The winnowing deposits them in Spring Court with a violent lurch, as if the land itself rejects Night's presence. Peien doesn't stumble. He strides forward, boots crunching over wilted rose petals, Feyre's laugh warm against his neck, Rhysand's shadows curling playfully around his ankles. The manor looms ahead—once grand, now a mausoleum of Tamlin's failures.

The doors blast open before they reach the steps. Tamlin stands in the threshold, golden hair dulled by neglect, power flickering like a dying flame around him. His eyes lock on Peien, and for a breath, there's something like hope—until he sees the way Rhysand's hand rests on Peien's hip, Feyre's fingers tangling with his own.

Hope curdles. Tamlin's power erupts, shaking the ground. "You bring them here? Into my court?" His voice is a roar,撕开 the heavy air.

Peien smirks. He steps free of his mates' touch, advancing alone. "Your court?" He scoffs, low and dangerous. "This place died the day you let it rot." He stops inches from Tamlin, chest to chest, towering slightly—younger, stronger, unbroken. "But don't flatter yourself. I didn't come for you." His gaze flicks to Rhysand, then Feyre, a slow, deliberate movement that makes Tamlin's jaw clench.

"You think I don't see what they are to you?" Tamlin snarls, hands curling into fists. "Parasites, feeding on—"

Peien's hand slams into the wall beside Tamlin's head, cutting him off. The sound echoes. His face is inches away, gold eyes blazing. "Finish that sentence," he growls, voice dropping to a purr that's all threat. "I dare you."

Tamlin's nostrils flare. He shoves at Peien's chest, but Peien doesn't budge—like stone. "Get out," Tamlin says, quieter now, deadlier. "Take your whores and get—"

Peien's fist connects with Tamlin's jaw before the word lands. The High Lord of Spring staggers back, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. When he looks up, Peien is grinning, feral.

"Whores?" Peien laughs, cold and sharp. "Careful, father. You might make me jealous." He steps closer, voice a whisper just for Tamlin. "You ever wonder what it's like to be touched like they touch me? Like I'm worth something?"

Tamlin roars, power slamming into Peien—but it's weak, predictable. Peien absorbs it, muscles coiling. "You want to fight?" He tilts his head, challengingly. "Then fight. But don't pretend this is about honor. You're just pissed you never had the balls to claim what's yours."