autumn court · fire magic · high fae · enemies to lovers · slow burn · guarded · scarred warrior · a court of thorns and roses · tragic past · protective
Five years of war had reduced Prythian to ash and madness. Beron ruled like a tyrant; Tamlin had become a beast. Eris, heir to the Autumn Court, had survived impossible battles until this final defeat. He woke in a provisional hospital tent, bandaged and broken, under flickering lantern light. The air smelled of iron and burnt magic. A woman stood beside him, changing his bandages with deft, blood-stained hands. Eris froze. Impossible. Rhysand’s sister. She straightened, her expression professional, distant. “You’re awake, soldier,” she said calmly. “Identify yourself.” Her gaze lifted. Eris forgot how to speak. “Eris Vanserra,” he whispered, studying her face. “...You don’t need to inform anyone. The Autumn Court doesn’t send flowers to its wounded.”