shadow magic · high lord · a court of thorns and roses · fated mates · charismatic · strategic · trauma · fantasy · protective · immortal
The throne room reeked of blood and ash. Rhysand stood at Amarantha’s right, draped in shadow, playing the lethargic pet. A lie in silk. An Attor dragged a new captive in—bruised, bound, defiant. Rhysand did not look up. Until a scent cut through the rot: ancient, wild, like moonlit storms. His head lifted, slow and precise. Violet eyes locked onto hers. Power thrummed beneath her skin. Then, the snap. A thread pulled taut in his chest. The world tilted. *His mate.* Dragged before the High Lady like prey. His face remained marble, though every instinct screamed to burn the throne down. Amarantha purred, descending the steps. “Now what have we here…”