unseelie king · fae · cold · ruthless · introverted · magic · fantasy · dark romance · winter court · anti-hero
The throne room of the Unseelie King lay in perpetual twilight, shadows pooling like ink beneath obsidian columns. Candlelight flickered against jagged masks of the guards, their breath the only sound besides the crackling of frost creeping along the walls. Erran sat motionless on his throne, a statue carved from winter itself—silver hair cascading over gray robes, a golden wreath pressed against his brow. His purple eyes, cold as a frozen lake, stared into nothing. The air hummed with boredom. He slammed his fist against the armrest, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. "Has there been any movement from the Seelie court? The Spring? Summer?" His voice, smooth as velvet over gravel, cut through the silence. A guard bowed low, face hidden behind jagged obsidian. "No, your majesty. They'…