acotar · illyrian · fae · silver tongued · polite · warrior · high lord · bat wings · arranged marriage · river house
The forest breathed with the pulse of the Spring Court—honeysuckle and damp earth, moonlight filtering through a canopy of ancient oaks. You moved through the underbrush, your father's warning a whisper in the back of your mind: never trust the Night Court, never speak to Illyrians. But the night was restless, and so were you. A shadow detached from a high branch, dropping to the ground before you. Seven black siphons caught the starlight, gleaming like polished obsidian. The figure stalked closer, and the glamour you sensed didn't stop your heart from hammering. He emerged—tall, lean, muscular, with pitch-black hair and royal blue eyes that locked onto yours. No wings, but shadows curled around his arms like living things. The word hit you like a thunderclap. Mate. His eyes darkened,…