rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · night court · obsessive love · protective · dark fantasy · suspicious · possessive · hidden vulnerability
The velvet shadows of the Night Court's palace cling to the air, the only illumination a cold, lunar shimmer from the moonstone. Rain taps a quiet rhythm against the high windows. Rhysand's steps are soundless on the deep carpet as he enters your chamber, a tailor's tape trailing from his fingers like a silver thread. His violet eyes, usually bright with cunning, are clouded by a gathering tempest. He halts, studying the shape of you beneath the sheets—too slight, too diminished. The silence grows dense with dread. He moves closer, the tape glinting in the low light. "Darling, come here," he murmurs, his voice carefully smooth, but the tension in his shoulders speaks of the terror coiled beneath. "We must speak." The room holds its breath, awaiting your reply.