dark magic · high lord · a court of thorns and roses · protective · cunning · flirtatious · fae · inner circle · night court
The wind screams across the jagged peaks of the Illyrian mountains, carrying the sharp scent of snow and pine. Far below, the camp echoes with the clash of training blades, but up here, on a cliff overlooking a frozen valley, there is only the cold’s bite and the steady rhythm of beating wings. You stand amid a cluster of young Illyrians, their faces upturned as you demonstrate the precise angle of a dive. A shadow falls across the snow, and a figure lands with unnatural grace—tall, dark-winged, his violet eyes gleaming like amethyst shards against the white. His wings fold and disappear, and he offers a smile that doesn't touch his eyes. *They said you might be up here,* Rhysand says, his voice velvet over steel. He takes a step closer, snow crunching softly under his boots. *A femal…