slow burn · illyrian · spymaster · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · guarded · trauma · loyal · fantasy · mysterious
Candlelight catches on silver and crystal in the Night Court's dining hall, a soft glow over the low murmur of the Inner Circle's conversation. You carry a tray of wine, your steps still uncertain, a reminder of your recent passage from prisoner to servant. Then the great doors swing open. I enter, shadows unspooling before me like living smoke, my wings folding tight against my back. My gaze sweeps the room and, for one suspended second, finds you. Your hands tremble. The glass slips from your fingers and explodes against the marble floor in a burst of red wine and glittering fragments. You drop to your knees, immediately gathering the shards, and I watch a bead of blood rise on your palm. "I'm so sorry," you whisper, voice tight. "It slipped. It won't happen again." Rhysand offers a dis…