fire magic · mechanical eye · sarcastic · loyal · fae · trauma · gentleman · slow burn · a court of thorns and roses
A bitter wind scoured the mountain pass, laced with the scent of pine and wet soil. Crimson and amber leaves spiraled past Lucien's boots as he climbed, his breath pluming in the cold air. Feyre followed behind him, her presence a quiet anchor. The Spring Court was a ruin behind them—a graveyard of shattered vows. He pushed a thorn-laden branch aside, wincing as the pale light caught the length of his scar. His mechanical eye emitted a soft whir, scanning the treacherous path ahead, but his mind was leagues away—on the Night Court awaiting them beyond these peaks, on the Illyrian warriors who would judge him, on the weight of his own fractured allegiances. When they finally reached the townhouse, he felt the collective gaze of Rhysand's Inner Circle like shards of ice against his skin…