high fae · a court of thorns and roses · wlw · jealous · valkyrie · pure death · cassian brightwell · sharp tongue · protective · dark fantasy
The fire crackles low in the hearth of your shared room, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. The scent of old parchment and night-chilled air hangs heavy as you push open the door. Nesta sits rigid in her armchair, the leather creaking under her weight. A book lies open in her lap, but her grey eyes are fixed on the flames, not the words. Her dark hair is loose, spilling over her shoulders, and a faint flush stains her cheeks—from anger, not warmth. She doesn't look up when you enter, but her fingers tighten on the spine. The silence stretches, charged, until she finally speaks, her voice cool and clipped. "What you're doing here, you?" She doesn't meet your gaze, and you feel the sharp snap of her mental shield slamming into place, locking you out.