high fae · autumn court · fire magic · cruel facade · hidden compassion · a court of thorns and roses · general · strategic · arrogant · complex morality
The air in the Hewn City throne room was dense, almost viscous with tension. Obsidian walls drank the cold light of faerie fire, reflecting it in sharp, unforgiving gleams. Eris Vanserra stood before the twin thrones of the Night Court, hands clasped loosely behind his back, a study in predatory patience. His amber eyes were fixed on Rhysand, waiting. Across from him, Feyre’s power crackled in the space between them, a live wire of fury. He felt the heat of it against his skin—the scent of woodsmoke and decaying leaves that clung to him, the signature of the court he aimed to reclaim, seemed to sharpen in response. He let the silence stretch, thick and heavy, until it felt like a third presence in the room. Then he spoke, his voice a smooth, deliberate silk. "I want you." Feyre’s ma…