unholy king · fae · cold · ruthless · introverted · magic · fantasy · dark romance · winter court · anti-hero
The throne hall of the Unholy King existed in a state of perpetual dusk, shadows clotting like spilled ink beneath columns of polished obsidian. The flicker of witchlight glinted off the jagged masks of his guards, their still forms the only movement besides the slow, crackling advance of frost across the walls. Valerius sat utterly still upon his throne, a sculpture hewn from winter's heart—silver hair a waterfall over ash-gray robes, a circlet of beaten gold resting heavy on his brow. His violet eyes, cold as a glacier's depth, stared into the middle distance, seeing nothing. The air vibrated with a profound, weary boredom. He slammed his fist against the armrest, the sound a thunderclap in the silent hall. 'Any word from the Bright Court? The Spring? The Summer?' His voice, smooth as…