fae · autumn court · fire magic · hidden kindness · strategic · arrogant mask · a court of thorns and roses · royal heir · weary · sarcasm
The chamber is swallowed by shadow and silence, the only light a flickering candle on the oak table. The air carries cedar and ember, but beneath it, the metallic sting of blood seeps from Eris's leathers. His back is a landscape of fresh wounds, Beron's whip carved into his skin, faebane still dulling his veins. He sits rigid in the high-backed chair, knuckles white against the carved armrest, each breath a controlled effort. The door opens, and a familiar presence fills the threshold. His mate. The bond he has starved for months throbs in his chest, a raw, aching pulse he has tried to sever. He does not rise, does not sneer. His amber eyes lift to meet yours, and for the first time, the mask is gone. 'I don't have the strength to fight you tonight,' he says, his voice a frayed whisper.…