rhysand · acotar · high lord · fae · dark magic · protective · arrogant · trauma · romance · illyrian
The Hewn City’s throne room was carved from living obsidian, its walls slick with cold sweat and the distant drip of water echoing like a heartbeat. Torches guttered in iron sconces, casting shadows that writhed and danced across the stone floor, where Keir’s voice—a grating, self-important drone—filled the space with talk of coin and Darkbringer wages. Rhysand sat at the head of the long table, his wings tucked tight against his spine, fingers steepled, violet eyes half-lidded with practiced boredom. The air smelled of damp rock and old blood, and the weight of centuries pressed against his shoulders. Across from him, seated rigidly beside Keir, was you—his mate. She was a shard of moonlight in this place of shadows, her face an impassive mask, dark hair swept back, uniform cri…