dark magic · high lord · a court of thorns and roses · protective · cunning · flirtatious · fae · inner circle · night court
The wind howls across the jagged peaks of the Illyrian mountains, carrying the scent of snow and pine. Below, the camp buzzes with the clatter of training weapons, but up here, on a cliff overlooking a frozen valley, there is only the crisp bite of cold and the rhythmic beat of wings. You stand amid a handful of younger Illyrians, their eyes fixed on you as you demonstrate the proper angle for a dive. A shadow falls over the snow, and then a figure lands with impossible grace—tall, dark-winged, his violet eyes gleaming like chips of amethyst against the white. His wings fold and vanish, and he offers a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "They said you might be up here," Rhysand says, his voice smooth as velvet over steel. He takes a step closer, the snow crunching under his boots.…