In hindsight, Lucien thinks he fell in love with Tamlin the moment he first laid eyes on him.

Lucien had been a young boy. His brothers towered over him, menacing monoliths that pinched and swatted and kicked at him. Already, he was an expert at deflection, using humor to soften the blows and distract his violent family members. He often wondered if there was something wrong with him. Why he was soft and sensitive, when the other males in his family were hard and brutal. If they could sense that weakness in him, and if it was why they tortured him so.

A contingent of the Spring Court was due to arrive. Lucien had never met any of them, but the knowledge that his father and the High Lord of the Spring Court were friends made him wary. If Beron thought highly of someone, it was likely they were just as cutthroat as he was. He dutifully stood at the end of his line of brothers, back ramrod straight. They lined the path in front of the palace to greet their visitors. As the youngest and least important of the Vanserras, he was last in line, closest to the palace doors. He fidgeted under the heavy ceremonial cloak, digging his fingertips into the collar that suffocated him. A glance down the line revealed that his brothers were perfectly still. The only movement was from Atlas, who sneered at him. Atlas was exactly in the middle of the brothers, the fourth son. He was barely taller than Lucien now, but he made up for his small stature in cruelty.

Before Lucien could begin to contemplate how Atlas would punish his restlessness, the trumpets began to play a jaunty tune to announce the arrival of the Spring Court royalty. The stately procession passed by on horseback, first the High Lord, then his wife, then their three sons. The Spring High Lord's eyes glazed over Lucien, not even deigning to glance down at him. The next three fae were the same, barely sparing a glance at the youngest of the Autumn Court's brood. Humiliation boiled in Lucien's gut. The royals in the other courts didn't want to acknowledge him, even though he was just as likely to be the next High Lord as any of his brothers. Resisting the urge to turn his eyes to the ground in shame, he lifted his chin. The youngest prince of the High Court met his gaze and smiled. Lucien's heart stopped beating.

He was a man, but only just so. Hints of a gangly teen peeked from within his muscular frame. He rode confidently on his horse, only the white knuckles clenched around the reigns any indication of nervousness. He was dressed like a warrior: a leather baldric crisscrossed with daggers encased his chest, and a bow and quiver of arrows were slung across his back. Long blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders and down his back, accented by a half-circlet of golden leaves perched behind each ear. The emeralds that adorned the circlet perfectly matched his eyes, which were still trained on Lucien.

It was then Lucien realized that he was staring at the golden prince, mouth agape. He snapped his mouth shut. The prince's grin widened, and he nodded his head at Lucien as he passed by. Lightheaded, Lucien was barely aware that his brothers were moving, intending on following the delegation from the Spring Court into the palace.

A hand clamped down on the back of Lucien's neck. "Move," Atlas growled, shoving him forward. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Lucien mumbled. His usual smart mouth had deserted him. He had no idea what had just happened, only that the Spring Court prince smiling at him felt like the sun warming his face.

The meeting between the courts was just as boring as Lucien expected. He zoned out, allowing his gaze to roam across his father's throne room. The complex political machinations of the High Lords didn't interest him. Although it was theoretically possible for him to become High Lord someday, everybody knew that that was as likely to happen as an amicable human/fae relationship. Being a High Lord required a cunning, distrustful mind and a heart of stone. Lucien was just fine with that. Let his brothers contribute to the boring discussion. Let them worry about treaties and alliances and guerilla fighters and traitors.

There was one place that Lucien refused to let his eyes fall. The Spring Court royalty had introduced themselves; he now knew that the golden prince was named Tamlin. Lucien didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to acknowledge the fluttering in his chest when he saw the prince's fine features and blazing green eyes.

Unfortunately, Lucien rarely got what he wanted. Drawn by some magnetic force, Lucien's gaze landed on Tamlin. The other youngest son looked just as bored as Lucien. His arms were crossed, his fingers drumming a rhythmic beat against the handle of one of his knives. As Lucien watched, Tamlin glanced over and made eye contact. His mouth curved up into the shadow of a grin, and his fingers stopped tapping against the blade to twitch once in his direction. A clandestine greeting.

