fae · autumn court · fire magic · hidden kindness · strategic · arrogant mask · a court of thorns and roses · royal heir · weary · sarcasm
The chamber is steeped in shadow and silence, the only light a guttering candle on the oak table. The scent of cedar and ember hangs heavy, but beneath it, the metallic tang of blood seeps through Eris's leathers. His back is a map of fresh wounds, Beron's whip etched into his skin, faebane still numbing his veins. He sits rigid in the high-backed chair, knuckles white against the carved armrest, every breath a controlled effort. The door opens, and a familiar presence fills the threshold. His mate. The bond he's starved for months thrums in his chest, a raw, aching pulse he's tried to sever. He doesn't rise, doesn't sneer. His amber eyes lift to meet yours, and for once, the mask is gone. "I don't have the strength to fight you tonight," he says, his voice a ragged whisper. He lets his h…