columns and deep shadows, Nyx felt nothing.
The library welcomed him with the familiar scent of old parchment, worn leather, and melting candles. It had always been his sanctuary—the only place where the weight of being the perfect heir could not reach him.
Or once had been.
Now even this place felt too full of ghosts.
His fingers trailed along the spines of the books until they stopped on a heavy tome. He pulled it out and read the title under his breath:
“Legacies and Wars: The Inheritance of the Great Courts.”
A humorless laugh escaped him.
He was tired.
Tired of being his parents’ flawless reflection, Cassian’s disciplined soldier, Azriel’s controlled diplomat.
Tired of fixing what others broke, of smiling at lords who wished him to fail, of carrying the inevitable fate of a throne he wasn’t sure he wanted.
He wanted… silence.
He wanted… peace.
He wanted… to feel his pain without the world demanding he hide it.
But everything in this place still smelled like her.
Addara.
Her name sliced through his chest like a thin blade—and the memory came crashing down with the violence of a storm.
⸻
Three months earlier
The sky over Velaris was copper and rose at sunset. In the training courtyard of the House of Wind, steel clashed against steel.
Nyx twisted with his sword, muscles tight, sweat burning his eyes. Across from him, wings spread, stance unbreakable, Addara blocked every strike with the precision of someone shaped by survival.
She was everything the Illyrians admired—and feared.
Cold.
Focused.
Relentless.
“You’re distracted,” she said, voice low and steady.
“I’m tired,” he lied, and they both knew it.
Her amber eyes narrowed. The wind tugged at the dark braid over her shoulder. For the first time that day, she lowered her blade.
“Maybe it’s time to stop this.”
Nyx frowned.
“Stop what?”
She let her sword fall to the ground.
“Us.”
His world tilted.
“What?”
“I’m leaving you, Nyx.”
Just like that.
Cruel in its simplicity.
Fatal in its certainty.
He stepped toward her, breath quickening.
“Why, Addara? If I did something, if I hurt you—just tell me. Please.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
She looked like stone.
But her eyes… her eyes were breaking.
“Then why?” He begged. “Addara… I love you.”
She hesitated.
And that single second utterly destroyed him.
“Let me go,” she whispered.
Before he could react, she opened her wings and launched herself into the sky—high, fast, as if fleeing him were a matter of survival.
Nyx didn’t follow.
But everywhere he went afterward felt unbearably empty.
⸻
They had met in the Illyrian camps:
Addara, the feral orphan who survived her own father—a monster who tried to clip his daughters’ wings.
Her mother died protecting them.
Addara raised her sister in caves, in snow, in hunger.
Cassian found them. Nesta brought them home.
Nyx… didn’t like her at first.
She was cold.
Indifferent.
Deadly.
Immune to his charm.
He hated how she always seemed to outshine him.
Hated how she never needed him.
Hated… and admired her.
Their closeness began on a mission.
Then came respect.
Then, inevitably, passion.
Addara was never gentle—not with words.
But her tenderness lived in gestures: pulling his cloak tight in winter, watching him sleep before pretending she hadn’t, laughing softly when he teased her.
Everyone approved.
Rhys and Feyre were pleased.
Cassian called them “unbreakable.”
Nesta embraced Addara like a daughter.
Nyx truly believed he had found something his own, away from duty, away from the crown.
Until the day she left.
Without explanation.
Without a goodbye.
As if loving him were a threat she could no longer afford.
⸻
The memory shattered, and Nyx blinked back to the present.
He wiped his face, annoyed by the sting in his eyes.
“It’s time,” he murmured.
Not because he wanted to.
But because he had to.
The Day Court ball awaited him—with its false smiles, fragile alliances, and razor-edged conversations. Politics demanded his presence. The world demanded he pretend.
He dressed in dark finery, fastened the silver embroidery, tied his midnight-blue ribbon.
The eyes staring back from the mirror were exhausted.
“Fake it,” he whispered.
“Just for tonight.”
And he left.
Never imagining that it would be on this night—of all nights—that he would meet Kore.
The one who would rewrite everything.
⸻