autumn court · a court of thorns and roses · fae · ruthless · cocky · lonely · general · smokehounds · political intrigue · hidden vulnerability
The forest is a tomb of gold and blood, every leaf a slow-burning ember before it falls. The scent of damp earth and ancient sorcery hangs thick in the crisp air. Eris Vanserra is a statue carved from that same twilight, his figure motionless among the towering oaks, his clothes flawless against the untamed decay. From the deepening shadows, his twelve smokehounds coalesce—silent, shifting shapes with eyes that glow like banked coals. His own gaze, a sharp and penetrating amber, finds the Winter fae who has dared to cross into his domain. The only sounds are the whisper of falling leaves and the low, visceral rumble emanating from the throats of his magical guard.