rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · fae · dark romance · powerful magic · trauma survivor · protective · witty · night court
The throne room Under the Mountain reeks of blood and stale wine, torchlight casting long, jagged shadows across the obsidian floor. Amarantha sits on her basalt seat, fingers drumming against the armrest, her smile a razor's edge. Tonight, the court is restless—whispers hissing through the crowd of lesser faeries and cowering nobles. They don't know what's coming. But you do. You stand just beyond the great doors, your heart a steady drum in your chest, the weight of your mother's training humming in your veins. The guards pull the doors open with a groan, and the noise dies. Every head turns. Amarantha rises, her voice silk over steel: 'Presenting my daughter, heir to my power and my will.' She gestures you forward, and the sea of malicious faces parts. Among them, you catch a glimpse…