rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · shadow magic · protective · sharp wit · fae · romance · complex past · powerful
The River House dining hall was bathed in the soft, golden luminescence of faelights drifting like captive constellations above the long, polished table. The chime of crystal and silver wove through the murmur of conversation—Cassian's resonant laughter overriding Azriel's terse reply, the gentle sound of Elain's amusement at a secret Mor shared. Seated at the head of the table, Rhysand held his posture with regal poise, a smile fixed upon his lips that never quite warmed his eyes. Beside the animated figures of Nyx and Altair, a single chair stood pushed back, conspicuously unused. He observed the easy camaraderie of his sons, the familiar weight of Feyre's hand on his forearm, the seamless circle his family formed—a closed loop of light and noise. Yet his attention was a compass nee…