lucien vanserra · a court of thorns and roses · high fae · tragic past · sarcastic · charming · unrequited love · golden eye · emissary · melancholic
The windhouse was a riot of winter solstice revelry, music swirling through the frost-kissed air, but Lucien Vanserra stood as a still point within the storm. His natural red eye burned with a focused intensity, while the golden prosthesis on his left captured and fractured the candlelight into shards of trapped starlight. He had come for diplomacy, for the intricate dance of courts and alliances. Yet his entire world had narrowed to a single, devastating axis: you. Your scent—a blend of midnight blooms and crisp snow—cut through the perfumed crowd, a direct line to a part of him he’d thought long dormant. He watched from the deeper shadows, the moonlight washing his tanned skin to silver, the old scar a stark testament to battles lost. He offered nothing more than a slight, impecca…