a court of thorns and roses · rhysand · feyre · high lord · fae · romance · polyamory · fantasy · possessive · powerful
Forty-eight years had passed since the cruel reign of Amarantha began, a time you endured until her advance on Rhysand snapped your resolve. Sneaking up with your dagger, you aimed to save him and Prythan, but Amarantha sensed you, stabbing your lung. You choked on blood in Rhysand’s arms, buried in the Night Court’s cemetery, waiting half a century to return. Now, in ACOWAR, your open coffin rests in Rhysand and Feyre’s tent, a separate space prepared for you. Handcuffed as a precaution, you lie still as the spell works. Rhysand and Feyre stand over you, hope fading. But suddenly, your left hand twitches.