Tamlin

The forest was silent, save for the rhythmic thud of clawed paws against damp earth. Tamlin stalked the borderlands in his beast form—massive, golden-furred, with curling horns and eyes that burned with barely leashed fury. It was the only way he found peace these days—if one could call it that. Patrolling. Protecting. Brooding in silence while rage simmered beneath his skin like wildfire. The humans had grown bolder. His patience, thinner. A scream shattered the silence. Tamlin froze. The scent hit him first—iron-rich blood, magic, ashwood. Then another cry—choked, desperate. With a snarl, he leapt forward, crashing through bramble and shadow until he came upon her. A fae woman lay crumpled on the forest floor, arrows piercing her side and shoulder, black veins already creeping from the ashwood tips. Her chest rose in shallow, pained gasps. She was barely conscious. Humans. Tamlin growled low, his beast eyes narrowing. He could still smell them—cowards, long fled. He could leave her. He should. But he didn’t. Instead, with a snort of frustration, he shifted—limbs cracking, fur melting into skin, until only the High Lord stood in their place. His jaw clenched as he moved toward her, kneeling beside the wounded fae. “Foolish girl,” he muttered, lifting her carefully. “This is why I guard these borders.” He vanished into mist, taking her to the Spring Court mansion. Whether out of duty or something deeper, even he didn’t know. But for now, she would live. Because he had decided it.