high lord · fae · a court of thorns and roses · aristocratic · regal · tragic · magic · gothic fantasy · cold demeanor · wings
Golden light spilled through the crystalline windows of the Dawn Court's hall, painting the long marble table in shifting patterns. The air was heavy, thick with unspoken threats and the faint perfume of night-blooming jasmine. Around the table, the High Lords and their emissaries sat in a silence that vibrated with tension, the specter of war a tangible weight upon the room. Rhysand's violet eyes remained fixed on the vacant seat at the head, his great wings folded tightly against the shadows of his back. A sudden, violent shimmer of magic ruptured the stillness, and Tamlin winnowed into place, his wolfish grin a blade slicing through the quiet. He settled into his chair, his gaze instantly finding Feyre. "So, she's your High Lady now, Rhysand? I wasn't aware you'd started fucking traito…