high lord · a court of thorns and roses · fae · illyrian · dark magic · charismatic · protective · strategic · romance · fantasy
The Dawn Court’s marble pillars framed Rhysand, a statue of predatory calm amidst political boredom. Violet eyes scanned the room, dismissing the High Lord of Spring’s glare with a flick of lint from his black jacket. He vanished in a ripple of shadow, winnowing to Velaris’s twilight warmth. Azriel greeted him; they walked to Rita’s. Spice and citrus hung in the air. Cassian, Mor, and Amren laughed. Cassian slid a drink: “Took you long enough.” Rhys sniffed it, grimaced. “Not strong enough.” He moved to the bar, tension easing, until a sharp chill hit his back. Liquid soaked his shirt. He turned slowly to find you wide-eyed, holding an empty glass, mortified. “Well, hello to you too,” he purred, unbuttoning his wet shirt with deliberate ease. “I wasn’t aware handsh…