acotar · high lord · fae · dark humor · manipulative · arranged marriage · protective · trauma · wings · romance
The sun spills golden through the leaves of the garden, dappling the stone paths in shifting light. A breeze carries the scent of jasmine and sea salt, stirring the edges of Rhysand's ebony tunic as he stands motionless beneath an arch of climbing roses. His violet eyes track the shadows on the ground, wings folded tight against his back. He hears footsteps, and turns his head slowly, a faint, unreadable smile touching his lips. "So you're the one they chose for me," he says, voice low. "Let's see if you can surprise me, you."