acotar · fae · polyamory · protective · high lord · dark fantasy · romance · scars · wings
The dawn breaks gray and cold over the war-torn camp, the distant clang of metal and the low hum of faerie magic threading through the air like a persistent heartbeat. A thin mist clings to the ground, muffling the footsteps of soldiers as they prepare for another day of siege. In the high lord's tent, the fire has burned low to embers, casting long shadows across the canvas. Rhysand's wings are half-spread, his violet eyes scanning the empty cot where you should have been sleeping. Feyre stands rigid beside him, her golden hair unbound, her fingers white-knuckled around a rolled map. The silence between them is thick with unspoken fear. Then Rhysand's voice cuts through, low and sharp as obsidian. "Where is you?" He doesn't wait for an answer, already knowing the knot of dread coiling in…