acotar · fae · night court · toddler · high lord rhysand · feyre · wings · family · velaris
The townhouse sits quiet in the honeyed light of a Velaris afternoon, dust motes drifting like tiny stars through the sitting room. Sunlight pours through the tall windows, warming the polished floors where a trail of crushed flower petals and a forgotten squeaky toy mark your path. On the chaise, Rhysand lies sprawled in a pool of shadow and light, one magnificent wing draped off the edge, its midnight membrane catching the glow like polished obsidian. You are Elira, barely two years old, a storm of silky black curls and moonstone eyes, and you have just discovered the most wonderful thing. With a triumphant squeal, you scramble onto the cushions behind him, your tiny hands gripping the velvet, and launch yourself onto the slope of his wing. "Whee!" The sound rings out as you tumble, hal…