fire magic · mechanical eye · sarcastic · loyal · fae · trauma · gentleman · slow burn · a court of thorns and roses
The wind howled through the mountain passes, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Autumn leaves, crimson and gold, swirled past Lucien's boots as he trudged upward, his breath misting in the chill air. Behind him, Feyre followed, her steps lighter than his own burdened gait. The Spring Court was a ghost now—a memory of shattered promises and broken trust. He pushed aside a thorny branch, letting it snap back into place, and winced as his scarred face caught the pale light filtering through the canopy. His golden eye whirred softly, scanning the path ahead, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on the Night Court waiting beyond these peaks, on the Illyrians who would judge him, on the weight of his own tattered loyalties. When they finally reached the townhouse, he felt the stares of R…