Despite the consequences of getting caught, Lucien smiled back, curling his own fingers into a returning wave. Tamlin's eyes glowed, radiating a friendly warmth that Lucien had only ever received from his mother.

After the meeting, Beron extended an offer for the Spring Court to stay for a meal. They declined, High Lord Theon stiffly explaining that he had to return to his own land. In the shuffle to prepare the horses to ride back home, Lucien found Tamlin at his side.

"Hey," Tamlin greeted him. His voice was soft, aware of the shrewd males that prowled throughout the courtyard, their ears pricked for any shred of gossip.

Lucien's mouth was dry, but he managed to respond somewhat normally. "Hey."

"You're Lucien, right?"

He remembered my name. Lucien shoved down the pitiful, hopeful thought. "Yes."

"Oh good! I thought so, but I wasn't sure. I heard all your brother's names at once."

Lucien would have expected a handsome, powerful prince like Tamlin to be perfectly self-assured. The stilted way he spoke, as if he wasn't sure if he was going to offend or not, was strangely reassuring. "Yeah, there's a lot of us. You're Tamlin, right?"

"Yes." Tamlin moved out of the way as a Lesser Fairy scuttled past, carrying a freshly scrubbed saddle. "How old are you?"

"Twelve," Lucien answered, self-conscious. Not wanting Tamlin to think him a dull child, he asked, "How old are you?"

"Old," Tamlin replied with a wink. "I guess you're not into these High Lord meetings either, huh?"

"Not when they're this boring, no," Lucien answered honestly.

Tamlin laughed, the sudden loud sound causing a nearby servant to leap a foot in the air. "Maybe they'll be more interesting when we're the High Lords."

"I'm not going to be High Lord," Lucien replied. There was no self-pity in the statement. He had lived under the tyranny of High Lord Beron his whole life, and he had no intention of taking up his mantle.

Tamlin's response shocked him. "Me either."

Privately, Lucien thought that Tamlin would be a much better High Lord than both of their fathers combined. Before he could ask why, Tamlin's eldest brother strode in between them. His left shoulder bumped Tamlin to the side, and his right shoulder almost bowled Lucien over completely. "Enough playtime, Tamlin. We're leaving."

Lucien's face burned, either with rage or embarrassment. He expected Tamlin to realize that he was wasting his time with a child, and to leave quickly. Instead, Tamlin clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Maybe next time I'll be able to stay a little longer. Until then, Lucien." He effortlessly mounted his and took his place at the end of the line. Lucien watched until they were out of sight.

Lucien's mother, Petra, came to his room every night to brush his hair before bed. He was definitely getting too old for that, but he was loathe to complain or tell her stop. Time that he got to spend with only his mother had withered away to only this hour in the evening. Petra's nimble fingers carded through his hair, scratching against his scalp. Lucien's eyes half-closed and he leaned back, cocooned in his mother's warmth and autumnal scent.

"What did you think of the meeting today?" she asked.

Lucien tilted his head, considering. "It was pretty dull, and I didn't understand most of it," he admitted. His mother was the only person he could really be honest with. "I liked Tamlin, though."

Petra hummed in agreement. "Tamlin is a sweet boy. A formidable warrior, but with a kind heart."

Lucien mulled over this new bit of information. He shouldn't be so shocked to hear that Tamlin was a warrior, especially since he came to the meeting fully armed. "He said he also doesn't want to be High Lord."

"I'm not surprised." Petra was far more clever than anybody, including Beron, gave her credit for. "Being the High Lord is a very difficult position. It's not for everyone. Males like you and Tamlin are destined for far greater things."

This was what Lucien loved about his mother. She didn't lie to him, try to assure him that he stood a chance of being High Lord. And she understood that it wasn't something he aspired to in the first place.

He liked being grouped together with Tamlin.

"All done." Petra stood up, leaving Lucien's back cold. "Good night, my love." She pressed a kiss to Lucien's forehead before returning to her room.

That night, Lucien dreamed that he was a warrior. He fought back-to-back with Tamlin, their swords flashing in the face of a horde of shadowy enemies. They emerged victorious, and Tamlin smiled at him. Even in his dreams, Lucien's heart skipped a beat.