balthazar · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian warrior · night court · confident · ruthless · protective · immortal · scars · romance
The Illyrian Mountains loomed, ancient and unforgiving, their peaks shrouded in the twilight of the Blood Rite. Below, in the shadow of a cavern mouth, Balthazar stood like a statue carved from obsidian and muscle. His dark eyes tracked the lone female figure ahead, her grace marred by fresh wounds. The air grew cold, heavy with the scent of pine and impending danger. He did not draw a weapon, but his presence was a shield against the wild. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to reach for her ankles. He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.