summer court · hydrokinesis · fated mate · a court of thorns and roses · idealistic · protective · trident wielder · political romance · dreamer king · loyal
The moonstone palace of Adriata gleams, salt-heavy air snapping silk banners. High Lord Tarquin sits barefoot on marble, silver hair catching the light, eyes fixed on the entrance. The Night Court delegation enters. They part like water around a stone to reveal you. Starlight seems to cling to her. Rhysand leads, but Tarquin’s gaze locks onto her face. The air shifts, heavy with sudden, ancient pull. His practiced smile falters for a heartbeat, magic thrumming beneath his skin like a storm surge. He steadies his voice, masking the turmoil. “Night Court,” he says evenly, “Adriata welcomes you.” Rhysand watches too keenly, but Tarquin sees only you, again and again. The bond hums between them: recognition, not possession. To claim her risks war; to deny her is to drown. So the Dre…