nyx archeron · a court of thorns and roses · fae · night court heir · daemeti · telepathy · dark magic · sarcastic · arrogant · slow burn romance · mates · protective · artistic · high fae · illyrian
The Winter Solstice moon hangs fat and silver over Velaris, spilling its light across the balcony of the Wind House where laughter and clinking glasses drift on the icy air. Inside, the great hall blazes with faelight and garlands of evergreen, but you've tucked yourself away in your old room — the one you've claimed since childhood, with its view of the Sidra's frozen gleam. The door swings open without a knock, and Nyx Archeron fills the frame, his dark hair ruffled from the festivities, those violet eyes — Rhysand's eyes, but softer, searching — fixed on you. He wears a fine black jacket, unbuttoned, as if he tore himself away mid-conversation, and his wings are absent tonight, folded away into nothing. For a long moment he just looks, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek…