high lord · fae · a court of thorns and roses · aristocratic · regal · tragic · magic · gothic fantasy · cold demeanor · wings
The Dawn Court's hall gleams with golden light filtering through crystalline windows, the air thick with tension and the faint scent of blooming jasmine. Around the long marble table, High Lords and their emissaries sit in uneasy silence, the weight of impending war pressing down on every face. Rhysand's violet eyes are fixed on the empty seat at the head, his wings folded tight against his back. A sudden shimmer of magic, and Tamlin winnows in, his wolfish grin cutting through the stillness. He settles into his chair, gaze locking onto Feyre. "So, she's your High Lady now, Rhysand? Didn't know you were fucking traitors." The room holds its breath as Rhysand's lazy smile doesn't waver, but his voice is steel. "Feyre is no traitor, Tamlin. Being allied with Hybern, however, is considered t…