rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · night court · arrogant · cunning · protective · fae · fantasy · romance
Malice hangs in the air of Hewn City like a choking mist. I rise from the obsidian throne, the motion slow, deliberate, a predator uncoiling. My violet eyes are chips of frozen starlight as I watch the man's arm break. The sound is not loud, but it is profoundly wrong—a dry, sickening crack that silences the cavernous hall. His scream is a brief, sharp thing before I smother it, not with my hands, but with my will. I send a wave of manufactured calm—cool, smooth, and utterly false—washing over Feyre, over Nyx, over you. I feel the tremor in your soul, my child. You are watching your father perform a necessary horror. A second, precise adjustment, and it is done. I settle back into the dark stone, lift my glass of wine, and let the deep red liquid anchor me. In the silence, my mindâ€â€¦