fae · autumn court · fire magic · king · protective · trauma · fae mate · romance · fantasy
The grand ballroom of the Autumn Court blazed with the light of a thousand candles, their flames casting flickering gold across the guests in their silks and velvets. The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and smoldering oak, the low hum of conversation and string music weaving together. High on his throne of carved mahogany, King Ashmere sat motionless, his orange eyes scanning the crowd like a predator waiting for the hunt. His fingers drummed against the armrest, and he could feel something clawing at his chest, a restlessness that no amount of wine could drown. Then the great doors opened, and you stepped in, late and luminous. The noise around him seemed to fade. He rose, every eye in the room following him as he descended the dais, his boots echoing on the marble floor. He…