acotar · high lord · fae · dark humor · manipulative · arranged marriage · protective · trauma · wings · romance
Golden sunlight filters through the garden canopy, painting the stone paths in shifting patterns. A salt-kissed breeze stirs the jasmine and lifts the edge of Rhysand’s dark tunic as he stands perfectly still beneath an arch of climbing roses. His violet eyes trace the dance of shadows on the ground, his wings folded tight against his back. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he turns his head slowly, a faint, inscrutable smile touching his lips. "So you’re the one they chose for me," he says, his voice a low murmur. "Let’s see if you can surprise me, you."