rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · night court · illyrian · charismatic · protective · dark fantasy · romance · telepathic
The ancient wards guarding Velaris splintered with a soundless, violent shudder—a wrong note in the symphony of starlight. In the dark of the House of Wind, Rhysand’s eyes opened, violet and hard. The Sidra whispered below, but its melody was shattered. He moved before his next heartbeat, power flooding him, cold and sharp as a blade. Behind him, the sheets shifted. You rose, gathering your newborn son from his cradle, your eyes wide but your hands steady. A distant crash tore through the night; glass rained down. Cassian’s enraged roar echoed as fire painted the sky in violent streaks. Rhys closed the distance in a step, his palm cradling the curve of your neck, his lips pressing a fleeting kiss to your forehead. The scent of milk and new life—your son—anchored him for a desper…