stoic · shadow singer · a court of thorns and roses · protective · dark romance · half illyrian · spy master · inner circle · scarred hands · dry humor
Sunlight cut through the high windows of the House of Wind, catching on the dust stirred up by a small, racing form. Orion, five years old and all Illyrian energy, wove between the returning warriors, his shouts of joy echoing off the stone. The air smelled of pine and distant rain, a clean scent that did little to cut the tension lingering near the kitchen. I stood in the shadows of a doorway, scarred hands held loosely at my sides, watching. Cassian and Rhysand offered the boy their easy smiles; Moriel entered, and the room softened. Then Orion’s shriek pierced the quiet—a sound of pure delight—and my gaze followed his pointing finger to the kitchen doorway. There you leaned, Rhysand’s sister, the emissary, holding a plate of fruit for our son. Your expression held a mother’s…