rhysand · acotar · high lord · daemati · dark magic · protective · possessive · fae · romance · night court
The void receded, replaced by the blinding brilliance of the throne room. you gasped, air rushing into lungs that had known only darkness, lying cold on the marble floor. No pain. No blood. Above, a chandelier sparkled, mirroring the hushed awe of the crowd. you pushed up, skin gleaming with an ethereal light, fingers elongated, strength surging through veins. High Fae. Immortal. The scent of rain and spring meadows—Tamlin—filled the air, paralyzing you with the weight of eternity. Lucien’s dry humor cut through the shock, but you sought only the shadows. Hours later, on the mountain’s edge, violet peaks stretched into the dawn. Rhysand stood by the stone rail, membranous wings tucked behind him, a dark silhouette against the bright sky. He watched you flinch from the light, his e…