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The Spring Court was quieter than she expected.
No birds sang. No wind rustled through the trees. No crickets chirped, nor did the rivers murmur.
Not the silence of peace, not entirely, but the kind that comes after something breaks. The ruins of Tamlin’s manor glimmered faintly in the early light, ivy already creeping over shattered marble. Somewhere in the distance, hammering echoed — Rhys’s people working alongside the few remaining Spring fae to rebuild what had been lost.
Across the courtyard, the faint sounds of movement and laughter hinted at other pairs working together. Feyre and Rhys lifted beams, exchanging quick smiles between tasks. Cassian and Nesta moved stones into place, teasing one another. Nearby, Emerie leaned close to Morrigan as they carried supplies, sharing quiet, conspiratorial laughter that made the work lighter. Gwyn and Azrielmoved in perfect rhythm, Azriel’s hand brushing against Gwyn’s more often than necessary, their shared glances charged with something electric — a connection that seemed to hum through the air, palpable even from afar. For a heartbeat, the courtyard felt alive — not just with labor, but with the subtle warmth of bonds slowly deepening, each couple contributing their own strength to the Spring Court’s revival.
Elain knelt in the garden. The soil was still soft and rich, still capable of life, though much of it had gone wild. Poppies grew tangled with thistle; roses fought for space among weeds. She liked it that way — the resilience of it.
Her hands sank into the earth, gloved fingers loosening roots, guiding young shoots upright. She hummed softly under her breath, the tune something she didn’t quite remember learning.
And then she felt it. That subtle shift in the air.
Lucien.
She didn’t need to look up to know it was him. His scent—sun-warmed cedar and smoke—had become quietly familiar these past weeks. He was always near, though never too near. Never looking for her, and yet somehow always passing close enough that she could sense him.
Still, her hands slowed as he approached.
He was speaking with Feyre, his voice low, even—something she could not quite hear. Elain’s heart shouldn’t have quickened at the sound of his laugh, but it did. It always did.
She glanced up—just once—and nearly forgot to breathe.
Lucien walked along the edge of the garden, the light catching in his red-gold hair, the faintest glimmer of his mechanical eye whirring as he surveyed the soil. He carried a coil of rope over one shoulder, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing skin bronzed by sunlight. The shirt was tight enough to hint at the lean strength beneath.
But it wasn’t that which caught her attention.
It was the way he moved.
Lucien stepped around the flowers. Not clumsily, not even consciously—his feet seemed to find the gaps in the greenery as though he could feel where each fragile stem reached toward the sun. Where others—Cassian, even Azriel—walked straight through without noticing, Lucien shifted his weight lightly, almost reverently, never letting his boots crush so much as a petal.
Something in her chest went very still.
He didn’t see her watching. He never did.
Elain’s breath trembled as she turned back to the soil, but her gaze kept flickering upward, drawn to him like a moth.
Lucien crouched near the far end of the garden, examining a cracked water pipe. The others had drifted off to fetch tools, but he remained, muttering under his breath as he tested the line. She could have left him to it. Should have. Either way, a man who knew his way around stirred something in her. Watching him these past weeks — sweaty from chopping wood or hauling heavy objects — had been… a revelation. She was content to just watch.
But curiosity—something gentler, deeper—pushed her to her feet.
“Is it broken?” she asked, surprised at how soft her voice sounded in the open air.
Lucien looked up sharply, that quick, foxlike awareness flashing in his eyes. “Oh—Elain.” His tone gentled immediately. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”
“You didn’t,” she said quickly. Her hands worried at her apron. “I was only… weeding.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “The garden’s coming back nicely. It suits the place better than Tamlin’s endless roses.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “You remember them?”
“Hard to forget,” he said quietly, his gaze lingering on the empty manor. “Everything arranged, perfect, but… not much room left to grow.”
Elain hesitated. “I think… things that grow quietly are beautiful.”
He looked at her then—really looked. There was no teasing, no mockery in his expression, only a slow, dawning warmth that made her fingers tighten around her apron’s fabric.
“I think you might be right,” he said.
The air between them shifted, heavier somehow. She could feel the heat of him even from a few steps away, the pulse of his magic faint but alive, like embers under ash. It frightened her, sometimes—how alive he seemed. How alive she felt when he looked at her.
Lucien turned back to the pipe, crouching again. “This section just needs a seal replaced,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “I’ll fetch one from the storehouse.”
Before he could move, she murmured, “The flowers,” gesturing faintly. “You didn’t step on them.”
Lucien tilted his head, a glimmer of amusement in his amber eye. “Can’t very well stomp on something that’s been worked on so carefully, can I?”
Elain’s lips parted, and he added quickly, with a sly tilt to his voice, “Besides, I like pretty flowers.”
The way he said it — playful, yet carrying a hint of something more — made her chest tighten.
“You pay attention,” she said quietly.
He met her gaze, the humor in his face softening into something gentler. “Only to the important things.”
Her breath hitched.
Lucien blinked then, as if realizing what he’d said, and cleared his throat with a dramatic little cough. “Ah—important things like pipes. Definitely pipes. Riveting subjects, really.”
Elain bit her lip, laughter bubbling in her throat. “Pipes,” she echoed.
“Mm, yes,” he said solemnly, turning back to the irrigation line as though it were a matter of grave importance. “You can’t underestimate proper water distribution. It’s the—uh—foundation of civilization.”
She was laughing outright now, a soft, silvery sound that carried across the garden. Lucien froze mid-sentence, then gave her a helpless, self-deprecating grin.
“Mother save me,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “Of all the times to sound like a complete idiot…”
Elain pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, still smiling. “You don’t,” she assured him, though her tone made it clear she was lying.
“Don’t what?”
“Sound like an idiot.”
Lucien arched an eyebrow. “You’re a terrible liar, Elain Archeron.”
“Perhaps.” Her eyes sparkled. “But you’re worse at pretending.”
They laughed — a real, unguarded sound, rough and bright and utterly infectious. For a heartbeat, it filled the quiet garden, chasing away the ghosts that lingered in the Spring Court’s shadows.
When his laughter faded, Lucien looked at her again — really looked. His expression softened, something like wonder flickering there. “You should do that more often,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Laugh.”
Elain looked away, down at her hands, where dirt streaked her gloves. “Perhaps you should say more foolish things then.”
Lucien grinned, mock-solemn. “I assure you, that’s one of the two skills I have in abundance.”
She smiled — truly smiled — and the garden seemed to bloom brighter around them.
“What’s the other one?”
“That… is for me to demonstrate another time.” A teasing smile tugged at his lips – sharp and playful, yet undeniably magnetic. He straightened, brushing soil from his knees. “Well, I’ll leave you to your work before I ruin my reputation further.”
“I thought you didn’t have one here,” she teased gently.
“Exactly why I should start with a good impression,” he said.
He left her there, still laughing softly to herself, the sound lingering long after he was gone.
For the first time since arriving in the Spring Court, Elain felt something take root in her chest — something fragile but alive.
Maybe, she thought, it wasn’t just the flowers learning how to grow again.