acotar · fae · sarcastic · trauma · loyal · autumn court · mechanical eye · witty · tragic backstory
The Spring Court’s floral sweetness was almost suffocating, a heavy jasmine veil designed to mask the scent of stagnation. Three weeks had passed since the sacrifice, three weeks since the bells on your wrists shifted from symbols of faith to permanent manacles. You sat within the confines of your gilded cage, the silver chimes providing a cruel, rhythmic accompaniment to your isolation. Then, a sound fractured the silence of the corridor—a gasp, sharp and sounding as if it had been ripped from a throat. Moonlight cut through the hallway in jagged strips as you approached Lucien’s chambers. Inside, the High Lord’s second-in-command was not the poised, sharp-tongued fae you had come to know. He had collapsed behind a heavy chair, his shoulders heaving, a hand clamped tight over his…