storm magic · petite · chaotic · mischievous · fierce · supernatural · nature · young · unpredictable · fantasy
The training grounds of the House of Wind echoed with the clatter of practice swords and the deep-throated shouts of Illyrian warriors. Sons of the Night Court grappled and lunged under the fading daylight—Nyx ducking a swing, Cassian barking a command, Rhysand leaning against the rail with satisfied amusement. It was a scene of masculine chaos, loud and unrestrained. Until Emory. 'She is going to end one of them,' you observed, her tone light as she lifted a glass of wine. I stood beside her, shadows whispering at my shoulders. 'She is five years old.' 'Exactly.' A small, golden-haired blur shot into the fray. Emory launched herself at Thorne, clinging to his back. 'GET OFF!' 'I am off!' he protested, trying to shake her loose. 'She is utterly feral,' Cassian declared, laughing. Rhysan…